Gemotions

He ran a hand over the cold, rough brick of the chimney, a prickle crawling up his spine. The attic air was stagnant, heavy. He moved slowly, his head swiveling, trying to drink in every shadow. His pupils were like saucers in the dim light.

There, in the furthest corner, behind a stack of moth-eaten blankets, was a trunk. He knelt, his breath catching in his throat. The metal clasps were rusted, but he managed to pry it open.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed newspapers, was a collection of bizarre artifacts: a taxidermied crow, a tarnished silver knife, a collection of curious glass vials. A shiver coursed through his frame.