The Last Victim of the Black Notebook

I, Timothy Wright, found a magic notebook. I know what you must be thinking: this guy is certifiable. I’d have to question your credibility if you weren’t, but I can assure you that I am not crazy. While it is true that I am currently seeking treatment from Dr. Gregory Burton at the Wells and Associates Psychiatric Facility, I can assure you that I have never been in a sounder state of mine. I would also like to have noted that the only reason I’m getting help is because of a small and incredibly unfortunate misunderstanding with my previous employer. But I’m getting ahead of myself here; that’s another story for another time.

It was Dr. Burton’s recommendation that I start journaling. I was hesitant at first, having always hated writing, especially when the subject was me, but he said the exercise would help to illuminate how my thinking can be “detrimental” to my mental health. Apparently, I have trouble discerning fact from fiction, negative thoughts consume my thinking, yadda yadda yadda. As I left his office that day I started to compile a list of lies I could write, preferably ones that would get me discharged sooner, and decided to pop into a used bookstore near my apartment. Whatever crazy he dealt with before me often kept him running late and I needed something to help bide my time. Scanning the aisles, I found a small nondescript notebook hidden on the lowest shelf in the furthest corner of the store. Underneath a thin layer of dust was worn black leather with sunbaked pages. I cracked open the cover and saw that the first few pages had been torn out. Maybe that was what drew me in, the mystery behind the missing pages of the abandoned book, but I knew I had to have it. The cashier’s brow furrowed as I plopped it onto her counter and after several minutes of searching for a tag, she simply shrugged and let me have it. Free of charge!

Imagine not paying a single cent for something that could completely change your life. Call it what you like – luck, fate, divine intervention – I know I was supposed to find that book. Even though I was completely oblivious to the powers it held, I was eager to get something on its pages. I started with whatever thought came into my head and didn’t stop until my hand screamed in pain, my stream of consciousness exploding onto the page. It would be too generous to call the little phrases and fragments I scribbled sentences, and they were written so sloppily that even I couldn’t discern what was written except for one line about how desperately I wished I could meet a girl.

Another one of my alleged issues is how I always perceive myself to be alone. It’s hard to not feel that way, however, when it’s true. I have no friends, no girlfriend, no family, no pets, no neighbors, not even a lowly houseplant. I’ve tried explaining this to Dr. Burton, but he remains unfazed. 

My journey to find a companion had been raging for several years with no luck until, not even 48 hours after writing that, did it finally happen. I’d been on a midnight stroll around my neighborhood when I spotted her a mere two blocks away from me. The streetlight bathed her in a yellow warmth and her beauty took my breath away. I knew I had to introduce myself. I began following her, hoping for an opportunity to show off my chivalrous nature by opening a door for her or saving her from an armed robber, but she wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, she hustled along faster, her hair bobbing from side to side, appearing lost as she looked over her shoulder. I finally caught her at a stoplight and offered a sheepish hello. She was instantly smitten with me and fiddled nervously with her keys. Overcome with shyness, her voice shook as she told me her name. Jane. The more we talked, the more we realized how alike we were. We both loved writing poetry, tending to our succulents, and we even got our dogs from the same breeder. You simply can’t force that kind of connection.

I didn’t put two and two together at first, thinking that the universe had finally cut me the slack I so rightly deserved. I wrote in the notebook again that night, detailing everything I could remember: the way her hair smelled like strawberries, how the very top of her head just barely met my shoulder, and the way she rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet the entire time we talked. Ecstatic at the idea of this new romance, my world came crashing back down as I realized I had never asked for her number. A wave of profound sadness swept over me. Devastated, I managed to write one last quip about needing a second chance to run into her before my emotions got the best of me.

The next thing I can remember was walking to another appointment with Dr. Burton. I like to grab a cup of coffee before our appointments and enjoy it on a bus bench, but that morning I had been running late and decided to skip the cup of joe. I had to double back, however, as my bench had a new advertisement for a local realtor. My apartment was barely bigger than the size of my body and reeked of cigarette smoke, but I wasn’t looking to find a new place. No, what stopped me wasn’t the 100% satisfaction guarantee, but the smiling agent whose blue eyes stared into mine. Jane’s eyes. After getting over the initial betrayal of realizing Jane had kept a secret from me, I scanned the bench for contact information and found not only a phone number but her work email too! I snapped a picture with my phone and ran along to my appointment. 

