Mina ✓

•|chapter seven: the spider in the basement [present day]

Yvaine was taken by surprise.

In spite of her not ordering anything online, a green rectangular cardboard box was laid right on her doorstep. There was no name or any similar indication as to who might have sent the box to her, but judging from its frayed edges and dusty exterior it was pretty old. Why would someone put down an old box on her doorstep?

For a whole minute, Yvaine just stared at the box, inspecting it with a frown on her forehead. She was having difficulty with what to do with the box. Then thinking that it would be a waste to just let it lie at the doorstep, she picked it up and turned towards the living room, closing the door with her elbow.

"Goddammit! It's so heavy!" Yvaine grumbled. Her forehead creased with lines of pain at the weight of the box. Cringing her eyes closed she moved laboriously towards the living room. Drops of sweat had begun to form all over her body by the time she had reached the sofas, upon which she flopped down with an audible moan.

Putting the box on her lap, Yvaine rested her head against the headrest of the sofa. Wiping away the sweat on her face with the back of her palm she pried at the edges of the box in an attempt to open the covering lid. Unlike what she had expected it was quite tightly fitted. With a strong tug, she pulled off the lid, coughing at the subsequent release of the dust.

"Wow!" Yvaine exclaimed, her eyes widening as they landed upon the contents of the box. An array of souvenirs were packed within it.

There was an ornate hand mirror right on the top, its colour a soft rose gold shade. At another corner was a maroon silken scarf and an off-white lacy handkerchief etched with the initials 'P.R'. A dried rose and a pair of emerald earrings were there in yet another corner, beneath which peeked out something black. So fascinated was Yvaine by the collection that she had lost track of time and the thought that she had to reach the library. Her eyes glowed like the shining surface of the mirror.

One by one Yvaine began to take out the contents of the box. She delicately set down the mirror upon the table and at the same time studied her reflection upon it. A smile erupted on her face.

The scarf and the handkerchief followed suit and soon came the turn of the dried rose. Yvaine brought it close to her nose and took in a strong whiff, shaking her head in appreciation for the flower: even after years, it was still sweet-smelling, as sweet as honey. And then her eyes landed on the black object beneath the rose and the earrings.

It was a small black diary, bound in leather. Mostly it was plain, except for a certain symbol engraved in the middle: a snake in an ouroboros, its head devouring its tail thereby forming a distinct circle. Instantly it grabbed Yvaine's attention. Ignoring the earrings she pulled them out, putting them on her lap. She ran a hand upon its rich smoothness, her dainty fingers removing the thin layer of dust which had settled upon it. With a flick of her fingers, she opened the time, revealing its yellowed cover page. At the same instant, a shocked gasp escaped her lips.

Written in the same loopy handwriting as that of the message in the bottle were the words:

PAISLEY MIRANDA ROSE
THE YEAR OF 1882.

***

"We really need to clean up this wretched place!"

Suppressing a cough, Amberly Wood climbed down the last step to the basement of the town library. Even in that early hour, it was as dark as midnight with long, silvery cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling. Dust coated every part of the place and a damp musty smell filled the air. It was unbelievable that something as precious as the written history of the town, the newspapers and many other similar documents, were kept in such a dreary place.

Amberly had never really liked it. She found it incredulous that the town authorities thought it was okay to keep such things in the basement of the library and not make a proper archive for it. It was not that there was a lack of donations; the townsfolk loved their library.

Generous and sometimes quite huge amounts of donations were made every year, the biggest donor being the late grandfather of Yvaine Agan. He was thrifty but never in the case of books. However, despite all that, there had been no attempt to make a proper archive.

Lightning the flashlight on her phone, Amberly began to walk into the interior of the basement, a disgruntled look on her grit smeared face. In the faint light of the flashlight, one could make out rows of brown cardboard boxes overflowing with all sorts of junk like leftover plumbing equipment, old leaflets and broken bulbs. For some reason, huge, empty barrels were laid upon the floor making Amberly dodge at almost every step she took.

Amberly wanted to avoid this place like the plague. Had Mr Forrester not been sick and locked at home, she would have made him come down and retrieve the newspapers, one, because he did not mind it as much she did and two, because he was not arachnophobic like her.

She avoided looking at the hanging webs as she walked, her heart dancing madly in her chest. She despised those eight-legged creepy crawlers; all black with those numerous beady eyes and those sharp, oh so sharp pincers, ready to trap and kill, trap and kill, trap and kill.

"Not gonna think about that. Not gonna think about that," Amberly closed her eyes, sweat dripping down from her forehead and neck. It had been not very wise to think about those treacherous beasts. She could not still understand why Yvaine had asked her to come down to this place and how the newspapers would solve the mystery of the message in the bottle.

At last, the newspapers came into her view. Stowed carelessly on rusted iron racks kept against one of the walls, was the history of Andrasville. Rotten signs made of paper hung from each level of the racks, proclaiming which level contained the documents of which year.

Judging by those signs, the library contained records from as early as the 1690s, till the early 2000s. Swerving a long cobweb with her phone which was dangling right on top of her head, Amberly walked over to the rack with the signs reading '1880s'.

Extending an arm she touched one of the newspapers on the level marked as 1882, her long white fingers tracing the rough surfaces of the mouldy, yellowed pages. A small huff of bewitchment escaped her lips.

There she was standing in the middle of this dusty, lightless basement, touching something more than a hundred years old, older than anything she had ever known and the feeling was simply magical. These not-so-simple bits of old paper had captured her very soul.

What might those people, the ones who were alive when these newspapers had just been released, have felt when touching the very same newspapers? Did they feel her awe, her entrancement? Maybe not.

Maybe it was just a scrap of paper for them, not anything important and definitely not something as precious as history. It was a charming feeling, a feeling of getting some great privilege. A euphoric smile emerged on Amberly's lips.

She might have stood like that with gaping eyes and that blissful smile had it not been for a sudden crunch of footsteps and the subsequent cough. With her heart in her heart, Amberly sharply turned around, expecting the worst. And indeed it was the worst.

A giant spider crawled over its way to her.