Gemotions

The attic stairs seemed to stretch into an endless darkness. Clara hesitated at the base. She had to, though. She had to look. She gripped the railing tightly, her knuckles turning white. Each step brought an increase of dread, of a weight on her chest.

Dust motes danced in the single beam of her flashlight. The air was thick and stagnant. She slowly circled the room, her heart a frantic drum. Every shadow, every misplaced box, became a potential hiding place. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, the flickering of something just beyond the light.

She quickly backed down the stairs, tripping on the way. She ran out of the attic and slammed the door shut, as if the door could hold back whatever was in there. Her breath came in ragged gasps.