Gemotions

He had been so friendly. Mrs. Gable, always offering cookies, always ready with a kind word. Now, peering through a gap in the curtains, Michael noticed the chauffeur, meticulously polishing a vintage Rolls Royce. His breath hitched in his throat.

The sight of the car, gleaming under the streetlights, filled him with a strange disquiet. He backed away from the window, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The ordinary noises of the night – a barking dog, a distant car horn – suddenly seemed amplified, unnerving.

He felt a sudden, urgent need to check the locks on the door, again. He padded silently through the house, his hand brushing against the cold, smooth metal of each handle, a shaky affirmation of security.