1,216Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer came up with all things Twilight, and H.G. Wells wrote a certain novel about a time machine. I own neither story. All I did was send your favorite characters back to the Stone Age. Yabba dabba doo!
A lot of preparation was required before I could start this fic. I read thick books written by archaeologists, and I studied online articles about extinct animals and mile-high glaciers. I even rewatched Encino Man for research purposes (ha!). Still, what you are about to read is a work of fiction dealing with a mysterious period in humankind's history. Many questions regarding their way of life remain unanswered to this very day. Therefore, my imagination kicked in sometimes to help fill in the gaps, and to make the plot more interesting.
Hope you enjoy.
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Chapter One
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The microwave heats up the chicken noodle soup. My eyes follow in a hypnotic stupor as my humble meal spins round and round. At the beep, I take out the bowl. The steaming contents are spooned into my mouth while I lean back against the counter.
The employee kitchen is small. If I spread my arms out, I could almost touch two walls at once. The lack of space isn't much of a problem, however. The museum employs only ten people, and each of our schedules are wildly different. Rarely are there more than three of us in the building at the same time. And speaking of schedules, my work schedule is perfect for a university student such as myself. Nearly all my classes are in the morning. My shift at the museum usually doesn't start until the early afternoon.
I'm halfway through my meal when my phone vibrates. Glancing at the screen, I see my mom is calling.
Renee is what you'd call a character. Flighty and irresponsible, she has the undying spirit of a teenager. I suppose that's why my parents' marriage didn't last for long. Charlie wanted an adult relationship and Renee just wanted to have fun. On the bright side, growing up with her as my mother was always entertaining. I never knew what new scheme she was going to rush into next.
Sadly, our close relationship took a hit when she met her future husband six years ago. Theirs was a whirlwind romance. Phil began taking up more and more of her free time. I had to settle for the scraps. After their wedding, the new hubby decided he wasn't comfortable living in the same household as a stepdaughter. Mom suggested that I move "temporarily" to Dad's place in Forks. She believed Phil would get used to having me around if he only saw me in small doses for a short while.
I ended up staying at Dad's until I graduated high school.
Phil never did warm up to me. He treats me the same as any stranger on the street - polite but distant. That's fine. All he does is talk about sports, anyway.
Mom has tried harder lately to repair our fractured relationship. She calls much more often now. In the beginning, I considered rejecting her attempts at being a happy family again - but that urge didn't last long. Losing her isn't an option. She's all I have left. Dad passed away just before I started university. He pulled over someone for a broken taillight, a minor offense. The guy he stopped just so happened to have a warrant out for his arrest and didn't want to go back to jail.
They say Dad didn't suffer when the fatal shot was fired. They also say his death wasn't in vain: He died protecting the community.
People say a lot of dumb things.
I shake off the negativity of the past and instead focus on the now. Mom must be calling about my upcoming visit. I've been studying abroad for almost two years and haven't seen her face-to-face in all that time. Starting tomorrow, however, summer officially begins for me. I'll be free from both work and school for two whole weeks. My holiday will be spent at Mom's new house in Florida, a place I've been dying to see ever since she moved there last year.
Heat, bright sunshine, and a long overdue visit with my mom. I'm going to have a fantastic vacation.
I accept the call and shoulder the phone to my ear. "Hey, Mom."
"Hi, sweetie. Am I calling at a bad time?"
"Nah, I'm on my break," I answer before scooping in another bite of my soup.
"Good. I can never seem to remember how that time difference thingy works. So, how are you doing?"
"Well, I-"
"That's nice. Guess what happened to me. Phil surprised me with tickets to Bermuda! He even arranged for us to stay at some ritzy hotel there. The suite he booked once had Jacqueline Kennedy as a guest!"
"Wow. Sounds incredible. When does the trip start?"
"In three days! I don't know how I'm going to have everything done before our flight leaves. I'll need to buy a new swimsuit, find my passport..."
My shoulders fall at the news. "But what about our visit?"
"What visit?"
I exhale harshly through my nose. "Mom, you and I have been talking for months about me flying in to see you. I'm supposed to get on the plane tomorrow."
Silence. It's so quiet on her end, I have to check to make sure our call didn't disconnect.
"Is it that time already?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Oh... oh, Bella. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I forgot. It completely slipped my mind."
Her guilt-ridden voice assuages my hurt feelings somewhat. I try to smile. "I understand. You have been pretty busy lately."
