My Curious Regret

There I sat behind the dusty counter with my sketch pad in front of me and pencil in hand, thinking of what to draw next. I have always loved art and for as long as I can remember, I have had dreams of becoming a famous artist. When business is slow, which is often, I sketch. Sure, I could be working, straitening up or cleaning the dusty old antiques, but I would rather do something I enjoy, something that takes my mind off this old, smelly place. “See you tomorrow, Adam!” my manager yelled with enthusiasm as I unchained my bike from the bike rack. At least it was not his usual corny joke about insurance or me going too fast. My apartment is about 3 blocks from the shop, so it works out perfectly.

As I walk into my apartment building, all I can think about is eating my left-over Chinese food and relaxing. My day was not physically exhausting, but mentally. I just need a break, just one person to see the potential in my art. If that were to happen, that could be my ticket out this small hopeless town. “How are you, Adam?” my neighbor, Margret, softly says as she is coming down the hall. “I’m doing great, thank you!” I smiled and moved slightly to the side, giving her room to get by in her wheelchair. Margret has lived here for more than 30 years alone. She often knocks on my door needing help with various things. I do not mind helping her out, plus, aside from working, I have nothing else to do. My one and only friend has started a family of his own, so I do not see much of him anymore. I mean we are getting to the age where we should be starting a family, starting a career, you know the usual.

As I fumble for the key to unlock my door, I notice a little black book to the right-hand side of my door. I did not think much of it because so many people are in this apartment building, someone probably accidently dropped it and would come back looking for it. There was something about the book that was intriguing. At first it looked innocent, like someone just dropped it there by accident. But the more I thought about it, it was almost obvious and intentional. “You’re exhausted, go to bed.” I mumbled to myself after finishing my late-night meal. Forgetting about the black book, I dreadfully crawl into bed knowing that no sooner than I close my eyes, I will hear the loud alarm and the bright sun peering through the blinds. “You dropped something!” As I looked down, I noticed the black book still there. “Oh, thank you!” I said picking the book up. I had not dropped it; it was not mine and I had no idea where it came from. Maybe I was not just exhausted, maybe the book was put there for me to find.

Today was busier than usual. “Just my luck,” I mumbled to myself after getting a history lesson from a customer who bought an antique picture. I could not stop staring at my backpack. I was curious as to what was in the book if anything. Finally, the store was empty. I rushed to the old antique dining set, sit down and opened my backpack. The first page of the book is blank, and the book is not addressed to anyone. “Why am I so excited about this stupid book?” I mumbled to myself. It was almost funny. Is my life that boring, that something so simple would excite me? I gave the pages one last flip before I got rid of it. To my surprise, there was writing towards the end of the book. It was extremely hard to read, almost like a Doctors handwriting on a prescription. It looked rushed but purposeful. It was a check list, steps for someone to take. I whispered as I read, “If all steps in this book are completed, you win the game. The steps must be followed in order and you cannot tell a single soul. I will know when these steps are complete, and I will know if you’ve told anyone.” Is this a joke? Should I even continue reading? Curiosity got the best of me, and I very quickly continued reading. I mean, win the game? What happens if I win? I could use a little excitement. As I continued reading, I couldn’t help but think that the steps seemed, simple. Why couldn’t someone just complete these things themselves. Step number one is to go to the local park by the library, find the little camo bag under the oak tree, and feel inside the bag to make sure there was a block of wood inside. If so, I am to take the bag with me. “A piece of wood? I’m supposed to feel inside the bag for a piece of wood?” I giggled to myself at the stupidity and simplicity of the request. The next step was to ride down Cassel Way road and look for the red mailbox with the numbers 88. I was then to leave the bag inside the mailbox. This had to be done at night. After that, I was to walk up to the door, and pick up the envelope that was left under the door mat. I closed the book and thought about everything I had just read. This seems like a stupid joke, like ill complete these tasks for nothing. Maybe someone dropped this book just to see if anyone was bored enough to do it, and here I am contemplating whether I should do it or just forget about it. It’s not like I have anything better to do, and I’m down to win a prize. “I’m doing it!” I quietly said as I made my way to the counter.