Sharing my entries with Dr. Burton is when I started to recognize the pattern. Never in my life had I been more fortunate than in those past few days, and it was foolish of me to chalk it up to coincidence. I was half-tempted to share my thoughts with Dr. Burton, who had been droning on about something Freudian sounding, but knew he wouldn’t understand. Even now, I’m hesitant to explain the powers of the notebook so explicitly for fear of turning you away from me, but my evidence does not end with Jane.

I began experimenting. Small at first, I wrote casually about my never-ending sweet tooth or how my neighbors were obnoxiously loud. Then an eviction notice was posted on their door and I found a chocolate bar between my couch cushions. I tested how specific I could be, writing about a denim jacket with a rhinestone tiger on the back I had seen in a dream. Meandering into my favorite thrift store the next day, there the jacket was. I even tested to see if I could influence other people, writing about how unfair it was that my old boss could bar me from any new job prospects with one measly reference check. I had been searching for a job for months, unable to get a call back once they contacted him. But the call I had been praying for came days later: an office job I had applied for wasn’t able to get in touch with him and they decided to hire me without testimony on how well I worked with others. The leather-bound beauty struck again! 

For once, I felt like I was in complete control of my life. Forgetting all about the breathing exercises and grounding techniques Dr. Burton tried to instill in me, I put all of my energy into the notebook. If I had skipped one meditation a month prior, I would have spiraled into another dark episode, but the scales of the universe were finally tipped in my favor. Jane began calling me back, taking me all around the city on tours of the finest for-rent properties, my new job was going well, and I had even been invited to grab a drink with my best friend, Jonathon Deaux, whom I hadn’t seen for months. 

The bar we met at was incredibly sketchy, the whole place crawling with delinquents. I’ve got a bit of a history of not handling my alcohol well, but I was too anxious to stay sober surrounded by these kinds of characters. After we threw a couple of drinks back, Jon started telling me about the troubles his fiancé and he had been going through. They wanted to buy a house together, but they needed 20 thousand dollars for a down payment on a house. Neither of them made nearly enough, and the financial strain was weighing heavily on them. He sobbed into his hands and detailed the fights they were having, confessing it was making him second-guess the marriage entirely. I couldn’t listen anymore, so I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked deep into his eyes, and explained that he need not worry. He stared back at me, searching for the right words to thank me, but I ran off before he could. I knew what I needed to do. I found my way back to the apartment and through my liquor-induced haze, I told the notebook everything. I wrote, and I quote, “they need to come up with the money for their down payment. Twenty thousand exactly – no more, no less.” 

Unfortunately, my memory fails me beyond that point, which Dr. Burton tells me I cannot blame on the alcohol. I’ve tried to remember anything that happened after the fact, or how many days had passed, but I do remember growing increasingly paranoid about Jon’s lack of communication. My faith in the notebook waivered each minute that passed with no call. That fateful night a panic began to settle in my chest and I tried to distract myself with some TV, but all that was on was a local news station discussing a recent uptick in violent crimes, doing little to ease my nerves.

I decided to call Jon myself, getting his voicemail each time, and the panic began to rise like sour bile in my throat, threatening to spill out. I ran to my bathroom and crashed to the floor, heaving so violently that my ears popped. I could barely hear a thing, so it’s no surprise I didn’t hear the knocking at my door, nor did I hear when they eventually broke in. I had no clue I was no longer alone until I was ripped from the bathroom floor and slammed into a wall, my arms pulled behind me. I was in such a state of shock I couldn’t move my mouth to ask who they were or what was happening, but then the familiar cool of metal cuffs was around my wrists. They pushed me out of the bathroom and towards my front door, my TV still blaring. 

“Just four nights ago, a local man was found dead outside of his apartment complex with multiple stab wounds. Tonight we have the victim’s fiancé, who has a plea for their neighborhood.”

Glancing one last time over my shoulder, I saw Jon’s fiancé’s face on the screen, her eyes bloodshot and angry. I knew then what happened, and another wave of panic spread over me. How could I possibly explain to them that the notebook was responsible for this? I mean, how could I have known that his life insurance policy was worth that much? How could I have known what the notebook would make me do? It doomed me to a life of everyone thinking I was crazy with no way to prove my innocence. But I am innocent.

You understand, don’t you?

You know I’m not some crazed murderer, right?