The Shifting Tales of the Little Black Book

The Little Black Book was the name of the inn where my father died.

He was traveling around the villages and had heard tales of a strange inn where the passerby would avoid but a vast fortune was rumored to be on display. Travelers like him had no choice but to stay in whatever accommodations were available nearby, and the Little Black Book was the only inn around for miles.

With his horse stabled beside the building and a few saddlebags strapped to his back, he walked up to the inn’s door. The door was painted entirely black, and he looked down to see the iron knocker in the shape of an open book. Fitting, he thought, though the inn itself bore no sign or written name. The people he'd spoken to had simply pointed him in this direction and mentioned the Little Black Book.

When he lifted the knocker he felt more than heard an intake of breath like a startled man, before the knocker released and a boom resonated from behind the door. The hair on the back of his neck rose as the door squealed on its hinge, slowly swinging inward. The hallway within was dark and musty, with no sign of anyone who could have opened the door.

Swallowing, he took one step in. As he did, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him in the dark hallway. He pulled out a small candle from his bag and lit it, his fingers scratching against the flint in his panic. With the candle’s weak flame held in front of him, he took a few steps into the hallway. From what he could see in the dark there was a wide staircase leading upstairs, and the hall he was in continued around the corner.

“Hello?” he called out, wincing as his voice echoed back at him. “I’m looking for a place to stay tonight. Is anyone here?”

No answer, though he could have sworn he felt someone listening, and waiting.

--

“So what happened next?” Paul asks, pushing another pint across the bar towards me. He always served extra when someone brought him a story. Especially a good one.

“See, there’s where the story gets a bit strange. One way I read it, my father took the stairs up and gets bitten by a snake. Another, he walks down the hallway only to get caught in a trap, and left to starve” I say, taking a swig of ale.

“Only thing I know for sure is my dad didn’t make it out of there, but the place is still out there somewhere. I have to get to it, and figure out what happened once and for all.”

Paul nodded, staring off at the far wall while he polished a mug with a stained towel. “As far as I know, no inns nearby bear that name nor anything like that door you mentioned. Where did you hear about all this again?”

“It wasn’t near here, but I can’t seem to find it anywhere” I say, reaching into my bag. “This is the only clue I have, but every time I open it the story changes. I can’t be sure what to believe.”

In my hands is a little black book that had been left on my door a few months earlier. It bore a small mark on the front not unlike the knocker in the story.

Within the journal was the story of how my father had died, though it changed each time I read it. To get to the bottom of it, I had been traveling around from village to village looking for this inn so I could uncover the secret of it for myself.

In the meantime, I kept the book close at all times, not sure what to make of this mysterious inheritance. It wasn’t mine to give away, or keep, but as long as it was in my possession I would keep it safe, and every day re-read the tale of how my father died in the Little Black Book.

--

The story changed every day, sometimes shifting details multiple times a day. I read it compulsively every chance I got - there was not much else to do in my small village.

Pulling the book out in front of me on my small desk, I held my breath. Waiting to see what the story would be today. Sometimes it was the same, or similar to others with only minor details changed. I took out the journal I used to write down the key details and reference later. Notes were strewn across my desk and my whole home, with details and questions written everywhere.

The most common story mentioned the Little Black Book was an inn, and my father was lost among his travels and seeking refuge. Other times it's a large manor, even a castle, or a bookshop, or a bank. Sometimes it is empty, and other times there is a large fortune just waiting to be claimed by whoever can brave the horrors of the place and escape. The details of my father’s arrival, and his fate, shift each and every time.

--

In today’s story my father is one again seeking shelter in a nearby inn. It’s storming and dark out, and lightning flashes as my father lifts the knocker. Instead of hearing a breath, thunder booms around him as the knocker falls and the door swings open.

I steady myself, ready for what is sure to come next.

As the door groans on its hinges, the hallway is dim but there’s a light shining from around the corner. Not bothering with a candle, my father picks his way carefully down the hallway towards the light. He hears a faint pair of voices talking in the distance.

That’s new. I eagerly turn the page, wondering what the voices are saying. Looking for any clue that will help lead me to this place.

“We should be careful,” he hears them say as he steps closer to the end of the hallways. “This place is not the same as it once was.”

“Agreed” the other voice says. It sounds female, with a higher pitched lilt to it. “The protections we once enjoyed are weakening over the ages.”

My father pauses, breath caught. The thunder and wind from outside is muted, and the light ahead flickers slightly from the reflection against the stone wall.

He turns the corner to confront these two voices, and as he emerges into the next room…

--

The next page is blank.

I flip through the next few pages to see if the story continues. The rest of the book is blank.

When I go back to the last page with the two voices speaking, that’s now blank too, except for a faint symbol of the open book.

I drop the book to the desk, letting it fall shut. With my head in my hands I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I was still holding.

So close. I am getting so close to learning what happened. The book shows me a little more each day. But what to believe? What to trust?

It’s been years since my father disappeared. There’s still so much more to learn, to uncover, and to find.

--

The book remains blank for the rest of the day. I check it again the following morning. Still blank.

For months I check back, leafing through the blank pages, looking for anything new. Even the symbol eventually faded, leaving perfectly blank pages.

As the season changes once again, and the thick banks of ice and snow melt, I make my preparations. I sell what I can and collect what I can carry with me for a long journey. Safely secured in my pack is the little black book, with its empty pages calling to me like a faded map.

It’s time to find the truth. Once and for all.