Gemotions

The musty odor of the second-hand bookstore clung to Amelia like a shroud. She'd chosen a slim volume of poetry, a collection she'd been meaning to explore. The paper felt brittle and thin beneath her fingertips as she sat down in a quiet corner. As she turned the pages, a folded piece of paper fluttered out, landing in her lap. She snatched it up, fingers recoiling.

The script was spidery and indecipherable, the ink faded to brown. She held it away from her, peering at it as if it might bite. A wave of nausea, the sort that rises in your throat, churned in her stomach. “What the hell?” she murmured, before promptly dropping the paper back onto the dusty floor. It was best left alone.