Lady in Red

I’m tired of this. It’s been a hard day. Just like every other day. It’s been on repeat for the longest time. Waiting in the bitter snow for old men to sit down on my crate box for me to shine their shoes. They sit in front of me with their nose so high in the air, not a word in my way. My hands are frozen and pale from the sharp air and moving in the same motion for the past few hours. Then I wait for more haughty men to buff the top of their shoes until they stop coming. Quite sad to say that I’m a writer who shine shoes. Can I still call myself a writer? I haven’t finished a piece for a long time. I’m on my way home now to sit on that same splintered chair, waiting for a good story to form in my head. But nothing good ever comes.

I’ve been walking for the past couple blasts of wind. My home is so far from the central city - Can I even call it a home? It’s like mud and wood, honestly. My legs are numb. Finally, a bench to sit down on.

I stretch my back and blow out white air as I flop down. Ey! I jump right back up as something hard poked at my thigh.

A little black book.

It looks comfortable there on the metal, embraced by snow. Like it belongs there.

Maybe it was left behind. I look around the park, but all I see is layers and layers of snow. Nothing and no one but me.

I hold the book to my chest as I sit down. It was quite a small book, not any bigger than my palm, a soft-felt cover in the darkest black hug its rugged papers.

There was a thin, black ribbon hanging at the bottom end. I glance around one more time. There’s no harm in reading somebody’s journal, is there? It was left forgotten, I’m here to appreciate what’s left behind. I pull it open by the ribbon, bringing me to the very middle of the book.

Lady in Red. In large, cursive letters.

The day was dark, her aura flickers around her deadly,

Her spellbinding eyes, you couldn’t keep off immensely.

Captivating to your soul was the Lady in Red,

But unknown to you was her intention to lead you dead.

It paralyses your spine, angelic she sings,

But her fingers stay frozen pierced on your skin.

This is her intention, the Lady in red,

And not long after, will you be dead.

At the last word, the book tremors in my hands and the ground below me shakes violently. I whip my head all around, my eyes widening at the sudden change. The brisk wind spins around me, taking the little black book out of my hands and above me. Leaves and twigs hit me in the face, I had to cover my eyes. But the wind grips onto my hands and pulls me off my seat.

I scream as I fell and fell and fell down.

The wind continues to clasp at every side of me while my heart sits on the bottom of my stomach. It feels like my ankles were getting dragged severely, they’d pop out of its sockets.

Then suddenly, the air around me stops. I open my eyes.

Where was I? Darkness surrounds me, it was deafening. The wind disappeared. Warmth replaced the cold. Then a hum creeps into my ears.

Oh, such a beautiful sound. Soft like velvet. Sweet as sugar. Divine but haunting.

My eyes close as my head sways unknowingly at each note. I could feel the hair on my skin stand up, my toes and fingers clenching. That silky voice took control over my body so quickly.

Then warm, lean fingers tickled ever so slowly down the side of my neck, it made me shake. I open my eyes again.

Oh, she was beautiful.

Staring down at eyes, the colour when the sun hits shallow waters, and yet, it seemed hollow, devoid of emotion. Her features couldn’t have been sculptured any better; her ruby pink lips shaped like a heart that didn’t smile beneath a button nose, her cheeks full of rose, sharp-arched eyebrows that raised slightly at every note she hummed. Every inch filed to perfection. But still no emotions show.

My hands unconsciously rest on her voluptuous hips and onto the red of her silk dress. Blood-stained silk starts at her full chest and down to her thighs, exposing her milky skin, waiting to be kissed. Her voice creeps into my ears and into my bloodstream, commanding my hands where to go. Her eyes locked on mine, grasping into my soul with the intention of not ever letting go.

Who is this Lady in Red? Where did she come from?

My curiosity disappears as her fingers tense around my neck. My airway tightens as her note went higher and higher. The darkness around me inches closer and closer. My breath stops slow and shallow, but my hands keep still on her waist. Oh, that voice.

It’s okay. This is nice.

Both of her slender hands were on my neck now.

No breath was passing my lips. My head spins like I was blindly intoxicated, but I don’t try to gasp for air.

It’s okay. Oh, her voice.

Then my eyes roll back into my head and my knees snap. Everything went black.

Smack! Hard metal hit my bottom as I landed, my neck swishing forward a bit too roughly, making me cough painfully. I was back on the bench.

What happened? Where did she go? My fingers linger at where she gripped.

Oh, keep singing to me.

