The Book

“Thomas Stilun. Age 28. Spokane, Washington.” I mumble to myself, reading from the aged, leather journal. It looks like it’s ancient, honestly. The cracking of its black covers, the torn binding, even the parchment like pages, discolored from time. But something about it feels off. Peculiar, I suppose.

I found it while taking the bus back from class. Some guy just left it, and when I chased after him to give it back, he was just gone. The driver said he didn’t even remember a guy getting off before me. I should probably sleep more to be honest. “Jamison Terrace. Age 20. Kansas City, Missouri.”

The weirdest part about it, the longer I hold it, the less I remember how I got it. Which stop did they get off of? How long have I even had it? Wait, how long have I been on the bus? I look around and see that we are almost at my stop. Incredible, it’s a forty-minute ride, but I was so enthralled in the book, I missed, what, thirty minutes of it? Or was it twenty. I don’t even know anymore. But I begin to become anxious the closer we get to my stop. “Hailey Martin. Age 45. Broken Bow, Oklahoma.”

What are these names? Are they people who owned the book? People who came into contact with it, maybe? No. The names are all written in the same hand. Someone wrote them all down. I am fourteen pages in, and still the letters are all identical, as if someone typed them. How far does it go? I want to skip to the end, but it feels wrong. I mean, it’s a book of names, ages, and locations. There is no story, no meaning, so why does it feel wrong? I should just do it. I begin to reach for the last page but the hairs on my arms raise. My breath catches and I feel cold. No. I shouldn’t. I need to stop actually.

I look up as we reach my stop. I should leave the book. Just set it down on the bench and walk away. I nod, filled with conviction, and walk off of the bus. That was strange, no, terrifying. I have never been so compelled, so uneasy by a book. “God, that was weird,” I chuckle to myself, as I continue to read out names. “Emily Sturgeous. Age 19. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

Who are these people? I mean, this book must have traveled the country. But how would the author have gotten all of these names? It’s got to be a prank. Some elaborate thing where some guy wanted to mess with someone. Maybe he’ll walk up and… wait… Why do I have the book? I swear, I put it on the bench. I know I did. Didn’t I? Wait, why did I? Why would I? Calm down Josh, it’s a book, for heaven’s sake. Why are you so anxious? I look around really quick to see if anyone’s following me and continue walking to my apartment. I pick up my pace a little. That guy over there, he’s just staring, isn’t he? He’s acting like he’s not, but I saw him look at me.

I glance back and make eye contact, nod, then look forward again. I walk faster, he was looking at me. He is watching me. I think the girl next to him is too. She looked at me earlier, and I swear if I look back, she’ll be staring too. I have to confirm it. I look back as fast as I can! She’s not looking, but I know she was! She must have stopped, anticipating I would look! I need to get home, faster. I pick up the pace to a brisk walk, then to a jog, faster and faster until I am sprinting. My bags slam against my back, and I can feel the books hammering into me. I am going to bruise, but if I don’t run faster, someone is going to catch up. They may try to snatch me. Or worse, they may try to steal the book.

I see my apartment building ahead of me. I’m almost there! I sprint into the building and up the stairs. I almost take out my neighbor, an art major named Keith, or Kenneth, or Tom. I don’t remember. He calls out as I charge past him, but I don’t care. I need to get to my room. He is one of them, I know it. I get to my door, tear it open, shove myself inside, and slam it shut behind me. Safe. I drop my bag beside the door, slide against the wall onto my butt, and laugh. The sounds coming from my mouth seem contorted, inhuman almost. They don’t sound like my laughs, but I know they are coming from me. It’s almost scary, but I’m not worried. I am safe at home with the book. I open it up and continue to read. “Mary Anne Walker. Age 25. Sarasota, Florida.”

What kind of mysteries does this book hold? If I look these people up, will I find them? No, there’s no way. It’s some kind of joke, but who designed it? Who elaborated this intricate delusion? I would want to meet them. They truly have me entranced. I start to feel nervous again. As if someone is around the corner. “Hello?” I start to rise, someone’s here. “Come out. I know you’re there.” I start towards the kitchen, hands up to defend myself from any unknown assailants. I leap around the corner to an empty room. “This is your last chance, I’m warning you!” I call out, grabbing a knife and travelling through the rooms, slowly, listening. Waiting.

