Gemotions

The oversized package, wrapped in gaudy, festive paper, sat incongruously on Mr. Davies's front porch. He had spent the afternoon grading papers, and the sudden appearance of the parcel left him with a feeling of unease. He didn't recognise the handwriting on the tag. It was too neat, too precise, too perfect.

He cautiously approached it, his steps slow and deliberate. His hand was raised to touch it, then he withdrew. His throat felt dry, his mouth like a desert.

"This is weird," he said to himself, a shaky, unconvincing statement. He needed to get inside. Now.