Little Black Book

It had been a year since I had naively accepted the contract that was supposed to change everything. The offer, when it came, had read like something out of a dream I had lazily hoped for a decade ago. When the letter had come wax sealed on thick, expensive stationary, I saw stars. Hiram Thomas’ firm in Dorchester, England was the stuff of legend in the fiction community, particularly for his fantasy pieces. He had an extremely small, intimate team who churned out a book once every few years. But every work was a masterpiece. My letter had said that my work could bring a refreshing perspective on their team. Writing under Hiram’s brilliant tutelage would be just what my stale career needed. What I found, however, was a grouchy, insane old man who lived like a recluse in a cottage on a hillside.

On the days he made it out of his private rooms, he would shoot down every idea that was pitched to him, hardly listening. Small noises made him jump and he spent most days looking over his shoulder. In the middle of many conversations he would simply lift his head, as if hearing something, and walk hurriedly away. If you ran after him, he usually found it hard to remember the conversation you had just been having. His team was quiet and downtrodden. But they clung to the dreary cottage, desperate to take part in the masterful stories that were leaving their firm less and less often. I bristled at the thought of being as disillusioned as them. Except, inexplicably, I was still here. I couldn’t bring myself to go home to a life that I had betrayed for a false hope.

All the heads in the building snapped up as Hiram left his office. He wordlessly shuffled across the room to the front door and left. His old car sputtered to life and ground its way down the gravel driveway. In a swell of indignation at how thoroughly this job had ruined my life, I stalked into his open office. On my first day, I had been so curious and excited about the countless beautiful books that were crammed into the shelves. So many looked exotic or extremely old. But the door had shut the next day and didn’t open again for weeks. I skimmed the titles looking for something interesting.

“What are you doing” someone hissed at the door. I ignored them.

I dragged my finger across the different spines, reading their titles until I reached a gap in the books. Between some of the brightest, most eclectic titles in Hiram’s collection hid a small, black book, pushed way to the back. I shimmied it out with some effort and held it up in the light. Bound in black leather, there were no words on the cover and the pages looked thick and yellow. Inside, the text was hand-written in a flowery, beautiful calligraphy. I took it past Jean’s incredulous expression and sat out on the back patio. It was one of the exceedingly rare days that the sun was out. It lit the pages of the book as I read.

With a start, I realized that the opening description in the book was of the cottage and the open countryside where it resided. The trail winds past an oak, touched by the ages with moss as her skirt. I stood and followed the treeline with my eyes. Far up the clearing on the hills, sat a proud oak tree, a head taller than all the surrounding flora. Curiosity got the better of me and I hiked up the hill, small book in hand. Sure enough around the back of the moss covered oak was a narrow hiking trail. The underbrush was thick on both sides, giving the path the appearance of a tunnel.

I continued to read. It described the trail with resplendent language. My feet carried me as I read, glancing up at intervals to view the scenes described in the book. Some time later the forest began to transition. The underbrush cleared and the trees became few and larger. Huge boulders struck up out of the ground, the only thing to stand between the trunks of the ancient woods. As I read about the sound of the bubbling creek I started to hear it in the distance. Along the path, a large rock met another to bridge over the water. The book had started to give the impression of building towards something at the end of my path. My heart clenched with excitement as the trail hit a sharp incline and the book described a rocky cliffside. My shirt felt moist against my back. Multiple times I had to tuck the book into a pocket to scramble up the increasingly difficult trail.

For the first time since I had left New York my mind was reeling with stories to fill the beautiful landscape. Fantastical tales of mythological creatures and magic had been my chosen escape as a child. I had never lost that yearning to experience a world that was beyond ours. I had wanted so badly to create a vivid and fanciful universe that someone out there could immerse themselves in. Just as I had done with Hiram’s books. By the time the path leveled out I was panting from the effort. The wood was darker up here. Beneath my feet, the moss had been worn away to show light gray stone. The air felt stagnant, and there was a mild pressure on my temples, as if I had climbed to a great elevation. I opened my book and continued on.

As I read, the trail curved around towering boulders. Something large passed overhead, creating a long shadow through the canopy of the trees and rustling the quiet leaves. The damp scent of the forest gives way to a different aroma, the book read, a metallic tone to cut through the smell of the earth. The further I walked the more I could smell what the words described. The smells of its burning wafts across the opening as the mouth of the cave reveals itself. I looked up. A short climb would bring me to a huge cave opening, with sunlight streaming into its entrance through holes in the tree canopy.

