The Guilt of Howard Shanks

I don't know how it happened. It started like any other Friday night. I found myself once again staring at the red dice in my hand. I call the bartender to light me up as I pull out a cigarette. I twitch as the dice roll out of my hand. After a good few rounds, my luck finally runs out as the dice begin to stop. A 6 and a 1. Dang, there goes all my money. Only this time I couldn't afford to lose. I curse under my breath until I hear someone shout "I won" from across the bar. I look up and see his face. He had the clothes of a rich man. I follow him out of the casino appearing as indistinguishable as possible, lagging for a little bit till he turns into an empty alley. I call out and ask him for a cigarette. He reaches down and that's when I shot. Everything freezes as I watch him fall backward. I quickly come to my senses and search his pockets for the check he had just won. I find it stashed within a small black notebook with the initials "H.S." I decided to take the notebook along with the check to make sure there was no evidence. I run back to my apartment fleeing the murder I had just committed. I decide to wait a few days to cash the check-in to make sure no one would trace it back to me. I threw the notebook on my desk and look at the amount of cash written on the check. 20,000$! That's more than enough to pay off my debts, along with rent for a few months! But then it set on me like a paperweight, I just killed a man. I have a drink to ease the guilt and try to sleep it off

I wake up to begin getting ready for work. I try to laugh off the irony of the lead detective killing a man, but the sadness overtakes me. I decide to have another drink to prevent any anxiety of my coworkers finding out. I walk into the police department, already abuzz with what I had done last night. My office is surrounded by news reporters asking if I had any leads on the case. I explain with my lies, "There was no evidence left at the scene of the crime, it was most likely just a hit and run. There's nothing else we can do. The case is closed." I shut them out of my office, close the blinds, and make sure the door was locked. As I eased into my seat I could've sworn I saw the black notebook sitting on my desk. I blink a few times to make sure it was just in my head. I pull out a bottle of whisky and pour another glass to calm my nerves. After filling out some paperwork declaring the case to be closed, I head over to the bank with the check-in hand. I knew that after I declared the case closed, no one would be able to think of me as a suspect. After cashing the check I head where I turn to the only thing that's keeping me sane. The whisky numbs me as I read the paper. "Breaking News: Local detective declares casino case closed. Owner of the in-town nightclub Hank Stewart was found bleeding in an alleyway yesterday evening and later pronounced dead that same night. Authorities say tha..." I couldn't read any more of the dreaded report. I rip it out, preparing to throw it across the room. That's when I see it. That dreaded notebook again, almost as if it was staring right back at me. Its initials stuck in my head like a catchy tune.

It's Monday. I hate Monday. I stumble into the Police department once again before anyone else. I fumble around for a bit making my way to the bathroom. I wash my face, and as I open my eyes back up I see the initials that haunt me, along with the book. I quickly turn around only for it to vanish once again from my sight. I rush out of the bathroom with only what thought, What is happening to me? I run into my office and lock the door once again. I lay on the floor in fear of where I'll see that horrid book next. I crawl over to my cabinet and drink straight from the bottle, needing it to numb me quickly. I pass out on the floor, only to come to my senses later that night. I have a terrible headache. I slowly try to walk home when I see the bar. I sit down at the stool when the bartender asks me what I like to drink. I ask for a hard whisky on the rocks and to keep them coming. The next thing I know it's Wednesday and I woke up without my shirt on. I look around and see that I'm in that same alley next to the bloodstained ground. I see that same book staring at me, its initials like salt in a wound. I got up and ran. I didn't know where I was going, I just had to get away. I finally found my way home, only thinking of the alcohol that awaited me. I picked up the drink and scarf down the whole bottle, and that's when I see it. That stupid book, THAT STUPID BOOK! But this time something was different, it wasn't the same. Yet it was. It looked worn out and torn, some pages ripped out and scattered on the table. Each page had the initials H.S. written on them. That's when the world went dark once again.

And now we are finally back at the beginning. I don't know how it happened. It's been a week since the death of that man. Only one page was left. I stumbled and yelled at the book, now facing me like a lion facing its prey. I can no longer escape it. It haunts me day and night. I threw the empty bottle at it, only to shatter on the book. I fall to my knees and yell, "WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME!" I reach out and grab it, not caring about the glass stabbing into my hand. I open it to the last page and read The Guilt of H.S. I gaze at my reflection in the window and see a disheveled man, once a great detective, but now broken, and now know how to escape. It is the only way to escape the small black notebook's grasp.

News now: Whatever happened to Detective Shanks? November 21, 1952, the body of Detective H. Shanks was found outside his apartment. He seemed to have jumped out of the window and was discovered later that night after a woman heard a crash. Lying beside him was a small black notebook with the initials H.S. On the last page it read, I did it. I'm sorry. The cash was later found in his room and authorities were able to link the casino killing back to him. The End.