I stare down at the little black book in my lap. Where did this come from? How could this happen? I flipped the pages, back and forth, nearly ripping the pages out. I hope for it to jump back at me, whatever I was brought to.

Come back to me.

“It’s not an ordinary book.”

I gasp and jump to my feet, the book still safe in my hands. Who is this? A thin, slender man stood in front of me; his hands in his thick, black coat pocket, black pointy shoes that shined like the ones I shine, black round glasses on the centre of his pale, emotionless face. His face looks thin too, his cheeks and eyes sunken into his skull. How could I not hear him come?

“I’m here to bring that back to its rightful owner.” His voice is gravelly, but proper. Slowly, he pulled his palm out in front of me. “You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours.”

“What is this book?”

“It’s not an ordinary book.” He eyed me down as he raised his pointy chin, reminding me of those haughty men I see every morning.

I bring the book closer to my chest. “What is this book?”

He presses his thin lips together. He stands still, inspecting me from my head to my toes then back to my eyes before he tells me, “In my left pocket, I have my watch, made 1898, quite rare, heavy too. I have my goldstone ring - I don’t think you can handle it, truthfully. And I have cash. $20,000, precisely.” My breath got caught in my throat. “That is all I hold, so that is all I can offer. Your choice of the three.”

I look back down at the little black book. What is this? What more does it contain? What more can I see and feel? What is he not telling me?

“It is compelling, isn’t it?”

I stare back at him, could barely see through the darkness of his round shades sitting on his high bridge nose.

“The poems. You want to read more. See more.”

I do.

“I can tell you this.” He crosses his arms behind his back and leans in towards me. I curve my back as his musky scent wafts through my nose. I didn’t realise I gripped the little black book harder. “No more poems will be told if its writer cannot write. You hold this book now; you’ll be dying for more. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? Don’t you want to see more? You can’t go back to the last page; you can only jump into the next. You return this book back to its rightful owner; you can be sure that it will find its way back to you."

I look back down, flicking to the poem of the Lady in Red. It was the last poem in the book. Blank pages followed, waiting to be filled. I wonder what would be next. I sigh as I flick to the very first page. It’s a shame I didn’t read it from here.

I look back up as the man stood straight. He pulls a wad of paper out of his left coat pocket.

$20,000.

In cash.

“What do you do, Sam?”

I paused. “I’m- I’m a writer. How did you know my name?”

“Ah, I see. Any published works?”

“...No.”

“It is hard to write. How does it feel to have such a miraculous piece of writing in your hands, hm?” The corner of his right lip lifts ever so slightly as I stay silent. “Are you getting by with your writing, Sam?”

My eyes shift down, away from the cash in shyness, “No.”

The man brought it up higher, as if waving a stick at a dog, “I can help you. And you can help me. Give me the book. I can help with your work.” He sneers as he waves it once again.

It has been a very hard year. Or two. Maybe more. My stories weren’t getting along with the audience anymore. Actually, ever. I’ve been sitting on the same corner day by day shining shoes of the same elderly men, then spending night by night hovering my fingers above the keys with not a sentence to type.

But the thrill of this little black book. To take me to a place no one has ever been before. To see the Lady in Red again. Was it real? It must be.

The man said it will find its way back to me.

“It will find its way back to you.” Can he hear my thoughts? “It found its way to me, here I am. And this book found many more to play with, not just you.” He reached out the wad of cash to me. “Take it. I will bring this book back to its owner, and it will find you to share its stories. It doesn’t want its stories untold, of course. Take it before you regret it.”

With my soul sorrowful, I take the cash and place the little black book in his palm. I hope to see you again.

He slides the book out of sight and into his inner coat pocket. He grins, his large teeth shining at my face. “Good choice. Smart choice. This book isn’t all that it seems. It pulls you in… but it will pull you further in until there is no out.”

His grin drops eerily and suddenly. He stands still, his hollow stare locked onto mine. I gulp.

“Good day, Sam.”

I turn as he rushes right by me, watching his slender figure blur out of sight.

$20,000. Cash. I grip it and grin. So much to plan, so much to do. First thing first, get out of this town. Finally, out of that ridden house! Travel for inspiration, ideas for my writing! Should I even continue writing?

And then, I hear it. Oh, I couldn’t forget such a sound. Her velvet voice wraps around me once more.

The lady in red.

She must be nearby!

I looked for the man, running on the same path he took.

But he was gone.

And so was the little black book.