Gemotions

The small, plain package lay nestled amongst the usual junk mail. The name on the label read "Arthur Bellweather." He’d never heard of the name, but he recognized the familiar address. He felt a creeping disquiet, an awareness of something out of sync.

He picked it up, examining it. It was light, almost insubstantial. He knew he should just throw it away, but a curious tension held him in place. He closed the door.

He set the package on the desk and sat down. He glanced at the closed door, imagining the apartment empty, and then filled with shadows. He felt a sudden, urgent need to understand the contents, an illogical belief that knowing would somehow make the unease disappear.