Gemotions

Agnes paced the confines of the living room, the Persian rug feeling worn and unfamiliar under her feet. Sunlight streamed through the bay window, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air, mocking the illusion of cleanliness she desperately craved. Three weeks. Three weeks she’d been here, and the walls, the very air, seemed to suffocate her. She yanked at the ornate, gilded frame of a painting that had always bothered her, a landscape of rolling hills that felt suffocatingly peaceful. Behind it, a seam.

The house had a history, that much was clear. Old homes whispered secrets, she knew that much. Her pulse quickened as she ran her fingers along the edge of the paneling, finding a small indentation. With a click, the wall sprang open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into shadow. The cool air that drifted up from below felt like a phantom limb, promising something beyond the suffocating confines of the present.