"Heavens yes! Ever since Phil's promotion forced us to move states, our schedules have been crazy. He's barely had a moment of peace - and my job hasn't been much better. This vacation is exactly what we need to unwind."
I set my bowl of soup down, no longer hungry. "You're still going?"
"Of course! But don't worry. You can come visit us later this summer. We can go to the beach... or even Orlando if you want. Doesn't that sound like fun?"
"But, Mom-"
She sighs heavily. "Oh, no. I've got to go, honey. Our house-sitter just texted asking if she can bring her pet too. It's a husky. Sheds like a sheep! Imagine what our sofa would look like with that much dog hair on the cushions. What a disaster! I'll have to call you back later so I can deal with this. Kisses!"
Then she's gone.
I close my eyes briefly. That's all the time I devote to mourning the loss of my holiday plans. The rest of my meal break is spent on the phone with the airline. At least I have a refundable ticket.
Before I return to the public area of the museum, I spend a minute or two in self-reflection.
How did my life end up like this?
When I was a student at tiny Forks High School, the English teacher there helped bring out the Anglophile in me. Austen, Brontë, Hardy - I learned to love and appreciate all the classic authors of British literature. The stories of English life made the USA seem dull in comparison. That's why I pushed so hard to study abroad. I wanted to wake up and be somewhere - places whose claim to fame doesn't revolve solely around the fact it rains a lot.
I got what I wanted. So, why am I still miserable?
Don't get me wrong. London is lovely. There's always something to do, and the sightseeing is incredible. But it turns out that the climate here isn't much different than Forks. They're both rainy, chilly, and foggy more days than not.
University life hasn't quite lived up to my expectations, either. I have no close friends - only acquaintances, study partners, and a roommate who tolerates my existence on the condition I keep our shared space squeaky clean. Additionally, I now see that the major I chose to pursue was a mistake. I like reading nineteenth-century literature a lot more than I like learning about every facet of that time period.
My love life has been equally disappointing. Before I moved, I imagined I would meet a kind, charming guy with a killer accent. Maybe I would bump into him while he was browsing the shelves at a book store, or sipping tea at a cozy little shop. Yet in all the time I've lived here, most of the people who have shown interest in me only want to be friends with benefits. The few wanting more in a relationship seemed great on the surface... until I looked deeper.
Take, for instance, the last guy I dated. He was a good-looking, snarky pre-med student. I thought I had finally met someone worth getting to know. My opinion changed once we got intimate. His dirty talk ended up being just that - all talk, little action. I tried hinting around about what I liked but he ignored everything I said. He insisted he "knew what he was doing". Surprise! He didn't. He was as stubborn as someone who's lost yet still refuses to ask for directions. To be honest, I doubt even a map could have helped that guy find my G-spot.
My job is currently the only bright spot in my life. I mean, I don't love it or anything. It pays the bills, so... that should count towards something, I suppose. I'm a tour guide. All I have to do is recite lines and facts about the items on display.
Tuddleston House Museum stands as a curiosity. Sure, we have the normal works of art and priceless antiquities you can find in any museum this size. However, we also specialize in the strange. This place displays things the Smithsonian wouldn't dare. Imagine Ripley's Believe It or Not contained within the poshness of a Victorian mansion.
Shrunken human heads in jars of formaldehyde? Check.
A mummified "mermaid"? Check.
A suit of armor made entirely of silver for an Asian elephant? You better believe we have it.
Being a tour guide requires two things: a good memory, and the ability to bite your tongue. Visitors can range from polite to ridiculously rude. It's my job to treat all of them like guests of honor - even if they deserve a good kick to the rear.
My shift goes relatively smooth until the last tour group of the day.
"Oi!" The man whistles, summoning me like a dog. He points at the display in front of him. "Miss, you said this is supposed to be a cave lion. Why ain't it breathin'?"
I clench my jaw but continue to smile. If he had been listening instead of yapping to his wife, he would have heard me explain this already.
"It's not breathing because this is only a life-like replica of an extinct animal, sir. Cave lions died out thousands of years ago."
The man sneers at the woman next to him. "You hear that? This lion's a fake!"
The wife fires up her one brain cell and reacts accordingly. "How terrible. It should be against the law to trick payin' visitors!"
Very unkind words pass through my thoughts. Once I've let off some steam, I feel fairly certain I can speak to them without getting fired.
