Gemotions

The old house stood silhouetted against the dying light, a gothic masterpiece of shadows and secrets. For weeks, John had felt drawn to this abandoned place, his curiosity growing like a malignant weed. He’d never seen the house before, yet it felt familiar, as if some long-forgotten part of himself was calling to him.

He found it in the overgrown garden: a simple metal box, half-submerged in the mud. He pried it open. Inside, a single photograph, a name scrawled on the back in a familiar hand: “John.” He looked down at the photograph, his own face staring back, younger, happier, but still, undeniably, him. Panic welled inside him. He didn’t remember this photograph, this place, this feeling of dread. He ran, the box clutched tightly in his hand, feeling the walls of the house breathe down his neck.