Unspeakable

Andrea Dobson had never met her great aunt in Virginia- but she was planning to get very well acquainted with her money. Naturally, there was a catch- no such thing as a free lunch, no such thing as a free inheritance of $20,000.

But as long as the cost was less than that, then it was worth the stipulation.

Andrea walked into the library. She had often come here as a teenager- yellowed romance novels and hardback histories could feel like a sandbag fortress, somehow.

She sat on the chair where non-fiction ends and crime begins, an odd L-shaped joint, like a folded arm. Tentatively she peeled the tissue paper skin off her package, unveiling a notebook, itself skinned with petal soft black leather. She hadn't opened it, but you could tell it had been used- swollen with ink, it had too much fleshiness for virgin paper. The pages arched against each other, reeling back from age, curled up with time.

Of course, she didn't have to read it. Yes, it was stipulated in the will that the money was conditional on her doing that. But who would know whether she read it or not? It's not like anyone could quiz her on the content- no one had opened the book since its author closed it for the last time- in that vague, distant Virginia mansion.

Andrea thumbed at the soft cover. No, she wasn't exactly being forced to read it. But reading a book was a pretty small condition for a very nice pile of cash, and that smallness made it feel like an obligation.

It wasn't some moral duty to some dead relative that made her pause. A phrasing, a single out of place note, of the instruction from the will, played in her head. "The notebook must be read in its entirety. No part can be missed. The content must never be shared in anyway with anyone else. I pass this burden to you."

For some reason this did not remotely intrigue the lawyer. Maybe out of some legal obligation, he didn't even seem interested in pursuing whether Miss Andrea Dobson would read it or not. $20,000 made her not worthy of interest to him. He was handing the money over, knowledge of the book untested.

Her finger tips had made suede-y mark on the books cover. She wiped her hand on her skirt and went back to fingering the corner, feeling the softness between her fingers. Returning her eyes to the gleaming plastic-suited books in front of her, she thought of the upturned mug in her room that had had a spider under it for two years. So far.

What information could possibly be so important that you entrust it in your will to a stranger? What information could be so important that you swear that stranger to silence?

Again, Andrea mused, she could just tell people. What would happen? Would the money disappear from her bank account? The little gifts she bought herself with it march out her flat and down the street? The people she bought drinks for with her bounty slip back to being acquaintances? What's stopping her from the sharing the contents of the book, whatever it was, with whoever she wanted?

Altogether, it was all such a small ask. Read a book. Keep your mouth shut. Usually it's a lot harder than that to get $20,000. Whatever that was in pounds.

She could read the book then decide if she wanted to share it. It may be some incredibly juicy saga of theft and seduction, the wild adventures of the now old and buried, the parties and affairs of that distant, dusty house, raging hearts in summer nights that creaked with crickets and damp. Who exactly would be harmed by turning that ancient history to gossip? Unknown America descendants?

More likely, it would be something dull. Things never turned out that interesting, somehow. What some old American lady thinks is worth dying with and staying silent on isn't necessarily anything that intriguing. Maybe finishing it would be the struggle. Maybe there's nothing to read and even less to tell.

Maybe the woman, or whoever wrote it, had horrible scratchy handwriting. Maybe it was unreadable- its secrets sitting unknowable in broad, grey daylight.

Her reasonable thoughts did nothing to soothe the wild pulse in her neck. She brought to the book to her lips- it had that crisp vanilla smell of second hand book shops, but was yards off being comforting. Perverse somehow. The encore, now in a minor key.

Probably because she connected this little book with death. And decay- but not that autumnal, fungus-on-a-dead-tree living death decay. Just the cold thunk of nothingness.

She counted her breath in fours. Maybe she should just throw this book away. Have done with it and the dread it brought with it. She visualised herself, standing up, walking into the iced spring, throwing the book into a bin, walking two steps and turning around. No, a permeance was needed. The sea, a fire, throw it somewhere her hand couldn't chase. It needed to be decisive- no going back, no grayscale. Obliteration.

She had decided to go home, mull on it, delay all until her head stopped spinning. But she still sat there, her bones silently creaking when she shifted slightly in her chair. A cold rush of hate filled her- this woman she never met had burdened her with this. What right did she have to stipulate something so ominous for a not particularly large inheritance? Where was the rest of it anyway- that grand house she'd seen in black and white photos, what had that been reduced to? A cringing notebook and a few thousand? In return for this weight, this riot in her ribcage, she made up her mind to shatter that unagreed promise. In lieu of a megaphone or open mic night to do a reading, she'd just read the book and then tell pretty much anyone who'd listen all about it. She hadn't agreed to this odd deal, why on earth should she keep it, who's trust was she breaking, some bones?

Her mind made up on spilling its guts, a publishing deal perhaps, and spending the money extravagantly, she roughly open the book and began.

When she finished, she walked out, quietly hid the book and left the money alone.