"I'm sorry about the misunderstanding," I begin diplomatically, "but I can assure you we don't trick anyone here. There are signs everywhere explaining in detail what you are seeing. This says the display was constructed by a well-known scientist. He created this in order to give the public a good idea of what cave lions once looked like."
"Yeah?" The man cocks an eyebrow. "But how come that scientist fella didn't put any mane on the lion's head? Ain't no male lion if it doesn't have some mane."
I recall the script I was taught and repeat it verbatim. "Sir, the replica lacks mane because scientists currently believe Eurasian cave lions had little to none at all. These animals are very different from the lions living in Africa today."
"Oh," is the man's brilliant retort.
"Dad!" A boy of around ten rushes up to the man and yanks on his shirt. "You gotta see this!"
Apparently, this couple procreated.
Poor kid. I'd put myself up for adoption if I was in his shoes.
The boy drags his father over to a case filled with artifacts. He presses his nose against the glass. "Look, arrowheads! And it says they were found right on this property."
"Well, ain't that something. Wonder how old they are?" The man squints. "Hmm. The tag says Devensian. What in the devil does that mean?"
I tap the sign attached to the glass case. "Devensian is the term scientists use when referring to Britain's last ice age."
The boy snaps to attention. "Ice age? Does that mean cavemen made all this?"
His interest in the subject is understandable. After all, his parents are indisputable proof that Neanderthals still live among us.
I shrug. "I guess so."
This period of history bores me. I honestly don't get the hype. Our prehistoric ancestors basically lived like dumb animals. Their houses were damp caves, and all they did was grunt at one another. And what did they do to better their lives? Virtually nothing for thousands of years. Who cares about them? I certainly don't... but since I'm in charge of this tour, I have to at least act like I do.
The tour group studies the life-sized chart of the stages of man's evolution, from ape-like to modern. Then they marvel at the skull of a half a million-year-old Homo heidelbergensis, its brow ridge hung low on the forehead.
Following the fossil is a gray pendant-sized figure, identified as a Stone Age fertility goddess. We have an inside joke about this statuette around here. Behind closed doors, we call it caveman porn. The figure isn't well designed artistically speaking. Each visitor glances only briefly at the thick thighs, heavy breasts, and featureless face. There are no eyes, mouth, or even hair. Whoever made it must have been unskilled and truly incompetent.
Moving elsewhere, we pass into the Medieval room. As soon as the boy I spoke with earlier spots the weapons and armor, he goes bananas. He's running all over the place and touching everything in sight. His parents do nothing to calm him down. When I tell the kid to please stop banging on one particularly valuable suit of armor, he sticks out his tongue before running to hide behind his father.
I'm beginning to really hate this snot-nosed brat and his knuckle-dragging parents. I can't wait until I can push them out the museum door.
The East Wing is next on the agenda. The first room we enter appears to be an ordinary library frozen in time. Vintage books line the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Furniture made during the reign of Queen Victoria are placed tastefully around the room. But here and there are things which seem oddly out of character for such a luxurious space. There's a chalkboard with handwritten math equations scribbled all over it. Workbenches are cluttered with old tools and weird contraptions.
Basically, it's Downton Abbey meets Edison's Laboratory.
"As you may already be aware," I say in a raised voice, "Tuddleston House was once the home of Alistair Tuddleston. A hundred years ago he was considered one of the most brilliant scholars in the United Kingdom. He was a master in mathematics, astronomy, linguistics, and engineering."
A young woman raises her hand to speak. "Excuse me, but is that him?"
"Yes, it is."
Everyone turns to study the painting hanging over the fireplace. The gentleman portrayed is dressed in a style of tweed suit popular during the Roaring Twenties. However, instead of resembling the Great Gatsby, this guy is more on par with Mr. Bean. His nose comes to a sharp point. Round eyeglasses give his face an owlish appearance. If he were still alive, without a doubt he'd be called a dork.
Though, let's be honest here. He was probably considered a dork back in his day, too.
I have the feeling he was the sort of person who could be three feet away and you'd still overlook him. But there's something about this portrait that always makes me do a double take. There's the barest hint of a smile on Alistair's face. It gives him an air of playful mischievousness.
I snap out of my thoughts and resume my tour guide duties. As I walk, my foot catches the edge of the oriental rug. I manage not to fall, thank goodness, but my stumbling sent a couple of teen girls into a fit of muffled giggles. The incident comes as no surprise. My dad once said I was born with two left feet, and he was right. Strangely, my balance issues seem to worsen whenever I walk over this particular rug. Can inanimate objects hate you? I'm beginning to suspect it's possible.
