Gemotions

The rustling in the bushes made her jump. It was probably just the wind, she told herself, but her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She peeked through the blinds, her breath fogging the glass. Nothing. Just the neighbor's empty yard, the grass overgrown where the dog usually trotted. Every shadow seemed to shift, every tree to whisper secrets. She backed away from the window, a cold dread creeping up her spine.

She double-checked the locks on the door. Then triple-checked. The feeling wouldn't leave, the unsettling sense that someone, or something, was watching. She grabbed the pepper spray from the kitchen counter and clutched it, her knuckles white.

She spent the rest of the afternoon huddled in the back room, the blinds drawn tight. Every creak of the house, every distant bark, sent a fresh jolt of fear through her. She was sure she heard a scratching at the back door.