Gemotions

The rhythmic thudding started promptly at seven, just as the sun began to cast long shadows across the cul-de-sac. Eleanor, still in her robe, peered through the kitchen window, coffee steaming in her hand. Across the street, the usually immaculate facade of the Peterson's house was shrouded in scaffolding. She rubbed her eyes, a strange tingling prickling at the back of her neck. What were they *doing*?

She’d seen Mr. Peterson outside a few times, a haunted look on his face, muttering into his phone. Mrs. Peterson hadn't been seen at all. Eleanor found herself pacing, each footfall mirroring the relentless hammering. Her toast sat forgotten, growing cold.

"Honey, what's going on?" her husband, David, mumbled, entering the kitchen. She just shook her head, unable to articulate the vague unease that had settled in her chest.