Gemotions

The small, leather-bound journal was placed on his car’s windshield, weighted down by a smooth, grey stone. Mr. Evans, his body rigid, walked slowly towards his car. The parking lot was empty. It was always empty at this hour. He looked around.

He picked up the book, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth leather. He didn't know what to do. His mouth felt dry, and he could barely breathe. The air suddenly felt thick.

He knew what this was, or at least he had a bad feeling that he did. It was a message.