Kuriosum

It was Tuesday evening and Roger sat on a subway bench by 47-50 Rockefeller Center transfixed by his right arm. It was nearly six o’clock, his entire right arm was now a solid piece of stone, and he found forming the next thought to be increasingly difficult. The subway was relatively quiet, especially for this time of night when the rush should be on. People walked with their faces buried in their phones, entering and exiting the trains, all the while seemingly oblivious to the speakers above announcing the coming and going of the next trains, and even of each other.

The little black book sat on the bench beside him. He no longer wanted to even look at it. His day had begun with complete normalcy as he waited for his train just this morning. He was what most would call an unremarkable man. It was not that he was unattractive or socially inept – he was just simply and utterly ordinary. He should have clocked into work by 11:00am but today’s events had proven beyond his control. He found his breathing to be increasingly labored, realizing that the poison that turned his arm to stone was beginning to wreak havoc on the rest of him.

He had arrived at the Rockefeller Station a little earlier than he intended that morning but was content to scroll through the news on his smartphone while he waited for the next train. At one point he placed his phone back in his pocket and just simply watched people bustling by, preoccupied by their own agendas and, typically, ignoring the unremarkable man seated on the bench. It was then that he noticed the little black book lying on the bench next to him. He looked around to see if there was anyone close by who had possibly stood up too fast and forgot to grab their book, but there had been no one near the bench when he arrived and there was still no one hovering near where he was now. Everyone he could see was going somewhere or, like him, waiting intently for the next train.

Roger was typically good at minding his own business – neither caring nor concerning himself with the affairs of others. This book obviously belonged to someone, but there were no someones who seemed to be concerned. Ignoring the little book, Roger shifted his weight away and pulled out his phone again. But after some minutes he found he was more than a little curious about the little black. Pushing his phone into his pocket, he reached down with his right hand and picked up the book. He found it to be heavier than it should have been, as it was only the size of a small children’s book. Its cover was black leather which had been scarred and scratched by obvious years of use. Even still he found it to be strangely beautiful. Its pages were old papyrus, cracked and loosely connected to the spine. He gently turned it over in his hands, inspecting its entirety when he noticed a small white envelope paperclipped to the inside back cover.

The next train had come, and Roger looked up to see if there was anyone exiting towards him to perhaps claim the book they had lost, but no one did. The unmistakable smell of wet concrete and stagnant water told him that the rain that had persisted for days was still pouring down upon the street upstairs. He checked his watch and the next train to arrive would be his. The announcing speaker affirmed his thinking – Manhattan bound L train is now arriving. Please stand away from the platform edge. Roger pulled the envelope from its clip and looked it over. There was writing on the back side – small and faded by overhandling.

Cold and damp, though hand be warm,

Roots reaching higher than wont.

You should have left alone this tome,

For limb then doom will haunt.

Roger noted that the little envelope was full so he opened it and peered inside. To his astonishment he discovered the envelope contained a large sum of cash. He glanced around him to see if there was anyone watching and then pulled the money out and counted 20 one-thousand-dollar bills, along with a hand-written note.

Repeated on the note was the riddle printed on the outside of the envelope, as well as the following paragraph:

Greetings! You are the owner of $20,000. Or more accurately, and unfortunately, it now owns you. Your task, which you have now no choice but to accept, will be to find this day a woman dressed in black. She is the rightful owner of the little black book in your possession and the money therein. You will find her entering or exiting the subway at her discretion, but the subway you must not leave. You have until six o’clock this evening to return to her the book and its monies. If you should fail, you will slowly be consumed by the stone powder even now absorbing into your hands. Find her and be $20,000 richer! Fail to find her and you will quite literally turn to stone!

Roger glanced at his watch, which read 10:49am, and then his eyes were pulled to his wrist and fingers, which were both a darker colored hue than normal. Deciding that his imagination was running ahead a little too quickly, he pocketed the money and replaced the envelope into the back of the book and set it down on the bench. He had missed his train and was forced to go topside and hail a taxi to get to work. Upon reaching the stairs to go up, a blast of New York City’s most peculiar smells wafted from above. Some rancid, some wonderful, all familiar. Lifting his foot to the first step he found he could not proceed. He shifted his weight to his opposite foot and tried to mount the first step again but, again, failed. He tried moving to the stairs on the left with the same results. Passersby glanced his way as he began to make quite the spectacle of himself, trying to climb the stairs. Some showed signs of alarm as Roger began to feel a panic build inside of him, pulling and jerking on the rails. An older man with a top hat and a cane stopped to lean against the railing opposite Roger.

