Gemotions

The wind howled outside, mirroring the storm brewing inside him. The words, scrawled in a frantic hand, detailed a series of escalating threats. His palms were slick. His breathing was shallow and erratic.

"I am coming," the letter concluded. He had to stop reading. He should have stopped.

He threw the book across the room, it hitting the wall. Every shadow seemed to move, every creak in the house sounded like a footstep. He imagined someone watching him, someone close by. He had to run. He had to hide.