Gemotions

He glared at the house, a monument to his ex-wife’s good taste. She’d been so damn pleased with it, with everything. Even the realtor, a simpering woman with too much lipstick, had gushed about the "charming character" of the place. He'd been too exhausted to argue. Now, finding himself in the basement, he ran his hand along the cold, concrete wall. He’d never approved of the unfinished look, how it always seemed to be hinting at other things.

He noticed a slight difference in the feel of one section of the wall. He ran his hand over it again, pressing. A section of the wall sprung open, revealing a small, dark room. He'd expected a damp laundry room. Instead, a narrow, stone staircase descended into the murk. He was not remotely surprised.

He took a step, another. The air grew thick, carrying the scent of something ancient and decaying. He didn't want to go down there. His wife would have.