Gemotions

The musty scent of mothballs and old potpourri hit Clara like a physical blow. She'd been browsing the yard sale for a cast-iron skillet, something to replace the flimsy non-stick her husband had insisted on buying. Now, her fingers were trembling as she stared at it: Barnaby, her childhood bear. His button eyes were gone, replaced by empty sockets. The fur was matted, a sickly yellow in the afternoon sun.

A woman with a floral scarf tied around her head offered a polite smile. "Five dollars," she chirped. Clara couldn't speak. Her throat felt clogged. She felt a cold sweat prickle her skin as she reached for her purse.

She took it home, cradling it in her arms, feeling the hollow space where his stuffing had once been. That night, she couldn't sleep. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves against the window, sounded like a whispered threat. She kept Barnaby on the pillow next to her, his vacant stare a constant presence in the darkness.