Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Elias ran a hand over his clammy forehead, the old photos clutched in his trembling fingers. A sepia image of his grandfather, a renowned war hero, laughing with a man in a Nazi uniform. The story was always a tale of heroic resistance, never collaboration. His breath hitched. He felt a prickling heat across his scalp, as if every hair was standing on end. He quickly shoved the photo back into the box.

He backed away, bumping into a stack of moth-eaten furniture. He imagined eyes, countless eyes, peering out from the shadows, judging him. He grabbed his phone. He had to call someone, anyone, to make the feeling subside. But who could he trust? His fingers fumbled with the screen.

He glanced back at the open box. He couldn't leave the photos there, could he? The attic door creaked open, casting a long, skeletal shadow. He whirled around, heart hammering against his ribs, convinced someone was watching him. He had to get out. Now.