Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a cheery murmur about “historic charm,” now felt like a viper’s hiss in Sarah’s ear. She’d loved the high ceilings and the original hardwood floors, but the police file, tucked discreetly in a manila folder she’d stumbled upon in the attic, told a different tale. A bloodstain, meticulously documented, marked the very spot where she’d planned to put her antique writing desk. Her chest constricted.

She paced the living room, her breath catching in her throat. Each creak of the floorboards echoed in the sudden silence of the house, amplified in the aftermath of the discovery. She kept rubbing her arms, as if to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The shadows seemed to lengthen and warp, twisting into menacing shapes. The mundane objects of her life, the familiar furniture, now felt alien, imbued with a sinister aura. The notion of sleeping here tonight made her stomach clench.