Few make it to this place in the quiet wood. For those who do, a revelry beyond one’s most insane wishes lies just beyond reach. I turned to what was now the very last page. The trail winds through the wood for those who believe in something far beyond themselves. This world shows itself to only the few who are looking for it. And their eyes remain forever opened.

There had been an author a long time ago who had hidden easter eggs around the world to coincide with the clues in his stories. I grinned wildly at my fortune to pick up this book earlier. I slipped the book back into my pocket and scaled the short rise to the cave. When I crested the ledge my breath caught in my throat. In front of me was a large cave that was scattered with innumerable golden artifacts. The light caught coins on the ground that glistened. Gold plates, chalices and woven gold tapestries laid over coins of all shapes and lustrous jewelry. I stared for a long moment before stumbling forward and sorting through the wealth. I stuffed as many gold coins as I could fit in my pockets, latched chains around my neck, and wriggled bangles over my wrists. Once I had all I thought I could carry I drank the sight in again, then made to climb back down.

The trees began to rustle as I made my descent. A wind lapped over the canopy and bowed branches that creaked under the stress. I laughed at my unexpected fortune. This would change everything. I could start my own publishing company. A shadow passed overhead and a sound lanced its way through the forest. It pierced through the trees so vehemently I stumbled at the shock, falling to my knees. I turned with a leaden stomach to trace the sound. Through the hole in the canopy dropped a black mass of wings and muscle. It scraped to a stop on the cave mouth and trumpeted its deafening scream. It sounded like a hundred screaming animals layered atop another to make a screeching cacophony. My pulse sounded so loudly in my ears that in the moment after the screech I could hear nothing else. It lowered its massive black head to look at me. A scream tore its way out of my body. I scrambled to get my feet beneath me and ran. Behind me, the beast descended the ledge, talons squealing across the hard stone. My vision pulsed as I tried to keep purchase on the slick stone floor. A fear coursed so deeply through my blood that my body felt numb. I knew my skin tore as I stumbled across the rocks but barely noticed.

Rocks smashed against one another and trees groaned as the huge beast crashed its way through the forest in pursuit. I sprinted wildly down the trail, feeling the clamouring behind me gain ground. Around a small bend I turned my head to see how close the nightmare was. A long talon reached out and tore its way down my arm. I shrieked in pain and gasped, pulling my arm to my stomach as I ran. The monster screeched when it could not fit between a crop of trees, giving me a moment to gain ground. It whipped its tail to turn and contorted its massive body, trying to find a path.

I suddenly recalled all of the stories I had read growing up. I started flinging the gold out of my pocket and ripping the chains off my neck. The monster snarled so viciously that my blood ran cold. Legs flailing, I continued to throw the gold behind me. The beast did not let up its pursuit. It snaked between the trees, sounding more and more furious as it tried to maneuver the tight woods. Hot, red blood ran down my front from my wrist. My vision began to blur around the edges, and black dots grew and popped. My eyes were becoming less trust-worthy as I grew weaker. An agonizing scream escaped my mouth as I started to feel death close in on me. I blinked away the tears that threatened to blind me. I didn’t look back as I wailed and raced down the path. My legs carried me downhill faster than I had ever run before. I reached the rocks spanning the stream and bounded over them with a few leaping steps.

It wasn’t until the forest began to thicken with underbrush that I noticed the sounds of the pursuit had grown further away. I didn’t dare to slow my pace and tore out of the forest, crying and panting wildly. I screamed at the cottage as I drew closer. People rushed out and made exclamations at my appearance, surrounding me. Hiram limped his way out and met my eyes. He snapped his head up to the skies and turned immediately back inside, closing the door behind him.

An ambulance pulled up shortly after. I wavered in and out of consciousness. At the hospital I had a hard time speaking when asked questions. I found myself unable to explain. I was transferred to another hospital where the lights were less harsh. I wore white clothes and used only soft, plastic eating utensils at meals. When they released me months later I was given a bag with my belongings- my phone and a small black book, bound in leather. I was given a $20,000 settlement from Hiram’s firm for “mental duress” and opened a small, quiet publishing company. But found myself often staring wordlessly at the sky.