The Object of Desire

I am... I was 25 years old. I still am, I just don't look it, and I don't feel it.

I was hired right out of school, personal assistant to Mr. Brightman. The work was a little drab at first, it was mostly setting up meetings, keeping his schedule, but I suppose I did a good enough job with all of those things to get a... promotion of sorts. Maybe it took some time to build up his trust, not as an individual but as a good worker, because I didn't have very many interactions with the old man. He seemed to have little understanding of money and pay rates, because the new salary he was offering was very generous for the work he proposed. It's something that comes with being ridiculously wealthy, I told myself, and that's what Brightman was.

For consideration, he showed me something at his home, a mansion in the middle of the city. He was silent as we went from room to room, to the back of his house. After an uncomfortable number of rooms and hallways, Mr. Brightman stopped us at a peculiar door at the end of a poorly lit passageway. It was different from the others, and stood out against the rest of the architecture. It was made of a golden brown wood, latched together with two belts of old black iron. The lock was modern, Mr. Brightman produced a grey key card and pressed it against the flat surface, and a heavy latch unsecured behind it. Brightman eased the door open and walked inside, as automatic lights blinked on across the ceiling.

It was a study, a personal library. The room was lined in bookcases and cabinets, from floor to ceiling. There could have been ten thousand books in the room, with some of the bookcases stuffed with sheets of paper. In the middle of the room were two old desks, with a laptop open on each. He turned to me, and regarded me carefully when he spoke.

"This… will seem unusual," he began, clearing his throat. He appeared hesitant and uncomfortable. "Unusual, but very lucrative. You see, I am a collector. My specialty is books, specifically, occult books."

He walked to a desk and sat in the padded chair behind it, and motioned for me to join him at the other desk. He patted a stack of books next to the laptop and looked around at his collection.

"Your task, for as long as you are able, is to comb through my acquisitions for some specific passages. You are to be well compensated for this task, no matter your personal feelings on the ludicrousness of the task. In fact, part of your duties is keeping your thoughts to yourself. This work is very important to me, I will provide you a list of phrases which I require you to bring to my attention as soon as they are uncovered."

I looked at him, not really knowing how to respond, feeling somewhat like the victim of a practical joke. His personal assistant job was dull, but completely normal. This… this was something wholly different. Read books and report back to him for more than double my previous salary?

"Yes, yes, I am quite serious, and no, I have not gone mad. I require assistance in this role, and I require you to take it very seriously. Do you understand, and will you be able to do it? If not, I will give you a lump sum and you may return to your previous station if you please."

I took a quick survey of what was happening, and took a slow look around the room.

"Secrecy will be required and rewarded," he said. "Will you accept this position?"

I considered all my friends from school, struggling to make ends meet, and am a little ashamed to say, I felt like this could indenture me to this lonely old man. He appeared so serious, perhaps this job could get me included in the old man's will. I'd kept his schedule for over a year, I knew he had no one in his life.

"I accept, Mr. Brightman," I said.

"Very well, you begin immediately," he said, getting up. "Go over the list of instructions, follow them precisely, and reach me for any other questions. There are two keys in the desk, one for the front door, and one for this room. Bill as many hours as you like, the more, the better."

He patted the stack of books on my desk, and toddled off back through the door.

The instructions were thorough. There was a list of terms I was to watch for, in a number of different languages. The laptop I was assigned was used for storing information on the books, translating them, and ordering whatever food I wanted, on an unlimited budget. I got to work quickly, and over the following days actually found a few of the terms Brightman was looking for. Every time I found one, I would call his personal line, and he would show up almost immediately afterwards, and snatch the volume away. Twice Brightman arrived and checked up on me, while also delivering more books. It was making me perhaps a little weary, I told him, but nothing unusual. I spent as much time as I could in his strange library, sometimes up to sixteen hours a day, knowing that however ridiculous this job was, the pay was certainly well worth it. I dreamed of all I could do with that money, once the job ran out, which I assumed it would. It was too absurd to last forever. With the money I made, I could hire two of my colleagues to do the reading for me and still have a healthy living for myself.

The third time Mr. Brightman came to see me, he was having very unpleasant coughing fits. He dropped off a small stack of books and papers that he had ‘purchased at auction’, he said. He seemed very excited about these, and told me to put them to top priority, suspending whatever order I’d been following to go through these new acquisitions first.

