Gemotions

The attic felt like a forgotten tomb. The flashlight beam quivered in his grip as he climbed the rickety steps. He wasn't sure why he was up there; the realtor had said the previous owners had cleared everything out. Yet something, a nagging sensation, drove him to investigate. His gut twisted into a knot of apprehension.

Cobwebs brushed against his face, clinging like ghostly fingers. He kept moving his flashlight, desperate for a clean surface. He saw a trunk in the far corner, bound with leather straps. He was starting to feel claustrophobic, the air too thick, too heavy. His feet felt like lead.

He forced himself to approach the trunk, his boots echoing in the stillness. He bent down, the flashlight beam dancing over the metal clasps. His hands trembled as he worked to unfasten them. He pulled back the lid. Inside, nestled on faded satin, was a collection of antique dolls, their painted eyes staring out at him. He recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. He snapped the lid shut, spun around, and fled, the flashlight clattering to the floor behind him.