The Man

Two figures hunched over the trunk in the dingy light of the parking lot. It was empty save for the car and numerous weeds cropping up through the cracked pavement. Humidity hung in the overcast night air, and the odor of salt and seaweed drifted through the flat landscape from the nearby beach head. The taller of the two shadows was gesturing to a frightened third figure laying helplessly in the trunk of the rusting sedan. The frail shape was simply clothed, and the soft yellow trunk lights illuminated his worn khakis and a dirty shirt displaying the logo of the local postal branch.

"I deliver over 200 packages a day, and that one was delivered weeks ago, I don't remember," said the worker in a voice bordering on hysteria. "Please, I don't know the address, but I can find out," he said, his eyes darting furiously between the two figures looming over him. "I can look through our delivery logs and see where I stopped, just please, let me go."

There was a brief flash of a cheap phone camera. The trunk closed and the two forms departed as the waxing light of dawn began to creep up the night sky.

…

The man sat reflecting, his eyes gazing blankly at the screen on his desk, not seeing the five-figure sum displayed, as his brain played back the circumstances surrounding the little book laying to the left of the keyboard.

It had arrived through the slot in his door with the other mail in an unsuspecting yellow envelope without any note. The package was heavy, and he was struck when the only item that fell out was a small book. It was surprising and decidedly strange how much it weighed for the ordinary notebook it looked to be. The cover was a simple matte black, but the pages, though in appearance simple lined paper, were incredibly dense, and had the slightest texture that gave the impression of luxury. What was more, the light played across the pages in a fashion that was just-off. It was hardly discernible at all, the pages possessed a glossy sheen similar to that of any other notebook, but every once in a while, when positioned just so, the light refracted a multitude of colors, as though through a crystalline medium. The weight and even the pages had failed to hold his interest, however, when he had attempted to write in the blank little book. It was the strangest experience, one with mixed emotions of amusement and annoyance. The ink from his pen didn't absorb into the paper at all but pooled like mercury on the surface of the page, subject to every tiny ripple of the paper. It was delightful, rolling the ink around, watching it bead up and slip across the page. The annoyance, however, came when the ink slid off of the book and onto his shirt, whereupon it immediately stained the fabric. What was more, the unique little book was useless for writing in. He had tried using a pencil and a few other utensils lying around the cramped apartment. He even tried etching words into the pages with a penknife, all to no avail. The graphite simply ground into a fine powder atop the page, and the knife was blunted after a couple of attempts.

The properties of the book were an enigma just as curious as the purpose of the book itself. He had taken it to bed that evening, scrutinizing the pages and covers before he set it on the bedside table and fell asleep. An hour into his respite, however, his subconscious pulled him back to reality because he had forgotten to set his alarm. Without opening his eyes, he had fumbled around for his phone, knocking it to the floor in the process. Light assaulted his eyes, and he gave up on his endeavor to remain half asleep, returning to full consciousness in his illuminated bedroom. When he looked to the source of light on the floor however, he noticed his phone sitting on the bedside table. The last remnants of sleep slipped off as he looked at the phone, still perched on its bedside stand, to the floor, where a bright white light was emanating from underneath the small tent the little black book had formed on the ground. As he picked up the book numbers threw themselves across his floor and walls. He tried looking at the pages only to have his eyes screw up in protest. The pages open to him were too bright to look at, but as he averted his eyes, he saw a series of zeros displayed along the beige paint of the ceiling above him. The book was like a projector, but the display was a definition far sharper than anything he had seen before. The groups of numbers looked print upon the roof as if it was a page in an ordinary book. He picked up his phone to check the time, and to perhaps wake him up from this extraordinary experience. It was 3:30am, and the book was still glowing. He closed it and was again enveloped in darkness. He opened it once more, and the room was flooded with light, and his ceiling painted with digits. He closed the book, and the room was again bathed in darkness.

