Gemotions

The splintering crack echoed through Amelia's kitchen. She spun around, a ceramic mug slipping from her grasp and shattering against the tiled floor. Her hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. She stumbled towards the window, her vision blurring.

Outside, the ancient oak next door lay sprawled across Mr. Henderson's meticulously manicured lawn, its massive trunk obscuring his prized rose bushes. The air was thick with the scent of freshly torn wood. A scream, thin and reedy, pierced the quiet. Mrs. Henderson.

Amelia’s legs felt like lead. She managed a few unsteady steps to the front door, feeling the icy grip of dread tighten its hold on her chest.