“Are the working conditions adequate?” he asked, before leaving, “Is there anything else you require?” I had a foolish, rebellious thought pop into my head, which I thankfully did not speak:

‘Put me in your will, old man, you don’t seem to be doing so well!’

I was disgusted with myself as soon as I thought it. But I was growing accustomed to a somewhat lavish lifestyle, outside of my working hours. I’d already upgraded apartments, and my new television was only slightly smaller than my new bed.

I only replied, “No thank you, sir,” and he smiled, and waved.

I never understood most of what was in the books. There were illustrations in many of them, and often they were gruesome, disturbing. Thankfully, the worst ones never contained the sorts of phrases Mr. Brightman was looking for, so he probably wasn’t some sort of… monster. Whether or not there was anything to any of these stories, that was not particularly my concern. I opened the broad, blue cover to another dead language book, which smelled musty and looked like no one had opened it in a hundred years. The pages were brittle, they were almost always brittle, so I had to take care. An hour later, I turned to the phone on the desk to order some coffee. One of the kitchen staff took my order, and asked me to meet him at the door, and was that all? I was beginning to be treated almost as well as Brightman himself, or so it felt. I told the cook that would be all, and turned back to the old book with the blue cover.

I was half-slumped over the desk when the knock came at the door. Something in this book was captivating me, though I couldn't say just what. The knock startled me, and in my clumsiness I knocked one of the other books in Mr. Brightman’s most recent pile onto the floor. I muttered and went to the door, got my coffee and came back to my desk. I stooped to pick up the book I’d knocked to the floor. When I picked it up I realized the cover on it had become loose, and it seemed there was something sliding around inside the binding. I shook it and yes, there was definitely something in there, stuck between the cover and the last page. I fingered the outline of what was there, an odd shape, like two overlapping rectangles. I reached for the phone to call Mr. Brightman, but stopped. He really didn’t seem to care about what else was in the books, only his sacred words and passages. I might as well open it up before getting a hold of him, rather than waste any more of his time. I took the letter opener from the blotter and slipped it into the edge of the cover and looked in, surprised by what I saw. I pulled out a little black book, stuffed with cash. The money was old, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was real. There were four bills inside the worn little book, and they were allegedly made out for $5,000 each. Twenty thousand dollars, which, after a frenzied internet search, turned out to be real currency, or at least a very impressive imitation of. I looked again and tore open the front cover as well, but found nothing more. I spread the bills out on the desk and looked at them in disbelief, and then remembered the hidden book.

I opened it up and found the words to be in another language. It was filled from cover to cover and in it, I found multiple instances of Mr. Brightman’s dearly coveted passages. I called him, and he arrived swiftly.

“What have you found, show me,” he demanded, barging into my library. I had pocketed the money and the book.

“I did some researching this time, Mr. Brightman,” I said, slyly. “These passages I found say something about ‘desire’.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, impatiently. “If you must know, I am interested in having my desires met… unconventionally. Now, the book.”

“I have desires as well, sir. Perhaps we can share my discovery.”

“Share your--” Brightside fumed. “What are you talking about?!”

I produced the book in one hand, and the money in the other.

“Well, you desire this book, and I desire... simple wealth. And from what I gather, this book is just what you are looking for, at long last. In fact, listen to this passage…”

The language was difficult, but I stumbled through it.

And yes, something happened. My eyes blacked in and out, and I could see glimpses of Brightman’s doing the same. A cold vibration ran through my body, I shook uncontrollably, and then it happened… my entire perspective changed. I saw myself, across the room, standing there with book and money. I looked down at my hands, which suddenly looked weak and old. I felt different, strange, and when I looked back up, I saw myself across the room. I saw myself blackening. I saw confusion and horror in my eyes. And I saw myself begin to crumble, pieces of me hissing, falling, and disappearing. There was a horrible wail as both of our voices cried out, and then mine fell silent.

I was no more. I was a smoking heap of ash on the floor, book and money both gone. I did not want to come to terms with it, with any of it, how could I?

After days of panicked questioning, after driving myself to the edge of insanity, I accepted the truth.

I got what I wanted.

I was twenty-five years old, in the prime of life, and almost immeasurably rich… and trapped, inside the decaying body of a seventy-five year old man.