Gemotions

The dust swirled around Mark as he entered the attic. He hated dust. And he *really* hated what he saw. A collection of half-filled jars, their contents indiscernible, lined a shelf. He saw what looked like a taxidermied squirrel sitting atop a music box.

He felt a deep unease, a tightening in his chest. His breath hitched in his throat. The very idea of the previous inhabitants, their habits, their strange choices, filled him with a profound sense of... something. Something that made him want to wash his hands for an hour.

He made a beeline for the exit, already planning a bleach-filled cleaning spree.