Gemotions

He’d always felt a pull toward the house, a sense that it held secrets. Now, flashlight beam cutting a swathe through the gloom, he regretted the curiosity. He’d found a trunk. It was locked. He jiggled the handle, then kicked it, and it sprang open. Inside, nestled among yellowed newspapers, was a collection of porcelain dolls, their faces cracked and vacant.

His throat constricted. Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the chill of the attic. He felt trapped, pinned down by an invisible weight. His hands trembled as he reached for one of the dolls. He wanted to run, to escape this mausoleum of forgotten things, but his legs refused to obey.

He closed the trunk, quickly, but the sight of its contents was still there, stamped on his mind.