Misplaced

It had been three weeks since he had unknowingly awoken the notebook. It sat untarnished, nestled just behind the brass clasp of his rucksack.

The antique shop where he had purchased it had been poorly lit and smelt of mildew, contrasting with the delicate silk fabrics on the furniture and the porcelain china lining the display cabinets. His favourite stall filled with desirable first editions. Since moving to the town, he had spent most of his spare time thumbing through books in the old shop. Surrounded by the intricate bindings of the books around it, the little black notebook seemed out of place. He was surprised to find the notebook empty. The first few pages were torn from the binding, but otherwise the notebook was pristine. A handsome find to be set on the shelf so early, but he knew all about that. The bookcase in his own flat had three unsullied notebooks, all gifts from his mother who had warmly supported his love for art since his youth. Her gifts always gently pushed him to sketch landscapes as he had as a young boy, sitting in the morning light of his family's sunroom. He had only ever filled one notebook which he kept at the bottom of his exquisitely dovetailed ironwood keepsake box, never to see the light of day.

Obtaining a fine arts degree was half the battle, finding work was the other. With the weight of $20,000 in student loans on his shoulders and the meagre amount of money he had saved for the big move, he needed to find employment. He searched for work in his field for nearly a year before deciding that the pub on the main floor of the rundown stone walk-up he rented would suffice. The weather worn Help Wanted sign reeked of desperation: he hoped he was more subtle.

The owner was a woman in her late 60’s. She sported dark sullen circles under her eyes, and a stained argyle sweater vest. She wanted someone full-time for the Summer season as her mother had fallen ill and she would be leaving to care for her. He would work the closing shift until the end of the season. With school on leave until September and the town emptying with the end of the semester, the solitary nature of his work gave him time to let his mind wander. He would sit on the once vibrant emerald green velvet chair muted by the sun’s rays to a dull sage, and watch the evening rain gently paint the cobblestone streets. The town had not provided for him in the way he had hoped. The golden hew of the street lamps reflected in the rain, illuminating the street in a way reminiscent of the rural buttercup fields back home. For a time, it calmed him.

On one particularly boring evening, he had an insatiable desire to draw and opened the notebook. Free from the scrutiny of professors and peers, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and imagined a figure sitting on a bench across the avenue lighting a pipe. He had never quite mastered how to draw figures in his studies, so he blended the figure into the night sky, embers illuminating the lower half of its face. He finished the sketch, feeling displeased with the unnatural flow of the figures trench coat. He locked the pub doors and walked the creaky steps to his flat above. The thick evening air coupled with the poor ventilation in his bedroom necessitated the window be left open at night. As he drifted to sleep, the faint scent of tobacco crept into his flat. Or perhaps he just imagined it. His mother would be proud: she always said “one’s imagination is the best place to reside when reality becomes too mundane.”

He stirred groggily at half-past-ten. Sundays were his only day off and he enjoyed wasting the day away. He strolled to the antique shop through the brisk morning air, and was warmly greeted by the jingle of brass bells as he entered. As he rounded the corner he was surprised to see a coat end slip behind the bookcases. He quietly made his way to a nearby stall to sneak a glimpse at the intruder in his sanctum. As he inched closer, the smell of tobacco assaulted his nostrils. Bemused, he stepped backwards into a display cabinet causing a cacophony. The stranger crooked its neck, a trench coat grasping its unnatural shape. He fled the shop, unsure if the stranger was following. Running through the streets, he dared not look over his shoulder until he had locked the front door of his flat.

He did not sleep that evening. As irrational as he felt, he could not reason with what he had witnessed. The figure was real. The figure he had imagined and sketched into his notebook, existed.

He descended the stairs cautiously for his shift the following evening. He flipped the tattered sign to the Open side but hesitated and kept the pub door locked. He poured himself a whiskey double to ease his nerves. He had imagined the figure sitting on the bench, that much was certain; yet, trepidation caused him to attempt to reason with himself. Perhaps he had seen the man before, wandering the main street, or even smoking on the bench across from the pub. Anything was possible, he thought. Then it occurred to him. He opened the notebook and drew the antique shop as accurately as he could, including notches on the damaged areas of the bookcase and all book bindings he could recall from memory. He sketched the figure, hollowing out one of the books, and placing a wad of cash into it. If his sketches really were coming to life, he would find out tonight.

Using the alley system he made his way to the shop. He peered into the window. No one seemed to be inside except the owner, snoring in his usual armchair behind the till. He moved towards the bookcases trying to relax his pounding heart. He searched the books until close, finding no secret compartments or money. He felt relieved, vowed never to touch the notebook again. He returned to his apartment, placing the notebook at the bottom of his keepsake box, filled with items he could neither part with or justify taking up shelf space in his small apartments over the years. Had he broken his vow, he would have discovered a slight alteration to his previous drawing showing the figure placing the money into a book reminiscent of the notebook. Had he turned the page over, $20,000 dollars in the hollowed out compartment would have greeted him to his delight.