The Devil In The Details

Her fingers were numb with panic as she fumbled with the locks on the door. She felt her heart rattling in her ribcage as the blood struggled to reach her extremities. Her skin had already started to blister and crack. Time was running out. The door was three inches thick and made of solid timber. It had four metal bolts and a state-of-the-art lock that a greasy salesperson with a moustache had assured her was ‘unpickable’. She leaned against the door and rattled the handle as if checking to see that it was genuinely there. She had begun to rent the tiny flat less than the month ago. A safehouse. It was cramped, the kind of place that should’ve been described as cosy but the whole room was rank with cold, the only feature of note was a huge oak desk. Shivering she tried to catch her breath, as she crossed the small room, Crouched down and touched her hands to the bitterly cool metal of a safe. The textured dial spun neatly beneath her fingers. From the safe she retrieved a Ruger LC pistol, a bottle of Jameson whisky, and a small, black, leather book. She placed the whiskey and book on the table and checked the gun. Seven bullets sat in the magazine and one in the chamber. She placed the gun on the desk and after a greedy yet much needed swig from the bottle, she began to push the heavy desk towards the door. The book began to shake as the desk vibrated. The smell of age clung to its thick black binding, the grain of the leather sat deep and speckled, the dead cells of some unfortunate creature now a pleasing pattern for the eye.

Rachel could still remember the day she met him. She was walking home from another night shift. The exhaustion came at her in waves. It was one of those moments where she was just so drained, she would’ve traded anything to stop listening to that arrogant voice in her head that told her to think of her future, give up school and finally make a dent in her debts. Rachel had almost made up her mind when he came shambling out of an alley. An odd silhouette staggered right past her and into the middle of the road, she heard the car horn and instinctively reached out and pulled him back as she did so, she lost her footing, and both collapsed onto the sidewalk. He was old, with hair curled from grease and a ragged, matted beard that had the appearance of torn felt. His eyes were deep sunken into his head and his clothes were a mismatch of odds and ends as if someone had dragged everything from their closet in a desperate attempt to feel some kind of heat. She dragged him to his feet and helped him cross the road, he seemed to limp, but she couldn’t tell on which foot. Rachel sat him down in the doorway of a long abandoned shop. There were piles of ratty looking sleeping bags that he surrounded himself with, a padded nest that stank of mould and piss. She wanted to leave, to have nothing more to do with the decrepit looking old man, but he encouraged her to take a seat beside him.

“That was a kind thing you did back there, you’re a sweet girl”

Rachel nodded uncomfortably; she felt sorry for the man but that didn’t make her any less keen to get away.

“I can see I upset you my dear, I’m sorry it's the smell I know”. He began to stutter and fuss over her.

She felt that pang of guilt in her stomach. “No of course it’s no problem”.

The man smiled a long, toothy smile, like a predator to prey. “I should pay you back for the kindness, perhaps there's something I could do for you”.

She began to shake her head but before she got the words out he continued.

“Not at all come let me help you out” he began to scrabble through his meagre possessions. She protested as firmly as she could, but the embarrassment was rising, perhaps if she just took something from him, it would make him feel better and she could leave. From his backpack he produced a worn yet somehow slightly beautiful leather notebook. He used a skinny finger to beckon her forward and began to whisper.

“Take this, I insist it's a special notebook my dear, it helped me a fair few times in my life perhaps it could be of use to you. All you have to do is convince people to sign their names in the book. When they do whatever they desire will come to fruition. In exchange for every name, you get in the book some good fortune will come your way, a little money, a little good luck? Seems like a girl like you could use a little money yes?” He laughed heartily; his voice had lost the raspy, uncomfortable quality it had started out with. Now it was buttery and smooth with something of accent at its core. It reminded her of English fields or European cafes. She didn’t protest anymore; she didn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t even really remember how she got home. All she remembered was the feeling of the notebook in her hand, the softness of the leather, the weight of the paper. It felt good, comforting almost.

