Gemotions

The appraisal came today. Her Aunt Mary’s will. They’d inherited the house. It's the dilapidated house next door to the old man, Mr. Finch. He always wore the same tweed jacket and mowed his lawn with a rusty, hand-cranked mower. The house he owns, she discovered, was worth a fortune.

She had to sit down, her legs giving way. His every gesture, the way he looked at them, seemed calculated, scrutinized. He’d been so friendly, offering to help with their bags. Now, the kindness felt like something else, a carefully constructed illusion.

A feeling of intense agitation coursed through her. She rose and closed the curtains, locking the door. The sound of his mower, she realised, was deafening.