Djinn's Black Book

“Thank you for the diapers, Sonia. You’re the best.”

“No worries. Have a good day,” I say to my sister, who is in the process of getting ready for work.

She and her husband are low on funds, and I help out when I can.

“Happy writing,” she says, calling after me as I hurry back to my car. It’s still running for fear it might not start back up.

I get into my car and look at the backpack in the passenger seat. I touch it, making sure that I didn't somehow forget my small black notebook. It’s there. I feel it, sturdy and reliable, waiting to be filled.

It’s my writing day, where I set aside five hours once a week to work on my story, after a half-day at work. I’m headed to Barnes and Noble at the mall. I've been plotting and planning in my head all week, writing little notes here and there, but never full scenes or chapters.

I love the energy in a bookstore, the excitement about fantasy that feels real. The bustle of people eager to spend money on their next big read inspires me. The movement. The talk. That’s why I avoid libraries. They’re too quiet.

The car sighs in relief as I abandon it in a parking space.

As I enter my sanctuary, my senses absorb the smell of genius and the pages it’s written on. I walk past the fantasy, sci-fi, and fiction, then pause in front of the memoirs. Memoirs about people who’ve had exciting, unique, or difficult lives, and persevered. I’m not memoir material, but I can write stories about characters who are.

When I reach the notebooks, I browse the selection. My creativity flows better on paper. My story is nearing the climax, but I will run out of pages soon in my current notebook. I need a new one. I don’t use a computer, my phone, or any electronic devices to write. Once my story is done, I’ll type it into a computer and proof what I’ve written. For now, I select a small black notebook, my fifth, to complete the story I've been painstakingly working on for a year and a half.

After purchasing the notebook, I look for an open seat. I choose the first one I see. I sink into the comfy cushion of the chair and sigh. It’s in the same area as a guy I see here often. I've never sat near him before, but I’ve noticed him. He’s not particularly inconspicuous. He’s handsome, with a dark goatee and curly hair. He’s wearing a multi-colored shirt with purple pants, and has multiple hoop earrings in both ears. Somehow, he pulls it off. I feel a bit shabby sitting next to him in my comfy jeans and shirt. At least I’m wearing earrings. He seems to come here to people-watch. I’ve never seen him reading or writing, though on his lap is a black notebook like mine. I acknowledge him, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to get swept away by conversation. I need to stay focused.

I set my backpack on the floor. There is a table between our two chairs. I lay my new notebook on it, right next to me, keeping it handy for the swap. I pull out my current notebook, look over the notes I wrote this week, and select a pencil. This allows me the comfort of making a mistake without dire consequences looming over me, so I can be free to create without fear.

There’s something about writing a story on fresh, blank paper, surrounded by stories printed on paper, ready for consumption.

I take a deep breath and begin. I’m not even five sentences in when I am pulled out of my scene by the sound of a familiar ringtone.

No, no, no! This can't be happening. I look at the small pocket of my backpack where the ringing is coming from. I tense in disappointment. My spirits drop and my creativity wobbles. The scene in my head evaporates.

I pull out my phone. Sure enough, it's my sister.

“Hello?”

“I'm so sorry, Sonia. I hate to bother you, but I need you. My car won’t start, and I can’t get to work.”

I sigh. My time is running down. I don’t want to leave, but I can't leave my sister in the lurch.

With the money I spent on the small notebook, I have just enough money to get her a ride and still have dinner.

“I’m going to send you a rideshare.”

“Ok, thanks, sis. I owe you.”

I set up the ride, then get back to writing.

After an hour, I reach the last line of my notebook and close it. Without looking, and with excitement humming through my veins, I quickly reach for my new notebook, as I don’t want to lose my momentum or train of thought.

My hand touches the table instead, and my head whips around. It’s now on the other side of the table. Somehow, I must have pushed it over without realizing it. Weird. I sigh at myself and grab the notebook.

I open to the first page and continue writing. Or at least I try to. The paper is…odd, like there’s something hard underneath. I flip a few pages, wondering if I bought a defective notebook. It’s no good if the writing experience isn’t enjoyable.

I freeze and stare at the contraption only a few pages into the notebook. Right there in the middle of the remaining pages is a cutout, filled with what looks like a little safe. Pages still fill in around it to make it look like a regular notebook when closed.

