The Origin Stone

Chapter 3-1

CHAPTER 3

“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Wrenshaw says, beckoning Ru and I through the door, closing it behind us with a click.

It’s been three days since the incident, and neither of us have breathed a word to mum and dad. Mum would only send us both to the doctor, and dad would panic and consult every book on supernatural occurrences ever written.

“The library is right this way, my dears,” Mrs. Wrenshaw calls, already halfway down the hall. The walls are covered with black and white photographs, barely leaving an inch of visible paint between them. Curiosity overtaking me, I examine one closely, showing a tall man standing in front of a plane. There’s a date written on it: 3rd August, 1945.

“That’s my father,” she says, right behind me. I flinch, not expecting her closeness.

“Sorry, I--that picture was taken during the war, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, a month before it ended. Unfortunately, he never lived to see it. His plane was shot down two days after this was taken.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“It was a long time ago, and he wasn’t the sort of person to approve of a life spent in mourning. Come this way,” she says, and takes us down to a door at the end of the hall. It opens onto a flight of stairs going down, and when we reach the bottom, I can’t help but gape.

Every wall is filled with books from floor to ceiling, with freestanding bookcases splitting up the room. Each shelf is labelled with the categories and the books are lined up in alphabetical order. They even have their own Dewey decimal number.

“Choose any book you like and I’ll give you a library card,” she says, heading over to a desk in the corner I’ve only just spotted.

“Actually, it’s not a book we’re after,” Ru says, though his eyes linger on the wildlife section.

“Oh? Then what is it you’re after?” she asks, her tone suddenly hardening.

Ru and I glance at each other.

“Old newspapers, actually. Do you have any?” he asks.

Her demeanour softens again. “Why of course. As I’m sure you know, the village paper runs every fortnight, and I’m lucky enough to have copies of the very first ones in print.”

“How many years has the paper run, then?” I ask.

“Close to seventy-five years, I believe,” she says, ambling over to the very back of the library, where two dozen black metal chests line the floor. She goes over to the one furthest to the left and clicks open the lock. “Yes, here it is,” she says, leafing through the yellowing newspapers inside. She pulls one out and shows me the date. 8th October, 1942.

“Wow, that really is old.”

Mrs. Wrenshaw chuckles at me. “Then I’m sure it will amuse you to learn I was your age at the time that was printed. Now, was there one in particular you were interested in?”

“Not really,” Ru says quickly. “We just want to learn as much about the history of the village as we can, and we thought this was probably the best place to start.”

“In that case, I’ll leave you to browse,” she says, approaching the stairs. “Mind you put them all back in order when you’re finished, though, and let me know when you leave so I can lock up.”