“You cannot leave,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You are excused. But you may not leave,” he repeated.

Roger looked closer at the older gentleman. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And is that your little black book over there on the bench? And why can’t I go up?” Ignoring the questions, the man said, “You will soon run out of time. She comes, but do not trust to hope.” He turned and walked up the stairs to the open air above, and Roger did not see him again.

Roger returned to sit on the bench, the little black book at his side. He flexed the fingers on his right hand and found them to pulse with a dull ache, much like the onset of arthritis. He sat immobile for more time than he realized, and when he again glanced at his watch it said 2:25pm. He had inexplicably sat on the bench for more than two hours, stunned into immobility. He took in a deep breath and began to watch the people milling around him, hoping against hope one of them was a woman in black – if she even existed. “She comes, but do not trust to hope.” Passing by all around him were people of all sizes, races, and styles. Businessmen and women with briefcases rushing off to the next meeting. Mothers with strollers and babies humming happily, carrying shopping bags and groceries. College students laden with backpacks and books on their way to class or home. None were interested in him. And none wore black.

The next train came cruising into the station and stopped. As the passengers exited, they all glanced at the man with the little black book in his hands standing close to the open doors looking expectantly for they knew not who. But she did not appear. The doors closed and the train moved on to its next destination, leaving Roger standing next to the empty tracks. He was beginning to sweat as he could no longer feel his right hand. The veins on his hand were no longer visible and his normally pale pink complexion was now a dull gray – and he could not flex his fingers. He brought his hand to his chest and took several deep breaths to try to spell his anxiety. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the money, returning it to the little envelope inside the book.

Time and again the subway trains buzzed into the station, only to deposit and receive their passengers and move along. Time and again Roger stood at the doors hoping for the woman in black to exit and claim her property, but she never materialized. As time wore on a peculiar cast crept over the subway station at 47-50 Rockefeller Center. It was almost as though the color had evaporated to a black and white haze, and Roger noticed that everyone who passed him by now glanced his way. They were not glances containing curiosity or concern. These were knowing glances. Each look given him seemed to say, “you’re running out of time,” with limbs and gates moving in seeming slow motion.

The afternoon had worn on and turned to evening, and Roger had returned to the bench where he first encountered the little black. With no woman in black ever appearing, Roger sat with his entire right arm a petrified, useless stump, and he could no longer take a deep breath, even though every fiber of his being wanted one.

In tears and ever-expanding resignation, he looked away from his arm and glanced around once more – and there she was. On the other end of the platform, standing on the stairs he tried to mount, stood a woman in black. She was stopped on the fifth step up, leaning against the railing, just watching Roger watch her. In complete relief he slowly stood, picked up the little book, and arduously made his way towards the staircase, barely noticing the platform was now empty except for the woman and himself. She was an older woman, her white hair in stark contrast to the black she wore. Her face contained the lines and cares of a life hard-lived, and she held herself as one of surety and purpose.

Roger reached the stairs but could not mount them. He lifted the book in offering but she did not take it. Breathing was becoming rapidly problematic, spent by the trip to the staircase. She regarded him with intense interest but made no move to assist or to retrieve her book. Roger slumped to the concrete at the base of the stairs and stared into the woman’s eyes, holding aloft the little black book. Her pupils were as black as her clothing. He tried to toss the book to her but lacked the strength. The intercom blared the time over the speakers – 6:00pm. And Roger died of asphyxiation.

Descending the final five steps, the woman in black took the little black book from Roger’s hands, blew gently upon it, engraved Roger's name inside and returned it to the bench where it was found. She turned, walked back to where Roger lay, and without a sideways glace she ascended the staircase to New York City.

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It was Wednesday evening and Guinevere sat on a subway bench by 47-50 Rockefeller Center transfixed by her right arm…