It had taken her several weeks to first ‘use’ the notebook. Her flatmate June had forgotten to do an assignment, she had been shouting and panicking all morning. That was when Rachel offered up the notebook to June as a solution. It was almost a joke, certainly it was to June who had thought she was thoroughly fucked going into class that morning. However, when during class June had pulled from her bag a printed off and correctly formatted copy of the assignment she had forgotten to do. The wish had been granted. A little unnerved the girls had ordered pizza to celebrate and tried to convince themselves it had just been some sort of odd coincidence. Perhaps June had done the essay after all. It was harder to keep convincing themselves when the next day an extra $10,000 had appeared in Rachel’s bank account. There was no record of when the money had arrived in the account it was as if it always had been. Rumours slowly crept around the school, as rumours are want to do, if you needed something done - The girl with the black notebook could get you it. There were a few memorable cases - an English professor with a scandal that needed to disappear, a psych major with a nasty STI. They all came, they all signed the book. And each time $10000 would appear in her bank account without a trace of its origin.

When June’s body was found Rachel knew straight away it was her fault. The black books fault. June had undergone massive shock to her body, as if she had been hit at high speed by a large truck but she was found halfway up the stairs of her apartment building. Stranger still there seemed to be no clear point of impact. Bruising and burst blood vessels appeared evenly across her skin as if some massive force had hit everywhere at once. It was by every metric an agonising death. Next the English professor was found in his office, a HB pencil protruded from his eye and bruising similar to June. The leading theory was he’d taken his life to stop the pain. It went on and on, headlines filled with lists of unconnected deaths and ugly corpses. Of course, it wasn’t unconnected, it was the names in the book. The worst of all was Suzie Perkins. A ten year old who lived next to Rachel's Mom. She had signed the book to wish her Dad back from his stint overseas. The Soldier had returned just in time to see his young daughter convulse and scream.

After the deaths started. Rachel had decided not to use the book, not to write any more names.But the book fought back in her sleep. Whirring, creaking, screeching voices that rattled around behind her eyes. It took one week without any real sleep, she started falling unconscious at work, in class. Micro sleeps. Those were the worst when she’d wake up screaming in front of other people. She was desperate once again. Desperate for that out. That was when she made the second biggest mistake of her whole life. Rachel concentrated hard, focussed on her wish. Banish the dreams. Banish the nightmares. Let her sleep. Then in slow looping letters she added her name to the list in the book. She closed the leather cover and that night she got the best sleep of her life. The next morning, she woke tense and afraid. It had been roughly one month between the others signing their names in the book and their untimely deaths. Rachel had no idea who was doing this, how they knew the names or why they were killing but she did know she wasn’t going down easy. She began to prepare. She bought a small Flat on the edge of town and began to kit it out.

It was a Tuesday evening, four weeks to the day when she put her name in the notebook that she began to feel it. At first, she thought she was sick, it was like a fever rising from under her skin, a scratching, clawing itch that was slowly driving her mad, She was in a shopping centre, stocking up on supplies. She walked to the bathroom to splash her face and cool off when she saw her reflection. Her veins were beginning to bulge through her skin. Thick dark lines which spidered up her face and neck. They were bursting and boiling from the inside of her. She held back a scream and sprinted to her flat.

This is where we find her. Whisky in hand, Gun pointed at the door, Desk blockading the entrance. She’s shaking and convulsing as the agony takes over. She’s waiting. She’s not sure what she’s waiting for, but she doesn’t wait long. Four sharp knocks against her door. With each strike she sees one of her carefully fitted locks unlatch. Her defences fall, the desk gives way easily and he steps into the room. It's certainly the same man but he stands strong with an elegant cane and he’s dressed with modest flair. Nice suit, polished shoes. His hair however is still matted, his beard still scruffy and his eyes still sunken.

She fires six rounds into his chest, but he simply smiles. His presence seems to speed up whatever reaction is taking place inside her, with a flick of his wrist it increases ten-fold and she writhes on the floor in agony. She attempts to get out words, attempts to form speech. She manages a single syllable at a time. “Pl … Please ki...ll'' She can’t reach that last word. Maybe it's pain, maybe it's fear but it doesn’t come.

“Kill you my dear, no I don’t kill. “ He laughed the high-pitched laugh of a housewife at a dinner party. “No, I just came to get my book” He picks it up and turns to leave, before he does he takes one last look back and smiles.

Rachel was tired, so tired, and just desperate for a way out. She heard that little arrogant voice in the back of her mind again, begging her to carry on, but it was so far away. The gun tasted oddly comforting and reminded her of childhood nosebleeds. There was a bang and the man walked out the room with his notebook. With a tap of his cane, he locked the doors behind him and disappeared without a trace.