Gemotions

The knock was abrupt, a staccato rhythm against the old wood of the door. A shiver skittered down Martha's spine. She peered through the peephole. Mr. Henderson. Again. She’d seen him lurking at the edge of her property yesterday, staring at the oak. Now this.

Her breath hitched. Before she opened the door, she took a deep gulp of air, trying to slow her racing heart. "Yes?" she managed, her voice a reedy whisper.

Mr. Henderson pointed at the imposing tree, his face a mask of amicable concern. "That oak... it's getting awfully close to my house. I was thinking, maybe if we... you know... took it down?" His smile seemed… strained.

Martha’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the doorframe. The oak was the last thing keeping them safe, wasn't it? She saw the glint of something in his eye, something she couldn’t quite place, and felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. “I’ll… think about it,” she squeaked, and slammed the door.