Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a stark white rectangle against the worn brick. Amelia had nearly tripped over it coming home from the late shift. Now, as she crouched, peering at the label, a chill crawled up her spine. It was addressed to "Mr. Silas Blackwood," the name of the man who had lived here before her. The address, however, was clearly hers.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She snatched the box, fumbling with the tape. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a heavy, ornate music box. Its brass finish gleamed in the dim hallway light. A small, handwritten note was tucked inside, reading, "He'll be waiting." A wave of goosebumps rose on her arms.

She quickly shoved the box inside the closet, slamming the door shut with a loud click. She needed a drink, a strong one. Her hands trembled as she poured herself a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking loudly in the sudden quiet. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside, sounded amplified.