Gemotions

The package arrived on a Tuesday, mid-morning. She’d been working from home, trying to focus on a spreadsheet, but the persistent hum of the refrigerator seemed to have gained a new, irritating timbre. The delivery man had barely knocked before he was already halfway down the sidewalk. "For the prior person, yeah?" he'd called back to her. She hadn't even had the chance to say no. Her fingers felt cold as she brought it in.

The label read, "To Mr. Alistair Finch." That man had been gone for years. She hadn't liked him, from the brief glimpses she'd gotten of him. He gave her the creeps. She didn't want this in her house. But the thought of leaving it outside, vulnerable to the elements, disturbed her.

She set it down on the floor, far from her usual workspace. The air in the room felt heavy, and the ticking of the clock seemed to amplify, an endless, monotonous pulse. She should throw it away, get rid of the problem. But she couldn't.