The 'Soulskine' Journal

A black 'Moleskine' book. That’s all it was. Every household has one and is usually filled with doodles or sketches, poems or paragraphs, to-do lists or minutes of meetings. When James Ackerman found this one on a pile of freshly fallen leaves it didn't look any different to the one he keeps tucked away neatly in his nightstand, forgotten along with his stash of self-help books, half read and gathering dust. What a coincidence he told himself that his eyes should fall on this little treasure as he wandered under the thick veil of horse chestnut trees that bordered the local park. It was that time of year as Autumn was in full swing, the once lush green leaves started to show weary signs of speckled brown. Conkers littered the ground and the sight of them pulled James into a not too distant past when he would scour this very same park for the fattest ammunition to destroy the competition in the traditional conker at school. His eyes were drawn to the ground through this instinct ingrained in him from childhood. He picked up the small book, dusted it and gave it a quick once over. The leather was pristine, the elastic that kept it closed was still springy, but most surprisingly the pages were still dry despite laying on the slightly sodden earth so typical of the late British Autumn. The book must not have been there long, maybe the owner wasn’t far gone? James scoured the pathways that snaked through the trees. No movement. He decided to keep walking, there was a bench up ahead through the clearing just off the large cast iron gates of the south entrance to the park, his favourite spot. The perfect place to dissect this rare find. He plodded on fixated on the ground beneath his feet.

What a coincidence. Was it indeed a coincidence that he turned left out of his house that morning instead of the usual right? Was it coincidence that he felt an urge to wander through the park that morning, drawn to the scenic path that sticks to the iron fence, rather than the more popular shortcut through the centre of the park? Was an invisible force guiding him to this point, or was it pure instinct? The book did look like it wanted to be found. Not a stain on it. No sign of wear and tear. James pulled back the elastic, the voice of his late father ringing in his head. A man’s journal is his most private possession. Don’t EVER open it without the owner's permission. You hear me? James had learnt that lesson the hard way when he was nine. Pulling the dog-eared book off the shelf in his fathers study, he had absentmindedly thumbed through the pages like a customer looking for their next read in ‘Waterstones’. Before his eyes could focus on a single word his father made sure he wouldn’t see straight for a month. His fist smashed into the side of James’ head, sending both the book and James sprawling to the floor. His ears rang as his father bore down on him, exploding in a flurry of punches. ‘Don’t...you...ever...open....that...book’ his father spat through gritted teeth, emphasising every word with a crushing blow. His father never shied from a beating to get his point across, but this lesson ended in the hospital with three fractured ribs, a right eye swollen shut and a mild concussion. Message received. His father shrugged at the doctor's questions answering each one with a ‘boys will be boys.’

Don't you ever open that book. His father’s voice echoed round his head, the memory of that lesson brought back the ringing in his ears as the world started spinning around him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, something his therapist taught him when he felt himself drowning in the waves of anxiety. ‘Episodes,’ his therapist called them. Episodes. Like I’m Kirsty from Corrie.

When the world stopped spinning and the ‘episode’ was over the book was sitting on his lap, open at the page saved by the bookmark, the black ribbon sitting neatly in the crease. He began to read.

Sep 3

Finally the day has come for the exchange and good riddance. Her constant whining is starting to get to me but soon it will all stop. There’s nothing worse than a blubbering woman. My fists are still swollen and the pain just fuels this burning rage consuming me. Like father, like son. Man, did it feel good to shut her up finally. To watch that crying face turn a sickening shade of dark purple. Yes, good riddance. Her stupid parents were so terrified they definitely would’ve left the ransom by now, taped to the underside of the park bench. The bank might flag this unexpected withdrawal but I’ll be long gone by then. A faded stain of a memory for the family, one that never completely washes out no matter how hard you scrub your conscience. Me, I’ll be sipping margaritas somewhere, Mexico maybe? Too cliché. Guadeloupe? Too French. If there's anything I hate more than screaming women it's the French. Well, the destination is not important, it just has to be warm.

The police definitely won't be involved, at least not yet. Not with that terror in the mother’s cracking voice. No way they would jeopardise their ‘sweet baby girl!’ Pathetic. She’s old enough to make her own stupid decisions. But that desperation... Music to my ears!

‘All our savings, please! It's all we have! My angel....’ Yawn. £20k that's all they had. Definitely not enough to retire on, but in the right country it's more than enough for a few years. In fact in some places I’ll live like a king!

King Ryan Brown, has a nice ring to it.

