Ink on a Page

My journey, like most people’s, starts off with little to note. I grew up in a big city, had annoying parents, got bullied in school; the whole nine yards. Right out of college I had started my career out on my own with a surprise inheritance of $20,000 from a long lost relative. I thought I was rich and going to make it big. Boy was I wrong. Within a year I had blown most of my inheritance. Now I’m an adult, living the same day over and over again working for a company that pays me too little to do too much. was going nowhere fast, struggling to find a way to make ends meet. In a few months, I would lose my apartment if I couldn’t find a way to make more money.

Most evenings, I take a walk through a quiet park near my apartment. It helps me to think, to be in a spot devoid of anything but nature and peace. As I walked through the park on that fateful night though, I found I wasn’t alone. It was around midnight, so I was surprised to turn around a bend in the path and see a man sitting on a park bench in front of me.

He was wearing a long black overcoat over top of a two piece black suit. His dress shirt was also black, with a skinny black tie hanging around his neck. I had never seen someone wearing so much black. In contrast his face and hands were as pale as snow, and his eyes when he turned to look at me were tired yet sharp, and a pale blue.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” The man said, and it sounded like a whisper out of a skeleton’s mouth, yet I heard it as if he had said it right in my ear, not from several feet away.

“Come, sit. We have much to discuss.” The man patted the bench next to him. I knew I should turn around and run back home. Nothing good ever comes from someone dressed like this, at midnight, in a park. But, I found myself sitting down next to the man, almost without thinking about it.

The stranger reached into his overcoat and pulled out a little black notebook. As he placed it in my lap I felt a chill wash over me. It felt like the notebook was trying to talk to me. It looked old, the leather binding wearing thin in places, and the edge of the pages were yellowed.

“I am growing weary. I have held my post for ages, and it is time to pass the mantle.” I had almost forgotten the stranger was sitting next to me. I jumped a little when I heard his voice rasping in my ear and turned to look at him.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” I asked.

“My post can never be abandoned, and in order for me to retire I must find a worthy successor to stand in my place. You are that person, the notebook chose you.” The stranger’s eyes never left mine. It was like he was staring through me, deep into my soul.

“Listen man, I’m honored that you want me to take over...well whatever it is you do, but I already have a job and a life. So I really appreciate the offer but I’m good.” I stood up and set the notebook down on the bench, and turned to walk away.

I got two steps away and the man said, “Are you sure about that?”

I turned to give a witty retort and found the notebook was back in my hand. How could that be? I had set it down on the bench. But it felt good to hold it. I opened the first page and saw faded names written in delicate cursive. The names filled the entire first page and spilled over to the next. I flipped through the notebook and found more of the same. The entire notebook was filled with names. And as I flipped, I noticed that the notebook seemed to have more pages in it than its size should have allowed.

“It seems to me that you accept.” The stranger said, rising from the bench. “A few rules to know. First, the notebook is your guide now. Listen to it, and you will be fine. You can ignore what it tells you, but the longer you put it off, the harder it will be to focus on anything else. Second, the tools of our trade will come to you when you need them. Use these tools and ONLY these tools. Lastly, you must find a successor to replace you when it is time.” As he talked he began to fade in front of my eyes. He gave me a small smile that was more creepy than comforting, and then he was gone.

I looked around, hoping to find someone else who had seen this to corroborate the acid trip I had just been on, but the park was it’s usual, quiet self again. I tucked the notebook in my back pocket and made my way home.

That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I felt the notebook calling out to me. I can’t really describe it, it’s like...a voice calling to you from just far enough away that you can’t really make out what they’re saying, but you know it’s urgent. And I don’t hear it as much as I feel it in my head.

I got up and walked over to my dresser where the notebook sat. As I got closer, the voice faded until I picked up the notebook and it was gone. I flipped to the last page of the notebook and saw a new name had been freshly printed in clean, intricate cursive. Ashley Pembrook was staring up at me from the page.

