<—Main Story Page
“Are you sure you don’t want to ask Julie for a second set of hands?” The voice came through the speaker staticky.
“I got this. Besides, it’ll be kind of fun—like a treasure hunt of sorts!” Amy tried to infuse her response with a level of cheer she wasn’t feeling.
“Ok. See you at work, then.” Click.
Amy stared at the phone for a moment, not sure whether to brush it off or cry. At least Violet was willing to speak to her again. It was more than she deserved after what had happened.
The light in the room dimmed as the pattering of rain against the window grew louder. It’d probably be over in 10 minutes; the rainy season had been unusually temperamental this year. Almost like Florida in the sudden start and stop.
“Welp. Come on self. No moping. These mystery boxes won’t sift through themselves.” Amy braced herself and pushed off from the floor, careful not to stumble into the nearest timeworn trunk. The banding on it was dulled and rusted out in spots. The leather was in a similarly neglected state.
As Amy stared out at the haphazard piles of old boxes and trunks, contemplating where to begin, she sighed. Treasure hunts were supposed to be fun. And involve gold doubloons. Amy was fairly certain there’d be no gold doubloons in this mess.
“I should have asked for help.” Her shoulders hunched in a little as she nudged the closest trunk with her foot. It thunked hollowly, but didn’t move. Reaching down, Amy ran her hands along the seamed edges, feeling for the latch. Carefully pushing and twisting, she managed to release it. Taking a breath, she cautiously tugged on the lid. It didn’t budge.
“Oh come on! Seriously, lid?” She tugged harder, and the lid gave way with an aged groan. Amy would have celebrated if she hadn’t been assaulted with the smell of moldering papers and old clothes.
The movies always made discoveries like this seem glamorous. They almost always left out the smell.
Coughing, Amy stepped back, waving her hand at the trunk in the hope she could disperse the thick mildew and dust cloud. Rather than help, it just seemed to make everything worse.
Eyes watering, she kicked the trunk shut and retreated to the next room. It was equally ratty looking. The whole store was. Or, what would be a store once the restoration efforts were completed.
Pompeii’s owner had purchased the space next to the store with the intention to expand out the business. It had somehow fallen on the staff to run preliminary clean-up before the hired contractors came in.
Neither she nor her coworkers could figure out why, outside of sadism. They weren’t even entirely certain it was legal. But, it didn’t change the order. So here she was. By herself. Because none of her coworkers could comfortably converse with her yet. And because she’d volunteered for the unsavory task of sifting through boxes and trunks that were over a hundred years old. It was the best she could do as penance for her unwitting part in the Violet fiasco.
For a moment she contemplated calling it quits. But that wasn’t how any of her favorite characters would behave. They would roll up their sleeves or hoist their bustle, or whatever era-appropriate metaphor it was. Amy grinned. Maybe not hoisting the bustle. That probably had an entirely different connotation.
“Alright. Round two. You bested me the first time, Moldy. But this time I’m ready.” Amy marched back into the room, pausing long enough to dig through her backpack. Triumphant, she retrieved a handkerchief and wrapped it just below her eyes, tying it snugly behind her head.
She was glad now that no one else was there helping. With the handkerchief mask, she suspected she either looked like an old west bank robber, or a creepy anime panty-thief.
Reminding herself that she was saving her coworkers from a little pain, Amy clenched her jaw and shoved open the original trunk. The mask helped a little, but she still felt stifled by the dust and mildew in the still atmosphere. If only it would stop raining, she could open a window.
Settling into a kneeling position, she peeled away layers of nearly disintegrated linen to reveal a collection of leather-bound books. Gingerly, she lifted the cover of one of them, and grinned. Journals, actually. This might not be so bad after all.
A peek into the past from first hand documentation was way more interesting than reading some boring old history book filled with nothing but lists and dates. History books were too cold and impersonal. But some 100 plus year ghost’s dear diary? That was exciting.
Henry was from this town; maybe he knew the owners of these journals. Or maybe his parents had. Amy hadn’t actually seen anything yet that dated the trunk. She smiled in anticipation, the mold and dust forgotten as she carefully picked up one of the fragile books and opened it to the middle section.
The penmanship was lovely; careful looped swirls inked onto unlined paper. Amy had to study the pages for a moment before she could decipher the writing. Cursive wasn’t exactly a high-demand skill anymore. The only reason she could still read it was because of her grandmother. She loved her nana, but the woman refused to enter the modern world of computers. All letters were handwritten in an elegant dance of ink on paper.
Shifting from her knees to a comfortable sitting position, Amy leaned up against the trunk behind her and began to read.