One

Aida sat in the darkened, musty stacks, nose pressed into a large leather tome, as she was wont to do. It was evening—the most enchanting portion of the day, in her opinion. To her, evening seemed a time of endless possibilities; it felt transcendent, as if the gaps between worlds thinned and became permeable and she could float, unperturbed, in the in-between.

An orange light streamed lazily in through the third floor of the library's oval windows, accentuating the microscopic particles of dust that shimmered in and out of existence as they floated carelessly through the atmosphere. She sighed, broken from her reverie, and removed her tortoise shell glasses. She stood from the wooden flooring and respectfully reshelved The Complete Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. She had been perusing The Sign of the Four for the fifth time that week.

It was hardly the sensational literature that circulated most often amongst the university's bumbling, giggling sorority girls, nor was it quite so serious as a Darwinian ode upon The Origin of Species to which the Biology students seemed instinctively drawn—but the escapades of Holmes and Watson were a sort of home-away-from-home for her. She had loved them all through childhood and had taken to sharpening her own powers of observation, using a mental representation of Holmes as an amusing makeshift mentor and guide.

Aida privately thought she affected a Sherlockian-sort of appearance herself; she was exceedingly thin, giving her features a very pointed sort of edge. Her high cheekbones were complimented by a set of full lips, though her grey eyes were too close together and her nose was less than ideal, being sharp and distinctive itself. She had thick arches and a set of dark, curled eyelashes that quite offset her almost white-blonde hair, which she had cropped into a pixie cut for ease of style and convenience. This need for convenience extended to her wardrobe, and she had adopted a uniform of skinny jeans, tall riding boots, and cardigan sweaters.

Her admiration for Holmes affected much more than her appearance; her love for learning had drawn her to her occupation—librarian and perpetual student. At twenty-four years of age, she had assumed control of the university's academic library as head of the Reference Department—a difficult feat, to be sure, though she was quite proud of what she had accomplished in her comparatively short life. She viewed her occupation as a sort of perpetually unsolved mystery, constantly hunting down information, traversing the boundaries of time and space to retrieve facts and opinions and editorials and beautiful prose and poetry. It was a new hunt every day—one could never be sure what questions would be asked, and she was as bloodthirsty as the hound of the Baskervilles where finding answers was concerned.

She continued around the enormous circular room, straightening up books and clucking her tongue in disapproval when she discovered one misplaced or upside down. Aida did this waltz around the stacks seven times a week, every evening, and she rarely went home before the Sun had said its last farewells and had left the Moon in charge. After all, she lived alone, keeping company with only Willoughby the cat and a somewhat amusing collection of salt and peppershakers from every corner of the globe, which her great aunt had bequeathed to her upon her deathbed. Generally the only people she saw were her colleagues and the students and faculty of the university, and that was quite enough social interaction for her, thank you very much.

Taking one last glance around and feeling quite satisfied that the natural order of things had been restored, Aida hitched the rope across the entrance of the third floor stairwell and walked the short distance over to the library's elevator. She always took the elevator down in the evenings because she, being more inclined to bookishness than gracefulness, had the awful premonition that she would break her neck some night by taking a tumble down the dimly lit staircase.

The elevator gave a cheerful ding! as it arrived upon the third floor and Aida shuffled inside with her enormous handbag (she was wont to carry around loads of books) and the umbrella she had brought to work (the forecast had called for rain, and one would rather be safe than sorry), her mind fixated on what she should have for dinner and whether or not Willoughby had been wrecking havoc on the apartment while she had been away (he had the most annoying habit of unrolling rolls of toilet paper). She pressed the button for the first floor and began to bounce slightly on her toes, impatient to leave the cold lift and be on her way when suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights began a peculiar flickering.

Aida's breath hitched in her throat as the lights gave a final flash, and with a sad-sounding buzz flickered out completely. Left in the darkness, Aida forced herself to exhale slowly and repeated a mantra of Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic. inside her head. She sat down her bag and umbrella and began to fumble for the emergency button. She contemplated yelling for help, but decided against it when she realized that the rest of the staff had gone home, as it was a Saturday night and nobody aside from herself worked such long hours.

She began to hear a metallic groaning in the darkness of the lift. It sounded as though metal were scraping metal and twisting in upon itself. It came on slowly, as if it were sneaking towards her in the gloom. Louder, louder, louder it became, until suddenly Aida felt the floor fall out from beneath her feet and she gave a high-pitched yelp of fright, her hands flying out from her sides in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something, anything, though her fingertips met only the cold steel walls of the lift.

The cable of the elevator had snapped and it was plummeting towards the lowest surface possible, down, down, down to the third floor of the Library basement. Aida fell quickly to her knees, trying hard to brace herself for the inevitable impact.

But it never came.

She estimated that the plummet had been enough to send her straight to the third floor basement, but she had the curious sensation that she was hovering, suspended somehow between the noise and violence. Slowly a dim and hazy light began to peek into the elevator; the doors were… opening.

No, the doors were not opening; they were being pried open by some terrible force. A high-pitched wheezing scream met her ears and her heart and her stomach switched locations. Aida became lightheaded and nervous and she groped anxiously for her umbrella, having the sudden idea to brandish it as a sort of makeshift spear.

Great, long, bony fingers had snaked their way between the solid steel doors and Aida fought between the urge to prepare herself for battle against some underwordly creature and to shut her eyes tight and try to enjoy her last moments locked in the safety of her own mind. The gears of the metal doors made a stressful grinding noise as they were pried further open, and she could smell her own fear and a stench that emanated from the foul dead hands as the doors gave up their struggle and opened. She heard another piercing scream. She felt her breath ripped from her lungs and an icy wind whip through her clothes; there came the sensation that her clothes were soaked through with water and had been for hours and hours.

Biting her lip hard, Aida forced herself to open her eyes. She let out a shaky breath and collapsed to her knees.

There was no creature.

But there was a distinct change of scenery; gone was the steel sanctuary of the elevator.

She stood, still feeling utterly bewildered, and further took in her surroundings. The pitch-blackness of the elevator had been replaced by the expansiveness of the night's sky and, rather than sturdy industrial flooring, her feet were planted on slick cobblestone. Curiously, her bag was still beside her. She picked it up and shouldered it, muttering a small "oof" underneath its weight. She turned her face upward, mouth agape with confusion, and felt the pitter-patter of rain against her pale skin.

"W-what… what is going on?" she stammered.

In front of her was a dark and expansive wood, complete with a quite capsizable-looking ferry. Aida's eyes wandered back and forth across the scene, drinking in what might otherwise be a rather picturesque backdrop if it were not for the relentless downpour of rain.

"Oi! Miss!"

Aida jumped straight out of her skin and whirled around, brandishing her umbrella, her eyes as wide as the moon.