The Little Black Book

Mad, perfectly mad you eulogized me, in the New York Tribune, Griswold. Thank you. I am raving at you now, Mister Griswold. Can you hear me? Or is your conceit so thick, it cloaks you in obscurity?

That little black book she uncovered is my heart beating long after my troubled and “mysterious” demise. Oh, the little black book beats on. For one hundred years after I choked on my last breath, it lay beneath the floorboards of my garret, at no. 3 Amity Street, undisturbed.

In life, many a night I'd stumble in, black wet hair pressed against my forehead from a rainy Baltimore stupor, always protecting that book, within which I wrote my most inner thoughts, ideas, and ramblings. Each night, I’d nervously--oh so nervously glance over my shoulder, not once, not twice, but thrice to ensure no one occupied the spaces in shadows that dwelled behind and beside me. The moon casting the only light by which to see, I’d remove the loose floorboards, and bury that little black book, along with a key.

As any sane person would do, I guarded that book day after long day, night after endlessly exhausting night. It held the names of those I loved the most in life, Eliza, Jane, Virginia, Helen, Annie, and Elmira. It contained the names of my rivals, Henry, Nathaniel, Ralph, and Thomas. My foes, whom I never doubted in life when they looked into my weary eyes, took pleasure in my pain, wished me gone in name and body. I’m certain they thought me unworthy of praise and respect. They thought me addled, tiresome, and a drunkard. Ha!

That little black book she stumbled upon while on her hands and knees, looking for her earring, beats new life into my decaying body, keeps my mind and soul alive. Ha!

It contains my secrets. Oh, can you hear me now, Sir Griswold? No? You will one day remove your green cloak and see and hear me clearly for the first time. Let not my bitter tongue and tone fool you into thinking me unhinged. She found my little black book.

She will slip away from the rest of the museum tour, and hastily make her way home, my little black book tucked away in her bag. Alone, locked in the sanctuary of her room, and with a glass of brandy in hand, she will delight in her find. When she reads my last words in that little black book, that last entry, she will be astounded, I say, at what she has unearthed. She will wear that key around her neck and under her clothes, feeling its weight and heat against her musky skin. For weeks, she will not take it off, until it’s time.

Her fantasies about that little black book will nearly drive her to the brink of mental ruin, so I will observe. No doubt you will muse I know the signs well. She will read it over and over, and back again until she is captivated and tormented, and then every word she will know by heart. It will lead her back to my garret day after day, obsessing about every detail of the space, every floorboard, every inch of my room. She will play it over and over in her mind a million different ways until she is sure the steady beat of her heart will not betray her until her hands cease to tremble, and until her footfalls are as silent as a single snowflake slowly falling down upon this oppressive earth.

She will harness confidence in her plan. She will hide in the shadows that plague the old museum which was once my abode, and when the sun goes down, long after the door is locked, she will tread so lightly, using only the light of a lantern, a hammer, and a crowbar to set to work.

She will dream within her dreams of turning my works over to the museum, for authentication and display. Would that not be the honorable course of action? Likely, she will be feverish of mind as her head plays this out and no doubt each time she envisions herself a heroine for finding me and bringing me back to life. Fingering her key, she will ask her heart, and the universe, how to explain away her possession of my manuscripts and papers. Following through with this plan means to premeditate some devious falsehood to conceal her theft, and risk getting caught. Ah, see therein lies a trap she must not fall into.

This will come to pass, Monsieur Griswold. My name will once again be uttered, spoken past quivering and excited lips, falling onto bosom and into night. My words will flow from the mouths of strangers, and they will be new, full of reverence, intonation, and life.

My heart will beat again in the quiet of her agonized soul, in the dark places, she dares not let anyone roam, (most times) not even herself. You know that dark place well, Lord Griswold. It’s that place we all are born unto and die within. Naked. Lonely. Dark. Cold.

Yes! She will find my unpublished works, my poems, essays, critiques, and short stories in a locked box where that little black book said they’d be, in the southwestern corner of my room, under those loose floorboards. I created several years' worth of handwritten editions of The Penn and Stylus, a literary journal of short stories, poetry, and critiques, which I intended to publish monthly before my sudden, tormented, and untimely death.

Virginia, my darling wife was my inspiration, my sole reason to push forth. She believed in me, and when I held her hand as she lay dying, she told me, “My dearest Edgar, by your reputation be not broken. It does not define your passions and talents. Only you can do that with your methodically crafted words. 'T is your language, and yours alone.”

She will become obsessed with me, befriending me in her dreams, conversing with me in her waking hours, walking beside me always. I will be with her in all she does. Her grip on reality will threaten to be swept away as she welcomes me into her very dark place. She will no longer see what she must do as a choice and will be shackled by a spoken contract she imagines we agreed upon. She intends to finish what I started.

And so Fellow Griswold, it goes like this. In that locked box, next to my dozens of editions of the Penn and Stylus, is a bulky envelope with a neat and tidy sum of $20,000, which smells like more than enough money for her to anonymously start publishing monthly installments of the Penn and Stylus. Would you care to read the first edition?

There never was any gambling debt. I’m not sure if I was a better writer or gambler! I suppose to be any good at either one must be a liar and a storyteller. So I say to you, My Griswold, will you read the first edition of the Penn and Stylus, published with money backed by my gambling? Do I mention your name, pay you back in kind for your vacant words upon my death? I ask you, Brother Griswold, who’s mad now?

Tick. Tick.

Tock.

Who’s mad now?