Curious, I open the little door and nearly drop it. Inside are multiple stacks of crisp, hundred-dollar bills, and a black business card. I discreetly count one of the stacks and stop when I reach two thousand dollars. The box rattles with my shaking hands. I’m an aspiring author, not a mathematician, but even I can see there is at least fifteen grand in here.

I think about all the things I could do with that much money. But even though that money could fix both my and my sister’s cars and allow me to start towards writing fulltime, it doesn’t belong to me. Besides, other than criminals, no one carries around this kind of money, and I don’t need anyone trying to gun me down for “stolen” property because they were negligent.

I look around. There’s no one else in this sitting area, now, no one looking in my direction. It would be the perfect time to escape with the contents if I were an idiot; since I try not to be, I lift the card to read it. There’s nothing but a number on it.

I look around again and notice that the man with the goatee and earrings has moved to another sitting area. When did he do that? Why? I get a sneaking suspicion. There’s a free chair close to him again, the setup identical to the area I’m sitting in now. I input the number from the card on my phone, and like the crazy person I am, head over to sit in that empty chair.

I place the MacGyver notebook on his side of the table, and say, “I think I took your notebook by mistake. Do you by chance have the empty one I just bought?”

He looks at me with annoyance and narrows his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

I shrug, feeling stupid.

Well, if it’s not his, I’ll have to call the number. I press send on my phone.

The guy's pocket rings. He doesn’t answer. I look him in the eyes and narrow my own. I hang up and call again, let it ring three times, then hang up and do it again. His phone rings every time.

“Can I have my notebook back now? It’s obvious that this one is yours.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather keep that notebook?”

I look at him like he's lost all of his marbles because surely, he has. “Of course, I want it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to keep it. It doesn’t belong to me. Take it. I don’t want any trouble. I just want the one that I had before.”

The man is beginning to look frustrated and petulant.

“Dude, what’s your deal? I brought back your property.”

“Yeah, that's the problem. There’s twenty thousand dollars in cash. Now, go away.”

Whoa. “How did you fit all of that in there?”

“Magic.”

That gives me pause. I can’t deny that the safe had a Mary Poppins vibe to it, with the inside seeming larger than the outside. I shake my head. “Just take it already, and give me back my notebook.”

“I can’t,” he says. “You get to keep everything. Take it, take it all.” He pulls my new notebook from beside him and places it on top of the hidden safe. “Now, I need a new place to find my victims.”

“Victims?” I ask, too loudly. Then I whisper, “Are you a murderer? Wait, never mind, don't answer that. I don't want to know. Just take your money. I'll take my book and I'll find a new place to write every week. I'll even go to the library if I have to.”

“No, that's not how it works,” he says. “It will just keep appearing until you accept that it’s yours. I've lost the game when it comes to you.”

“A game?” I ask, wrinkling my brow.

“An experiment, if you will,” he says, leaning close. “I'm not a murderer. I’m a djinn. I offer people their dreams. If someone takes it without a conscience, then it turns against them. I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised to learn how many people spend some, if not all of the money. A few return the money, but most don't, and they nearly always take something from the box first. After two days, the contents vanish and they owe back everything they've spent. They’re cursed with bad luck until they pay off what they've used.”

“That’s horrible and unfair! You tricked them into it like you’re trying to do to me. And, genies aren’t supposed to be real,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Yet you believe. Besides, I offered an opportunity. They didn't have to use the money they found. They could have attempted to return it. Like you just did. And if they had, I would have told them the same thing that I am telling you.”

“Which is?”

“Keep everything in the notebook.” He gestures with his hand. “Being honest has rewarded you. You win, I lose, and you didn't even know you were playing a game.”

“This doesn't make any sense.” I roll my eyes.

“It doesn't have to make sense, I’m a djinn. Now, I must be off. There are other humans to test, and I have to find a new prime location. Thanks to you, no one else who comes to this store will be tested. Neither will anyone in your family at any time.”

“Wait, how often do you test people?”

“Daily.”

“You’ve been here for...?”

“Six months. Sad, isn’t it? You’re the only one to return the full contents.”

One moment he is here, and the next he is gone. Just gone.

I don’t touch the djinn’s notebook again until I’ve completed my writing time. I pick it up slowly, fearful that if I leave it for someone else, they’ll be cursed.

As I walk out the door, I smile to myself. I have a stirring of what my next story is going to be about, and I may just have more time to write it. I’ll know for sure in two days.