Suddenly I had a slew of images flash before my eyes. There was a petite blonde woman sitting on a train, headed to Central Station. Then the image switched to a street sign that read 5th Avenue. The last image was of a gorgeous white stone building with revolving golden doors. After seeing the front of the building for a few seconds my vision flew up to room number 415. And then I was back in my body in my bedroom, panting and sweating.

The stranger did tell me to listen to the notebook, and maybe this is what he meant. I recognized the building, it was only a few blocks from my apartment. It was a swanky hotel uptown. I decided to check it out in the morning.

***

The next day I woke up and hoped everything had been a dream. But then I saw the notebook on my dresser and knew it wasn’t. I sighed, got dressed, grabbed the notebook, and made my way uptown.

I arrived at the building and looked around at the beautiful entryway. I looked wildly out of place in this golden palace wearing jeans, a t-shirt and beat up sneakers. I walked straight to the elevators and pressed 4.

When I got to the fifth floor I walked down a plush, carpeted hallway to room 415. I hesitated a second at the door, wondering what would happen. The notebook, in my back pocket, sensed my hesitation and began whispering to me. I knocked, and the whispering stopped.

I heard shuffling from the room and a few seconds later a woman’s voice called out to me, “Who is it?”

“Ashley Pembrook? I um...I have a package for you.” I stumbled over my words, not sure what to tell her. The door unlocked and the woman I had seen riding the train was standing in front of me. She was much shorter than me, wearing a simple t-shirt and athletic shorts.

“Well?” The woman said impatiently, “Where’s my package?” She asked, seeing my empty hands.

Suddenly, I felt something materialize in my right hand and looked down. I was holding a short handled scythe. Where in the hell did this come from? “The tools of our trade will come to you when you need them.” The stranger’s voice echoed in my head. What sort of trade required a scythe?

The notebook began whispering to me, louder and louder. I looked up from the scythe and the woman’s face was as white as a sheet. She was staring at me, paralyzed with fear.

“P..pl...please don’t hurt me.” She stammered out, “I have money. Lots of money! I’ll pay you whatever you want, just please don’t hurt me.”

The notebook’s whispering grew louder, urging me to step into the woman’s apartment and use the scythe. Without even thinking, I swung my right hand around. I closed my eyes just before the scythe struck the woman in the neck. A second later I heard a thud and looked up. Standing in front of me was a pale, translucent version of the woman, and her body lay on the floor. The scythe was no longer in my hand, and the notebook was silent.

The woman looked at me, no longer in fear but in confusion. “Why me?” She asked, looking back at her body on the floor. “What did I do to deserve this?”

I had no answer for her. I didn’t even know who she was, much less why she was supposed to die. And then suddenly, the notebook began to whisper to me, except this time I could make out what the voice was saying. A soothing feeling washed over me, and I calmly placed my hand on Ashley’s ghostly shoulder.

I repeated the words the notebook was whispering, “Everyone has a time. It may not always seem fair, and we are rarely ready to leave, but it is for a reason. Death makes way for new life.” Ashley seemed to accept this answer, and we walked side-by-side down her hallway. When we arrived at the elevator, the doors opened on their own, and a white light shone down.

Ashley stepped in and then turned back to look at me, “Thank you” She said, as the doors closed on her gentle smile. After a few seconds I pressed the call button and the elevator showed up again, minus the white light. I stepped inside and the doors closed on the hallway where I reaped Ashley Pembrook’s soul.

***

Black ink on a page. That’s it. That is the line between who lives and who dies. I don’t know who gives me the names; maybe it’s God? Maybe it’s the Universe? Maybe the notebook has its own agenda? Or maybe in some twisted reality, I am willing the names into existence. I don’t know, and I don’t care, but it’s my job to handle the dirty work. To the names in my little black notebook I am judge, jury, executioner and ferryman. I am Death.