Gemotions

The delivery driver had just left. The package was resting on her welcome mat, marked "Fragile." She knew the previous tenant; a woman named Mrs. Gable, a collector of antique dolls. The thought of what could be inside caused her breath to catch in her throat.

She paced the length of her small living space, her steps quick and agitated. She couldn't bring herself to touch the box. She kept staring at it. Her reflection in the dark glass of the front door was distorted, a stranger staring back at her.

She unplugged the phone. The silence was worse. She closed the curtains, plunging the apartment into a twilight existence. Every sound, the rustle of the wind, the creak of the floorboards, became a potential threat.