The next day he had woken up and spent the whole of the morning examining the book until he discovered its secret. Only when the environment was dark, very dark, would some internal mechanism allow the projection to occur. So, he sat flipping through the pages with layers of sheets pinned over the windows, pouring over the digits projected from the book. Small rays of light still leaked into the room through holes in the defenses of the linens guarding the window, and from under the door, and cast by the old tv playing the news. It was an eerie scene. Looking through the book now, it was clear that that first portion had entries, but most of the pages maintained the two columns of zeros he had seen the previous night. That first portion contained a series of integers in the first column, and corresponding dates in the second column. The dates stretched back more than three decades across thirty or so pages, and the final date wasn't recent at all, it hadn't even occurred yet. At that time it had been four days from the present. He typed the first-column numbers into his computer. The internet spit the numbers back at him unchanged. He needed more information. He tried looking at the other dates and numbers, but without further information, the best he could get was the prevailing news on any of the given days. His mind wandered and he turned his attention to the news. The anchor was discussing some business magnate that hadn't returned home last week, a post office that had been vandalized, and a chance of rain.

The man's eyes deglazed as he returned to the present. The thought of the news had brought him back to the present, where the same anchor was reporting a different slew of stories. A mail service worker had been found in a car trunk yesterday. His eyes returned to the sum on the investment webpage smugly. His reward for deciphering the code. $20,000.

He had discovered the numbers in the first column were coordinates soon after the latest date had come to pass. The coordinates were the headquarters of a nondescript mining firm on another continent. He had thought nothing of it, until it made the news after striking a massive quantity of precious metals, sending its valuation and stock price through the roof. He had opened the book furiously at that point, checking all of the previous dates and coordinates. Each set correlated perfectly with a large spike in stock performance. Beneath the latest entry the row of zeros had changed into a new series of numbers with a date a week from that day. That was a week ago. The coordinates were for an oil firm. He had bought in with everything he could muster up. A few days after the date in the little black book had passed, the firm publicly announced the acquisition of a competitor and victory in a legal case worth billions. The stock had tripled before closing hours.

Shaken a second time out of reverie, he closed his laptop and grabbed his keys. The reality would set in when he held a few thousand of the dollars that had just fallen into his lap. For now, it seemed like some cosmic joke. Before he headed out the door, he tucked the little black book into a nook behind his desk. The next set of zeros had mysteriously changed, projecting a new set of coordinates and a date the following month.

Outside the man made his way down the avenue towards his bank. He was contemplating his loans and the car repairs he desperately needed. Those were all done now. The money he had just made would cover most of them, and the book would fund so much more. Based on the frequency of the dates, he would have a payday every month or so. He pulled open the door to the small building and went to the teller on the far side of the room. If he continued to live beneath his means for a little while he could grow his capital and realize returns tenfold on future investments. He pulled out two thousand dollars in cash. While the lady behind the counter counted out the bills and placed them in an envelope, he turned to the small screen mounted in the corner of the room. The same anchor was there. The image of the business magnate was drawn up again. The anchor was explaining that his body had been found. The teller handed over the cash and bid him a good afternoon. The man stepped away from the counter transfixed, reading the captioning at the bottom of the screen. The missing man had been a tycoon connected with the oil firm that was padding the envelope he held in his hand. Authorities were also investigating a connection to the post office vandalism and the employee found.

The man paused as he stepped outside into the early afternoon sunlight. The pavement was dappled with commuters and dog walkers. Someone was searching for the book, seeking it out ruthlessly. He could go to the police, but he would have to reveal the book, and the connection to the stock, and explain his "investment". He could simply slip town right now. The money in his account now would be enough to settle him again somewhere else. Then he thought of the rows and rows of blank zeros, the little black book waiting to divulge its secrets, its prophecies, its fortunes. He hurriedly turned up the sidewalk towards his residence.

A few blocks later he approached the steps to his flat. It was still dark within, the sheets draped over the windows, the television still droning. He grabbed a few items and placed them inside a backpack. Then he went around to the side of the desk. As soon as he lifted the little black book from its recess something across the room stirred. A tall figure, who had been carved of stone a moment before, emerged from a lightless corner of the room towards the man, who stood stupefied in his place. A soft chuckle came from a smaller form seated in shadow on the couch. He didn't look up from the small phone in his hand, but he smiled as he continued to type out his message.

"Enough is never enough", he said. "Everyone clings to the book, but it always finds its way home."

The seated figure snapped a brief picture.

Two men stepped out into the hall; one had a little black book in his hand.