One at a time, I clear the rooms until finally, I find myself in front of my closet. I found you. “Pray to whatever God you believe in.” I snarl, as I rip the closet door open and stab inside. My knife finds its mark, directly into a thick jacket I left hanging. I step back, staring at the closet, mouth agape. I feel my heart racing, sweat running down my face, and I hear a sound. I can’t find the source, but I hear a sound for sure. I look around erratically, desperate to find the noise, until I realize it is me. I am laughing again, this time hysterically. I can’t stop, and I feel my face turn purple as I fail to breath. My eyes begin to water, and my hands find their way to my throat as I claw for air. Everything is becoming hazy, and I feel myself getting dizzy. I’m going to pass out, aren’t I? A million thoughts race to my mind, but the last one I think of before I slip into the void is this: Where is the book?

Time passes, and I wake up to darkness. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time. 11:27. I have been unconscious for hours. I slowly sit up, thinking to the events thus far. I finished my classes today, walked to the bus, sat down, and read my book the whole way home. I searched my apartment, and fell asleep on the ground? That seems wrong. Something about it seems off. But I can’t really put my finger on it. Wait, where is the book?!

I shoot up, turn on the light, and start searching the apartment. I check each room. That’s what I was doing! I was searching the apartment because I couldn’t find the book! I rip open my drawers, tear apart my bedding, and check the hall closet. I look in the fridge, the trashcan, and the couch cushions. I check my backpack and the floor around it, but I can’t find it. Where did I put it? I need it. I need to find it. I have to find it. Why do I need it though? My mind slowly calms down as I enter my bedroom. Why did I need to find the book? What’s so important about it? I try to calm my mind to remember why I had to have it… and then I see it.

My mind blanks again, and nothing else matters but the book. I feel it calling me. I feel myself becoming one with it yet again as I pick up the book. I open the cover and find where I left off. I smile, sit down, and continue reading the names to myself. “Tyler Anderson. Age 35. Cincinnati, Ohio.”

This one is close to me. Only a couple hours away. If I look for him, would I find him? I chuckle out loud. Yeah, right. I pull up my phone and type away. That’d be impossible. Tyler Anderson. Cincinnati, Ohio. Welder at Weld Plus Inc. No way. This can’t be real, this guy just has the same name, same city. There are probably a thousand Tyler Andersons on Facebook. October 15, 1985. He’s 35… It has to be a joke. Rest In Peace Tyler! They took you too soon! I scour the page. Rest in Peace. Fly high. Rest in Peace. It’s not fair. Rest in Peace.

Two months ago. I search the internet; I need to know how. It had to be an accident. Or like a disease. Something. I look for twenty, maybe thirty minutes until I finally come across the obituary. He fell into a coma randomly and didn’t awaken for several days. I glance over at the book. It’s a book for Christ’s sake. I pick it up and look up the next name. “Megan Heely. Age 62. Wautoma, Wisconsin.” I search her name up online as well and find the same results. My heart begins to pound. Name after name, they come up with the same results. My thoughts begin to clear, until finally, I look at the last name.

“Andrew Hamilton. Age 59. Columbus, Ohio.” I search the name and find him. The man who left the book. Then it all rushes to me. Everything.

I step onto the bus and make my way through the aisle until finally I see an open seat. “Hello, is this seat taken?” I ask a man in a black button up and dress pants. He smiles and shakes his head, patting the seat. I sit down and stare at my phone. Your cousin Andrew passed this morning. I know you never met him, but because we’re the only family he has, you’re on the will. If you’re not at the funeral expect to be off of it. My mom was distraught. Andrew was her only cousin growing up, but due to some family drama, he found himself estranged. The man looks at the phone and frowns.

This is awkward. I caught the guy peaking, but I’ve never really been good at confrontation. “Yeah, my mom’s cousin died today after some freak coma. Apparently, he never had kids, so me and my family are getting an inheritance from him. I’m getting about 24,000 dollars. This’ll clear my student debt, so I mean, sad that he went but good for me or something?” I chuckle nervously. I don’t really know what else to say. He looks disapproving though. He nods, stands up at the next stop, and walks away. I sigh in relief, but notice he left a book in his seat. I jump up and try to catch him but find him gone. Strange. I sit down and open the book, hoping to find some contact info. “Lincoln Harvey. Age 58. Seattle, Washington.”

I look at the book, and find myself writing in a hand I’ve never written in. It is identical to the other names in the book. I can’t stop myself. As I write each letter, I find myself filled with terror. Please, please stop. God please, stop! Everything goes cold as I stare at the final letters filling the page. “Joshua Treback. Age 21. Columbus Ohio.”