With as much dignity as I can muster, I position myself next to one of the workbenches and say my lines.
"The Tuddlestons were among the top families in England for hundreds of years. They were famous for their extraordinary wealth and lavish parties. Things changed once Alistair inherited the estate. He didn't care to associate much with high society. He preferred traveling the globe and collecting curiosities. Most of what you have seen today were items Alistair brought back from his travels.
"Some of his money was also used to fund his love of inventing. His dream was to create a device which would make the average person's life better." I wave a hand at the collection of weird objects laying around. "Unfortunately, his inventions were either laughed at or ignored completely. Things like the Automatic Mustache Washer and the umbrella that keeps your hat dry were left to rust on these work benches. It was a great disappointment to him.
"Then, tragedy struck in the spring of 1922. Alistair went north to spend the warmer months of the year at his holiday home in the Lake District. Two months into his stay, his housekeeper reported seeing him leave for his morning walk. It was the last time he was ever seen alive. A nationwide search was made, yet there was no sign of him. It wasn't until years later that human bones were found in a ravine near one of his favorite walking trails. It's believed he accidentally fell in and succumbed to his injuries.
"On a positive note, Alistair did contribute something toward the betterment of society. He left instructions in his will for this house to be turned into a museum. His favorite room - the library - was kept exactly as he left it. Thus, Tuddleston House Museum was born."
The visitors are quiet for a short time. Alistair's sad end seems to always elicit this reaction.
"What's that?" someone enquires.
The chair in question isn't the type you would see normally inside a mansion. It's plain and wooden, a sturdy style typical for an old farmhouse from the early twentieth century. What makes this special is the many switches and dials built into both armrests.
"No one knows its exact purpose," I answer. "Some have theorized Alistair was working on a massage chair prototype. Others believe he was trying to invent a more humane electric chair."
"What do you think it was going to be?"
"I have no idea." I smile legitimately this time. "But Alistair doesn't seem to have been the type of guy who would create something for public executions. So if I had to choose, I'd put my money on this being the predecessor to the modern massage chair."
The tour group focuses next on another unfinished invention: a pair of shoes that were meant to float on water. As I'm reciting how Alistair nearly drowned while testing them on the Thames, I hear a distinct thudding coming from behind me. I almost have a heart attack when I look.
That brat is sitting on Alistair's invention!
The boy's swinging legs are kicking the underside of the chair, creating all sorts of racket. He's also messing with the numerous switches and knobs on the armrests. If the little shit breaks something, my boss will be sure to blame me since "I'm responsible for the visitors" while I'm on duty.
I grab the kid by the elbow, pulling him from the seat. His mother decides it's time to do something besides just standing there.
"What's going on?" she asks accusingly, as though her precious child isn't the devil himself.
"Your son was sitting in this chair and being rough with it," I seethe.
"Hmph! If a piece of furniture is so fragile that a child can't sit in it, there outta be a sign sayin' as much."
I stab a finger toward the notice displayed which states visitors are not to touch anything. All Karen does is mutter to her little angel that if she had known this museum was so fussy, she would never have agreed to come today.
The evil eye I give her must do some good, at least. She and her Neanderthal husband keep their son within arm's reach for the remainder of the tour.
I'm a happy camper when the last visitor finally leaves the museum. My day is done. Time to clock out!
"Have a lovely holiday, Bella," says Shelly, the receptionist, as she's leaving for home.
"I will. See you in two weeks!"
My mind wanders as I head to the back of the building to retrieve my purse. I wonder what I should do now that I have so much free time available? Maybe I can still salvage my holiday. Brighton isn't too far away from London. It's not Florida, but I hear it does have a beach...
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I get excited, thinking it's Mom telling me she's changed her mind about Bermuda and wants me to come visit after all. Hope dies when I see it's actually Mr. Eleazar calling. He's the museum director. He's also a pompous windbag. A majority of his work days are spent shut inside his office, sipping scotch and moaning to his subordinates about the difficulties of running a museum.
"Hello?"
"Bella, you haven't left the museum yet, have you?" he asks.
"I was on my way out, but-"
"That's good to hear. You see, Robert called in sick just now. Caught a twenty-four hour bug or some such. He won't be able to make it to work this evening."
Robert is the museum caretaker, aka the janitor. He does the night shift, and he isn't coming in.
I don't like the direction this conversation seems to be heading.
"Oh, that is a shame," I reply warily.
