The Transformation

“What are you gonna do with all your winnings?”

If I heard the question once, I heard it a million times since I won the smallish $20,000 lottery prize. I was getting tired of the question even though I understood people’s curiosity. Since it was my best friend, I decided to try extra hard to hide my irritation.

“I’m going to take some time off to work on my novel.” I waited for the inevitable exclamations on how dumb the idea was. I wasn’t disappointed either. I tuned her out and started making a list of things I needed to do. I loved making my lists and I loved crossing things off those lists even more.

I didn’t try as hard to hide my irritation as Becky snatched my notebook from me.

“I can’t believe you still write in a notebook! You are so archaic!”

“I like the feel of the paper better. Besides, I remember things better when I physically write it down. Nothing beats the feel of writing in my notebook.”

That reminded me that I had to buy more of my favorite black notebooks.

“I have to run some errands Becks, I’ll see you later!”

I started the long but necessary walk to the store. Necessary due to my love of doughnuts and my job that required sitting for 10+ hours a day.

On my walk I mused on the different points of my novel and how I wanted the story to develop. I took a shortcut and cut through an alley when a flash of yellow caught my eye. I stopped only to find a banana peel sitting on top of a bunch of trash in a dumpster. Immediately though my eyes were drawn to what the banana peel sat on. What appeared to be trash at first was actually a unique black notebook. I, a woman who wouldn't eat ice cream cones because of how sticky they made your hands, felt compelled to reach into the dumpster and pick up the notebook.

As I held the notebook in my hands, I felt…. different. I could feel the power and other radiating from leather bound notebook. As I looked more closely at the notebook, I saw what looked like a moth with a skull on its body embossed on the cover.

Happy with my find, I turned around and headed home. I had the strongest urge to work on my novel and I couldn’t wait to fill the pages of this notebook with my novel. I had a feeling that this notebook was going to change my life.

I set my pen down and stretched my hand out. I had been writing furiously for days since I came home with my notebook. I couldn’t believe how the words were flowing and I was truly hopeful about my novel for the first time. As I sat there and stretched, I realized how hungry I was. Walking to my favorite diner would get me out of the house and give me some much-needed exercise. I almost left my notebook home, but couldn’t bear to be away from it for however long I’d be gone. Refusing to think too hard on how weird that was, I grabbed my coat and left my apartment.

I got to the diner faster than I thought I would. I realized that I had been daydreaming on the entire walk there and that my dreams as of late, both awake and sleeping, had taken on a dark quality.

I sat in a booth and waited for the waitress. When the waitress approached with a menu and glass of water, I heard a very loud and chilling scream. It put me on high alert and I looked to my waitress to see if she had heard it. There was no evidence she had, but there was a look of absolute terror on her face as her eyes focused on my notebook.

I was surprised when she spoke since she hadn’t taken her eyes off the notebook.

“Wh-where did you get that?”

She pointed directly at my notebook as she stumbled through her question. I could have sworn I heard her mumble that she swore she had “gotten rid of it”. I decided to be nonchalant about my answer instead of questioning her about her odd behavior like I wanted to.

“Oh isn’t it great? I found it in a dumpster a couple of days ago”

I was starting to worry for the girl. Her skin was now very pale and her eyes were wide. She finally made eye contact with me and I could see the stark fear and sadness there. She composed herself and took my order.

As I waited for my food, I continued to write. I still couldn’t believe how the story was flowing.

As my food was placed in front of me, I noticed a folded sheet of paper sticking out form underneath my plate. I put it in my pocket for later.

My curiosity demanded to be satiated so I hurried through my meal and paid the bill.

While walking home, I heard the scream again. The combination of being startled and my feet not working caused me to trip and fall. I limped my way home, eager to read the waitress’ note.

As soon as I sat in my favorite chair, I pulled her note out and began to read…

You don’t have any reason to believe me, but I hope you will. That notebook is dangerous and while it may seem like it’s the answer to all of your prayers, it’s not. I knew the notebook’s owner before you. I watched as they disappeared bit by bit. First the obsession with writing in the notebook and then one day, they just ceased to exist. Just one of the many things I can’t explain, but the notebook is bigger for each new owner. I’m not sure how this thing works, but from what I observed it starts with the scream. A scream that only you can hear. That emblem embossed on the front is a Death’s Head Hawkmoth. From my research I found that it’s an omen of death and it emits a scream when it’s disturbed. Best I can figure from my friend’s experience, is that the scream occurs when it starts to transform you. The more you use it, the faster the transformation will happen. You have to stop using it. It can’t be destroyed; trust me I’ve tried every way possible. It will continue to call to you, just like it did my friend. You have to resist the lure. I hope you survive it. Good luck.

Chills ran down my spine as I set the letter down. She was right about the scream, but she couldn’t be right about the rest of it right?

I did feel the lure of the notebook, but it was only because I was writing better than I ever had. I shoved it all to the back of my mind as I picked up my notebook and continued to write.

I wrote furiously for weeks and I didn’t want to admit it but I wasn’t feeling like myself. I heard the scream often throughout the day and I felt so tired and brittle. Like I was going to blow away. My skin was constantly dry and it didn’t matter how much lotion I used. Still, I persisted. I couldn’t quit writing and putting the notebook away seemed like an impossible task.

One day, the scream startled me pretty badly. I thought I had gotten used to it by now, but I don’t know if you can ever get used to a sound that sends chills through you. Since I couldn’t voluntarily stop writing, I figured if the notebook were destroyed then I couldn’t write in it.

I grabbed my matches and tossed the notebook in the sink. I briefly hesitated before I struck the match and threw it on the cover of the notebook. The match caught and I watched as the notebook began to burn. At the same time, that awful scream tore through the air and went on and on and on.

I waited for the notebook to be consumed by the flames, but instead the flames ceased to exist. One minute there were flames and the next there weren’t. After the flames were extinguished, I picked up the notebook to inspect it. I noticed movement and watched as the moth on the cover came alive. I very quickly dropped the notebook and watch as hundreds and hundreds of the creepiest moths I’d ever seen flew from the notebook.

I slowly backed away, unsure of what to do. The moths began to swarm me. They were everywhere. I couldn’t breathe without one flying in my mouth. The thick cloud of insects was smothering me and I wasn’t sure how I was going to escape. Then I felt the strangest thing. The painful tingle began in my hands and as I looked down for the second time that day, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My hands had turned white and papery and they began to crumble. I started to feel that painful tingle all over and fell to my knees. As I lay there on the floor of my apartment, I knew this is how I was going to die. I looked to where I dropped the notebook and noticed it growing in size. It was then that I realized, my precious black notebook was made of people. Those pages and that cover were born from people who were attracted to its power and couldn’t bear to give it up. They suffered and died as I was now. As the last piece of me crumbled and blew away, I couldn’t help but think what I would be remembered for. Or if I’d be remembered at all.