She’s been quiet now since last night. All it took was ‘tough love’ as Dad used to call it. Good thing, too. Don’t need any unwanted attention. Not this close to the end. As soon as that money is in my hand and I’m boarding the next plane to... Vietnam? Too dirty. I’ll send the address. She won't go anywhere. That chain is too thick. Thick like her parents. HA!

James awoke from a daze, dripping in sweat. The park began to materialise around him along with the events of the morning. The interminable ringing was back. Another episode? No, this was different. As he had begun to read the notebook he felt like he was pulled into the pages, like he had melted into the words scribbled in black ink. He felt the searing rage. He heard the muffled cries. Felt the crushing blows.

Don’t you ever open that book. He slammed the journal shut, holding it there between two trembling hands as if he was keeping something from escaping, something sinister. That’s when he noticed his knuckles, grazed and puffy, an angry red from a recent fight. He reeled back in horror and tumbled sideways off the bench, the book landed on the path with a soft thump. A dull throbbing started swimming from his knuckles, enveloping his fingers in a glowing heat. He noticed something taped crudely to the underside of the bench, a large brown envelope. He grabbed the bulging package and peeled one corner open. Cash. A whole lot of cash, more than he had ever seen before. This can’t be happening. He tried to assure himself, trying desperately to claw to any shred of logic, any shred of sanity. The book suddenly burst open as if caught by a sudden gust of wind, pages fluttering by until it stopped just as sudden as it had started, once again at the black ribbon, tucked neatly in the crease. James crawled closer. He stuck his head gingerly over the book like he was peering over the edge of a cliff. The date was no longer September 3rd. Don’t you ever open that book. He was caught again in the leather trap. Swimming once again in a sea of black ink.

Sep 6

I knew I should’ve brought my battery pack. You know better, Dan. You can’t live without your videos. The endless scrolling through Call of Duty plays, Tiktok routines and russian models in tight bikinis sprawled on blinding white beaches. ‘Keeping up to date with the world.’ Oh how that world was fiiine. That one face though, why can I not get her out of my head? So innocent looking but also so filthy. Those eyes lured me in, asking to play with her. I guess the fact that she was dead made it all the more invigorating, like a truly forbidden fruit. Beaten to death or something did the news anchor say? Something definitely was gonna be beaten today. Damn, I’m getting heavy just thinking about it. She definitely stole my attention. I’m gonna have to do something about this, when you gotta go, you gotta go. I think I saw some trees along the path, a nice secluded place to be alone with my...thoughts.

James awoke slinked behind a tree, conkers littered around him but these ones didn't bring on the melancholy. The overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame only a man can feel after…

Why won’t the ringing stop? How do I get out of this? How does this nightmare end? I need to know.

Don’t you ever open that book. Shut up Dad. It’s too late for that. James wrenched the journal open, nearly snapping the elastic. He desperately thumbed through the book reaching the last few pages. The writing was scribble, almost illegible. Almost. It was his own handwriting. Once again the black ribbon was there, a silky guide dragging him back under into the abyss.

Sep 9

I can’t stand this anymore. Have I done this, any of this? I can feel my soul being ripped apart. Eaten. Piece by piece until nothing more than a shell is left. Is this my reality now? A fractured mind full of other people's memories. I can hear them talking. Talking in my voice. My face in the broken mirror smiling back, laughing at me. That poor girl. She got what she deserved. Noone deserves that end. Beaten to death, locked away alone, scared. She wouldn't shut up. Why didn't she shut up? Oh she did in the end. That bloody face, that beautiful bloody face. The way she looked at me through the glow of the phone screen. Winking at me, inviting me. No, this isn’t me. True me. This is the nightmare, the world, the book. That awful book. My very own necronomicon. It’s getting crowded in here, I need more room. Please, give me space! Why didn’t I do anything about this? The money, the book. Why didn’t I hand it in or spend the money, get on with my life? And now I’m done for, they can lock me away from the world, but not the world inside my head. These sins I have to live with are deadly. Our sins. I should never have opened that book. A man’s journal is his most private possession. Don’t EVER open it without the owner's permission.

A black 'Moleskine' book. That’s all it was. Nestled in a pile of freshly fallen leaves. The dog had found it first, gave the leather cover a wary sniff then barked, and kept barking, not heeding to the commands of its owner. A warning. The walker picked up the book, dusted it up and pulled back the elastic cover. There on the front page was ‘Property of:’ the ‘of’ had faded to the point that the brain filled in the word. Underneath written in jet black ink were the names Ryan Brown, Daniel Hunter and James Ackerman. Above the walker, the book's previous owner was swaying gently with the breeze, his weary loafers a speckled brown among the green.