Gemotions

The package, large and brown, leaned against the door. "To Mr. Alistair Finch," it proclaimed. He knew that name. He’d seen it on the mailbox when he bought the house. He felt the blood drain from his face.

He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. Finch had moved out over a decade ago. He hadn't thought about that former owner in years. He bent down, carefully examining the packaging. He needed to get away, and fast.

His stomach lurched. He felt his legs grow weak. He backed away from the box as though it were radioactive. He had to call someone.