Gemotions

He’d always had a vivid imagination, but he wasn’t usually given to flights of fantasy. He’d gone to look for his old baseball glove, but the moment he pulled down the attic stairs, he knew something was off. The air was heavy, the light felt wrong, and the silence was deafening. Every shadow seemed to stretch and twist, taking on menacing shapes.

He scanned the room. In the gloom, he saw what looked like a collection of porcelain figures. His heart began to pound against his ribs. He slowly approached, his steps cautious, but he was forced to keep moving. He pointed his flashlight. They were all broken, chipped, missing limbs, their painted smiles twisted into expressions of grotesque despair.

He felt a sudden, overpowering urge to leave, but he couldn't seem to move. He was rooted to the spot. He blinked, and he could have sworn one of the figures moved. He let out a strangled cry and bolted for the stairs, not looking back.