Gemotions

The realtor, a woman named Brenda with a smile that felt pasted on, was still yapping about the “charming history” of the Victorian. "It was built in 1888," she'd chirped, "Imagine the stories these walls could tell!" My arms were crossed, and I tapped a foot against the polished hardwood floor. Stories, huh? I had a feeling the only story this house wanted to tell was "Get Out."

A shiver went down my spine, unrelated to the sudden draft. The local historical society had contacted me, and the curator, a twitchy man named Mr. Abernathy, had mentioned something about a "significant event" in the home's past. Now, Brenda was trying to brush it off as a simple "misunderstanding." The house felt too quiet.

"So," Brenda continued, her voice losing a bit of its sheen, "you're certain you don't want to see the master bedroom again? The walk-in closet is… quite spacious." I gave a tight smile. "Let’s wrap it up." My fingers itched, and I wanted to get out of there. The historical society's information was more than just a misunderstanding, I could feel it.