Gemotions

The attic was stifling, the air thick with the smell of old paper and decay. I ran a hand across my forehead, already sweating. The previous residents, the Thompsons, had been meticulous, or so I thought. This attic, however, was anything but.

I stumbled upon a collection of handwritten journals, bound in leather. Their pages yellowed with age, filled with a looping script. I picked one up, my fingers tracing the faded ink. The first entry detailed a recurring nightmare, a feeling of being watched. A shiver coursed through me, and I quickly shut the book. I felt a growing sense of dread, the kind that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe.