Gemotions

The realtor, a smarmy man with a too-wide grin, had practically skipped through the house, pointing out every "charming detail." Now, alone in the creaking Victorian, Eleanor kicked a loose floorboard in the hall. It sprang up, revealing a dark, musty void. She felt a curl of something unpleasant in her stomach, a twisted satisfaction. This was far from charming.

She retrieved a dusty flashlight from her cluttered box of "essentials" and shone it into the opening. A narrow staircase descended into the earth. The realtor had called it "move-in ready." He hadn't known about *this*. Eleanor descended, a grim smile playing on her lips, eager to find something, anything, to ruin his perfect facade.

The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of decay. She found an old trunk, its brass clasps tarnished. Inside, yellowed letters detailing her neighbor's affair. Perfect.