Ticking Secrets At Maydale

Chapter 2

I slumped onto the couch, utterly exhausted. It had been one of those draining days that seemed never-ending. With a sigh, I switched on the air conditioner, savoring the cool blast of air that began to spread throughout the room. Without wasting any more time, I trudged to the bathroom, craving the comfort of a hot shower.

After the warmth of the shower washed away my weariness, I put on my second favorite pajamas—a cozy, fluffy set in soft grey with adorable mouse ears on the hood. My favorite pajamas, after all, were reserved for rainy nights, a ritualistic comfort.

I snuggled into my bed, feeling the softness wrap around me, and grabbed the remote to start Netflix. A lengthy debate ensued in my mind: Should I start a new series or re-watch Ice Age for the hundredth time? In the end, nostalgia won, as it always did. I hit play on Ice Age, a movie that never lost its charm for me, no matter how many times I watched it.

By the time the movie ended, it was around eleven. I was still giggling over the funny bits as I turned off the TV. Wrapping my blanket snugly around myself, I allowed myself to drift into the sweet release of sleep.

...

The first rays of morning light glittered against my closed eyelids, an unwelcomed intrusion. The sunlight crept through my window, almost blinding as it painted golden streaks across the room. Squinting, I glanced at the clock—9 a.m. Clenching my jaw in irritation, I let out an exasperated sigh.

Waking up late always ticked me off. I hated feeling as if I'd already lost precious hours of my day. The sun was shining bright and hot, but all I wished for was rain instead. Rainy days made it excusable to sleep in, as if time slowed down with the downpour and filled me with a sense of reassurance and safety I could never understand why. But on a sunny day, it felt like the entire world was moving on, leaving me behind.

That pretty much summed up my mood today. There was work to be done—investigating the new case, figuring out answers, and writing an article that could be the next big hit. At least, that's what I told myself to fuel a bit of motivation.

After a long shower, I put on some light, comfortable clothing since I had no plans to leave the house. With a cup of tea, burnt toast, and eggs, I started my late morning, eating at the kitchen counter. My gaze fell on the package sitting on my desk, curiosity stirring once again. I walked over, pocket knife in hand, and carefully began removing the packaging.

I wasn't quite sure what it was. It was covered in a thick layer of caked mud and grime. I scraped off as much as I could with the knife, then used a damp cloth to wipe away the rest. Beneath the dirt was a thick, old book. Its leather cover felt stiff, durable even after all these years. I could tell it was aged, its texture rough under my fingertips.

After nearly two hours of meticulous cleaning, picking away at the debris with a cotton swab, I finally held something more recognizable—a diary. The word "Diary" was stamped at the top, carved faintly into the leather. There were no other markings, no name or title to give any further hint as to its origins.

I tried to open it, tugging gently at both ends, but the pages seemed glued shut. They must have adhered over the years, bonded together with time. I tried wetting the edges slightly, hoping the moisture might loosen them, but the book appeared waterproof. I even resorted to using the knife, trying to pry the pages apart, but they were so stiff that I feared the blade might snap.