Gemotions

The box was plain, brown, and bore no return address. The address label itself was handwritten, in a spidery script. She knew the previous tenant, a Mr. Silas, a man of quiet habits and a penchant for late-night walks. The stories from the other residents about him made her skin crawl.

She found herself unable to breathe. Her throat felt tight. She locked the door. Then she checked it again. Her hands shook so badly she could barely turn the key.

She moved from window to window, peering out at the street. The darkness pressed in, swallowing the world. She whispered a silent mantra of calm. But the unease lingered, a shadow clinging to the corners of her mind.