Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn, each blow a sharp, unwelcome punctuation mark on the morning's quietude. Eleanor yanked the covers over her head, wishing she could blot out the world as easily as she could the encroaching light. She hadn't slept well in weeks, plagued by a vague dread she couldn't name. Now this.

She dragged herself out of bed, the floorboards cold beneath her bare feet. Peering through the blinds, she saw Mr. Henderson, his face red with effort, wrestling with a post. The rhythmic thudding intensified her pulse. Her stomach churned.

"What in the world is he doing?" she muttered, more to herself than to the empty room. She felt a compulsion to go out there, to tell him to stop, but the thought of confrontation was paralyzing. She retreated, her movements jerky and uncertain.