After work, I grabbed a bite to eat at a local café then headed to the park to by the library. Our town is so small, I knew exactly what park the book was referring to. I made my way down to the oak tree and sure enough, there was a camo bag under the tree. I looked around to possibly catch a glimpse of who put the bag there. No one was around, in fact, there was no one at all at the park. It felt, strange. I picked up the bag and it was, heavy. I hesitantly put my hand in the bag and felt a hard block. I threw the bag in my backpack and headed to the address in the book. It is almost completely dark by the time I get to Cassel Way street. This is the nice neighborhood, the nicest in town. Big, beautiful homes and nice cars. The kind of houses that make you wonder what they do for a living. At the end of the road, under a streetlight, I see the red mailbox with the number 88 on it. I feel so out of place here, like someone will see me and automatically assume I have no business here. To be honest, this is kind of exciting. Way more exciting than sitting at home watching the same shows over and over. I reach into my backpack and pull out the small camo bag, I put it in the mailbox and head to the front door. The front porch light is the only light on and no cars in the driveway. I quickly raise the rug to find heavy envelope. As I opened it, I noticed there was a cell phone inside, no letter just a cell phone. I quickly put the phone in my backpack and rushed home. On the long dark bike road home all I could think about was the cellphone. This is starting to feel strange, and more complex than just a game.

A week goes by, and nothing. The phone never rings, there is no text, just nothing. I knew it. I felt like maybe I was right, this was just someone messing with whoever found the stupid book. It makes me realize just how boring my life really is and how I almost feel like someone took advantage of that. Probably laughing at the thought of someone doing it. I angrily grabbed the book and chunked it into the dumpster at work. I arrive home later that evening with every intention on discarding the cell phone, and then, it rings. I’m apprehensive about answering this unknown number. This doesn’t feel like a innocent game or joke anymore. It feels a little more sinister. I press the green button on the phone and quickly put it on speaker phone. “Hello?” I said in a curious voice. Nothing. I waited and finally said, “I completed everything.” No sooner than I got those words out of my mouth the phone disconnected. “Strange.” I said to myself as I laid the phone back on the dresser.

A few days go by and I try to forget about the whole thing. What can I say? I fell for it. As uninteresting as my life is, it is no surprise I would agree. On my usual bike ride home, I noticed a black car following me. Taking every turn, I made. “Maybe they live around here or you’re just being paranoid.” I reassuringly said to myself trying to ease my anxiety. I arrive home and as soon as my door closes, there is a knock. “Who is it?” I hear nothing. As I open the door, I notice a bag on the ground, slightly open with what looked like money inside. I look down the dark hallway and no one is there. I begin counting the money and looking for any kind of note. “There is $20,000 in this bag!” I screamed. Was this my prize? Why would someone pay me so much for something so simple? Hours go by and I cannot sleep, I have so many emotions about this money. Excitement, curiosity, and fear. I have never seen this much money in my entire life!

I arrive at work the next day and notice we have a customer bright and early. A older man steps out of the vehicle, “Are you Adam?” How did he know my name? Was this the person who set the game up? The person who left the money at my apartment? “Yes, I’m Adam!” Before I could ask who he was he said, “I’m Officer William, with the Helen County Police Department and you’re under arrest for the murder of Elizabeth Crowley.” He proceeded to very aggressively put my hands behind my back and handcuff me. “I don’t even know who that is!” He says nothing. Throws me in the back of the car after reading me my rights. “This can’t be happening!” I yelled in the back of the cop car. I get to the police station and they take me to the interrogation room. They have pictures of me at the victims home caught by security camera, fingerprints on the wooden handled kitchen knife, the money and the cellphone that was took from her home. I tried to proclaim my innocence, but all evidence pointed directly at me. The black book was never found, I don’t even think they looked. Her husband was away on a business trip and was the one to call police upon arriving at home. Her husband must have done this! He set me up! Someone set me up! No one was listening. The officer tried to make me admit it. “You’re a young guy in a small town, not very much money.” He looked at me like he has everything figured out. “I didn’t do anything!” I screamed trying to make someone, anyone believe me. He reassures me that they have all the evidence they need. You believe me, don’t you?