Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a cheery little melody, seemed to bounce off the walls, and the sound grated on Amelia’s nerves. "Such a charming, historic home!" she’d chirped. Amelia felt a knot tighten in her stomach, a familiar pressure that seemed to settle deeper with each passing day since the move-in. She ran a hand through her hair, finding herself pacing the kitchen, unable to stand still. The hardwood floors, though recently refinished, felt cold beneath her bare feet.

Her gaze kept drifting towards the corner pantry, a dark recess. It was where the inspector had pointed and mentioned something about an "incident" during the home’s history. An incident. The vague language had sent a shiver down her spine. Now, every creak of the old house, every shadow cast by the setting sun, amplified a feeling she couldn't name.

She tried to focus on dinner, but the chopping of vegetables felt clumsy, the knife slipping in her hand. The aroma of garlic and onions, usually comforting, felt cloying in the close air. She caught her reflection in the window, her face pale, her eyes wide, and she felt a fresh wave of unease.