Gemotions

"Another one," the detective had said dryly, as if it was a common occurrence. The words hung in the air, replaying themselves in Eleanor’s mind. She hadn't bothered to research this house, so sure of her instincts. "A robbery gone wrong," the detective had added, "the homeowner died." Eleanor now sat on the porch steps, staring at the peeling paint, the same paint she had dismissed as character.

The scent of honeysuckle, usually a comfort, felt cloying, suffocating. She couldn’t shake the image of the previous owner, a man she’d never known, whose life had ended violently within these walls. She was an idiot, she thought.

She should have listened to her gut, her intuition. She should have known. Now, everything felt tainted. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the leaves, filled her with a nameless dread.