Gemotions

The low ceiling pressed down on Michael. He regretted ignoring the realtor’s vague warnings about the attic's contents. Now, confronted with the reality, he felt a sudden churning in his stomach. The air smelled of old paper and something else, something… acrid.

He prodded a stack of boxes with a broom handle, already imagining all the critters that might be nesting within. Inside one, he found a child's collection of half-eaten lollipop sticks. He recoiled, his hand flying to his throat. He felt a wave of nausea, like he'd just eaten something rotten.

"Seriously?" he whispered to the shadows, backing slowly out of the cramped space. He needed air. He needed a long shower. And maybe a hazmat suit.