Gemotions

The antique music box arrived on Tuesday. A small, ornate thing, far too expensive for a teacher's salary. It sat on the counter, a silent, glittering accusation. Her breath hitched in her chest. She kept thinking about little Timmy Henderson, the student who'd sent it. He’d always been a bit…off. Always watching, always a little too close.

She barely touched it, just circled it like a wary animal. The postman had said, "It's from a Mr. Henderson." She hadn’t signed for it, just stared at the name, a cold dread creeping through her. The intricate carving on the box seemed to shift in her peripheral vision.

She should throw it away. Right now. But then, wouldn't that make things worse? She decided to leave it, a poisonous bloom on her kitchen counter. Every creak of her house was a threat, every shadow a lurking figure.