Gemotions

The smell of mothballs was overpowering, but even that couldn't mask the underlying aroma of something…unpleasant. Sarah pulled open a trunk, her hand recoiling as though she'd touched a live wire. Inside lay a collection of old letters, tied with faded ribbons.

The handwriting, a florid, looping script, seemed to writhe on the page. She skimmed a few lines, and a chill crawled up her spine. The words…they didn't make sense. Not in any way that was healthy or normal. A cold sweat bloomed on her forehead. The air grew heavy, thick with a sensation she could not name.