"Quite. So, I'm sure you understand how badly we need you to fill in."
I make a face. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm qualified to take over Robert's job."
"Nonsense! It's not rocket science. All we ask is that you tidy up the place. It's a small task. You should be done within an hour at most."
I roll my eyes at his cluelessness. Sure. I can do in one hour what it takes Robert all night. Easy peasy.
"Mr. Eleazar, I'm off the schedule for the next two weeks," I hint.
"If I recall correctly, your holiday doesn't begin officially until tomorrow."
"True, but I had plans tonight. I can't just break them."
Yeah. I was planning on going to the pub down the street from my flat and getting drunk with my friends.
Ok. Not "friends" exactly. It's more like they're some people who frequent that particular pub who also don't care if I hang around them or not.
Mr. Eleazar has yet to respond. The longer his silence stretches, the more nervous I become.
"Miss Swan," he says in a clipped tone, "this is not up for negotiation. I'll make this simple for you to understand: Either you step up and do what is required, or we will hire another person who will gladly do whatever it takes to keep the museum a safe and clean environment. Which is it going to be?"
I scream a string of profanities inside my head. This day just keeps getting shittier and shittier! I want so badly to tell my boss he'd better get his lazy ass down here and mop this place himself. But I don't. This stupid job keeps a roof over my head.
I guess it's time to bend over and kiss some ass.
"Of course I'll do the job," I answer in monotone. "It's no problem at all."
"Excellent. I'm glad we're on the same page again. Make sure you empty the waste basket in the office. Oh! And remember to lock the doors before you leave."
The call ends abruptly. I glare at my phone. While I'm stuck doing menial labor on a Friday night, my boss is probably getting ready to go to the opera or some shit.
Gee, I hope Mr. Asshole has oodles of fucking fun.
Before I get started on the drudgery, I set a new alarm. My phone will go off in exactly two hours. If I'm not finished by then - well - tough. I'm leaving anyway and going home.
I'm the last employee in the building. It's pin-drop quiet. My echoing footsteps are all that can be heard. I do a quick sweeping of the lobby. Some of the glass displays have finger smudges, forcing me to wipe them away. Basically, I do the lightest of cleanings.
The library requires more TLC than the other rooms. Since it's so important historically, I'm willing to do a bit of extra work. I climb up on the step ladder to dust the bookshelves.
Naturally, the library floor needs a good cleaning now. I'm on my way to get the vacuum when I notice a soft buzzing sound, like that of a bee in a garden. I walk around slowly in hopes of locating the source. When I pass by Alistair's unfinished invention - the massage chair - the sound is at its loudest.
Weird.
I move closer. Yet before I can launch a true investigation, I get distracted by something potentially disastrous.
That stupid brat from earlier left a glob of chewing gum on the back of the chair!
The emergency sends me straight into panic mode. I run around collecting supplies. I have to fix this before someone sees it - otherwise I might get fired!
Armed with a Kleenex, I lean over the chair. The position is not helpful in removing the gum. An idea pops into my head. I put both knees on the seat and get to work. This is much easier on the back and neck.
I pick at the gum, grimacing all the while. What a stringy, disgusting mess. The little shit who did this was nothing but trouble. He makes me glad I'm on birth control. It's going to be a long, long time before I even consider becoming a parent if all kids are like him.
After much effort, a tiny wet mark is all that remains on the wood. I take a rag and dab the spot dry. Looks like there's no lasting damage to the chair.
Finally - something good to report. But my arm aches from all that scrubbing. It falls to my side as I take a breather.
This simple act triggers a domino effect.
My elbow accidentally bumps into one of the switches built into the armrest. The click it makes is oddly unsettling. In the bat of an eye, the gentle buzzing noise the chair has been making changes to harsh zapping. The unmistakable scent of ozone suddenly permeates the room. Bright flashes come next. The very air seems to spark, like lightning during a thunderstorm.
Alistair's library joins the confusion. No longer is it a static, unmoving room. Walls, ceiling, and floor undulate in tidal wave chaos. Dizziness slams into me. There's no choice but to sit and wait for this to end on its own.
I manage to form one coherent thought before everything goes black.
Uh-oh. This must not be just a massage chair after all.
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A/N-
Bella's craptastic day isn't over yet. You'll never guess what's going to happen next. Well, unless you've read the summary. Then you might have a good idea what's to come.
Reviews are like the sun peeking through the clouds after enduring a long, ice age winter. They warm my heart.
Thanks for reading. :-)