Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a stark brown rectangle against the faded blue of the door. Amelia had been expecting a new cookbook, not this. She bent to pick it up, the address label screaming back at her: "Mr. Alistair Finch, Apartment 3B." That wasn’t her. Alistair Finch had moved out months ago. Her stomach lurched.

A tremor ran through her as she lifted the flap. Inside, nestled amongst packing peanuts, was a small, ornate wooden box. She didn’t know why, but she couldn't bring herself to touch it. Her fingers twitched, desperate to recoil, even though she knew there was nothing inside that could harm her.

"No, no, no," she muttered, backing away from the package. She was already late for her pottery class. She didn't have time for this. But she was rooted to the spot, a sickening dread washing over her as she took in the details again. The meticulously carved wood, the strange symbols etched into the lid.

She slammed the door and ran a hand through her hair, her heart hammering against her ribs.