Gemotions

“What is this?” Thomas whispered, his voice hoarse. He crouched beside the tarnished brass box, his breath shallow and quick. His hands trembled so violently he could barely hold himself up. He didn't remember ever owning such a thing.

A cold sweat slicked his brow. He felt a deep, primal unease creep into his bones. The air around him seemed to thicken, pressing in on him. He could almost feel eyes on him.

He desperately wanted to call someone, anyone, for help. But his phone felt miles away, unreachable. He was stranded, alone with this unsettling object, and the growing, sickening feeling that he should have never found it.