Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the teacher’s desk, a swirling crimson mahogany. Miss Eleanor Finch, her hands clammy, backed away slowly. The note attached was in a familiar scrawl, that of Bartholomew “Barty” Crumb, a boy she’d tutored in the forgotten art of cartography years ago. She swallowed, heart hammering against her ribs. He’d been quiet, almost spectral, a boy who’d traced the lines of maps with a morbid intensity.

Her gaze darted around the room, as if expecting to find Barty lurking in the shadows. The familiar scent of chalk dust and old books usually soothed her. Now, it was a suffocating blanket. She didn't want to open the box. She should call the police.

Taking a shaky breath, Eleanor reached out, her fingers trembling as she hovered over the box’s lid. The delicate brass clasp glinted, reflecting her anxious face. She couldn't bring herself to touch it. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves against the window, sounded like Barty’s approach.