Gemotions

The attic door groaned open, spitting dust motes into the single shaft of sunlight. Sarah gripped the pull-down cord, knuckles white. A chill snaked up her spine, even though the summer air was thick and heavy. She hauled the door down, the metal groaning in protest.

Her breath hitched. A musty odor, like old paper and forgotten things, hit her. She switched on the light, a weak bulb that barely illuminated the gloom. Heavier breaths rattled in her chest as she stepped onto the rickety wooden stairs, each step creaking like a warning.

A trunk, half-covered by a moth-eaten blanket, sat in the center. She knew, with a certainty that made her stomach churn, that she wasn't alone. "Hello?" she called out, her voice thin and reedy. Silence answered. She forced herself closer, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.