Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, unassuming save for the bold, handwritten address. “Mr. Silas Blackwood,” it declared, with a flourish of ink that didn't belong on *her* house. She’d only moved in a week ago. Her fingers, suddenly clumsy, fumbled with her keys. Inside, a heavy book thudded onto the entryway floor, its cover embossed with a serpentine design. She breathed in quick, shallow gasps, her throat constricting.

A chill crawled up her spine, even though the late afternoon sun warmed the porch. She peered around the street. Where had it come from? The delivery driver must have made a mistake. A coldness settled in her stomach.

She backed away from the package, as if it might spring open and bite. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Blackwood. The name felt like a curse.