Gemotions

The realtor’s words, "tons of potential!" now rang hollow in Ben's ears. He was alone, armed with a crowbar and a growing headache. He had spent hours in the dusty basement, trying to find the source of the persistent draft that whistled through the foundation.

He'd followed the air current, tracing it to a section of the wall that seemed…odd. The stone blocks didn’t quite match the rest. His wife, Emily, had insisted it was just his imagination. He had, begrudgingly, agreed. Now, however, he was back.

He pried at the mortar, which cracked and crumbled easily. The air grew colder, and a musty smell wafted out. He paused, wiping his brow. He didn’t want to believe that there was something…hidden. This was just an old house; a place that required a lot of upkeep.

“Come on, Ben,” he muttered, “it’s probably just a root cellar.” He ripped away the last of the stones, and the opening widened, revealing a dark interior. A chill ran down his spine.