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main | table of contents Copyright © 2003, S. Y. Affolee 7 Crate The second floor opened up into a wide living space. The walls were white, but the floor was carpeted in a light beige. One side of the room was paneled with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the barren hill and a view of the nearby square with its domineering cathedral. A man in a wheelchair sat at the window reading a book. Tables, chairs, and sofas were scattered throughout the rest of the recreation room. Two older men were at one of the tables concentrating on chess. A gray-haired woman sat on one of the couches knitting and humming a strange little ditty. “There’s usually a couple more people here,” said Aeneus. “More lively. But of course, they don’t know what I know.” “Know what?” asked Verity. The old man’s eyes slitted. “Lots of things. Maybe I’ll tell you in time. But not here, not now. You’ve read some of the things down in the archive, haven’t you?” “Well, I just started working there.” “But you have read some things, right? Some things about the patients.” “I’m still trying to catalogue the files from fifty years ago. I don’t think I’m allowed to read the records of current patients. Isn’t that a breach of confidentiality or something?” “The kinds of patients who roam these halls haven’t changed in fifty years.” “What do you mean by that?” said Verity even though she knew why he said that. Aeneus only shook his head. “Perhaps I’ll tell you more when we visit next time.” His eyes were already focusing elsewhere. “Thank you for accompanying me back up here. You probably have some work to do in the archives. Oh, and go to a real hairdresser.” Verity entered the archives and noticed that Bob and Quinn were out of their offices. Quinn dumped a discolored wooden crate on the table as Bob stood nearby watching with his arms across his chest. “What’s that?” “A crate,” said Quinn. “She knows it’s a crate,” said Bob. “We got it from the sub-basement.” At the incline of his head, Verity’s gaze fell on an open door that she had previously assumed was a custodial closet. Instead, the interior was dark with the faint outlines of stairs leading downward. “Musty old place,” Bob continued. “It’s not renovated like the rest of the institute, unfortunately.” Quinn pried the top open and coughed violently as a cloud of dust spewed out. “I believe the oldest records are down there. I figured, hey, since we’re cataloguing everything for the new system, we might as well do these too.” Bob rolled his eyes. “Like we don’t have enough work already?” “So how far back do you think it goes?” Verity asked. “The records, I mean.” “Rothburne Institute was founded about a hundred and fifty years ago,” said Bob. “Before that, this was the Rothburne Manor. Everything was moved out before it was converted into a health center. So I’d say maximum a hundred and fifty years.” “Not everything was moved out,” said Quinn. He held up an ancient mirror; its reflective surface had been rubbed away or corroded until only the dull backing was left. The frame, however, appeared to be made of brass shaped in strange and unfamiliar swirling patterns. “Here’s a book too.” The book had a black cover with no title. Quinn flipped it open. The yellowing pages were all empty. “Do you think we should keep this stuff?” Quinn asked. “Nah. I say we can just trash it,” said Bob. “It doesn’t look valuable. And there doesn’t appear to be any identifying marks. I bet the Rothburnes who moved out forgot about this rubbish.” Verity picked up the old mirror and felt a something sharp course up her arm as if she had been suddenly shocked with static electricity. She turned the mirror over and examined the darkened back. She didn’t see anything unusual, but when she passed her fingers over the surface, she felt bumps as if some writing had been etched underneath. “If you guys don’t mind, I’ll like to take this with me,” said Verity. Bob took the book and handed it to her. “Take this too. Maybe a blank journal will be of use to you.” Quinn was rummaging inside the crate again. “Doorknobs.” “What?” said Bob. “Doorknobs,” he repeated. Quinn took out another brass object, this one round at one end, the other somewhat flat and looked likely to fit into the hole of a door if one really stretched the imagination. “You want these too Verity? You could start an antique doorknob collection.” Verity shrugged. “All right. Maybe I should take up a new hobby.” Bob made some sort of exasperated sound at the back of his throat. “All the other boxes down there probably have the same junk. I say we go through them when we’re finished working on the important references.”  |