A Nightmare Burnt to Life

Dad always kept that notebook on him. I didn’t know what it was for, or why he carried it around wherever he went. Like him, that little black notebook was a mystery to me.

And that’s how it’ll always be.

Because the only thing I have left of my father is that notebook and a memory that festers like an infectious disease inside of me.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the feeling of the asphyxiating heat lapping at my face. Footsteps rattling raucously, like someone desperately trying to escape. Screams amidst flames that consumed my home. Black-hooded figures shouting from the driveway, in shouts that ringed in my ears in cadences of incomprehensible chaos. Like a nightmare that refused to end.

Dad pushed me through the second-story window and shoved the black notebook into my quivering hands.

“Take this, Callie. And run for your life.”

My eyes welled from the smoke that rushed into my lungs. Not only that, but I suddenly had the sinking feeling that this was goodbye. That, at twelve years old, my life was about to end. I screamed and thrashed as my father gently pushed me out onto the back porch awning. I refused to let go of this reality. His expression fixed with resolve as he made sure I was safely out the window, whispering hushed words that failed to reach my ears. He locked his gaze with mine, his eyes so rabid and with such wild focus that I could barely recognize them. He told me one last time to go, closing the window behind me and trapping himself inside a building that would soon become nothing but ashes.

Confused and suddenly high on adrenaline, I slid down the awning and landed in the bushes, the way I’d always done in the past, despite my father’s warnings. At the time, it seemed ironic that he wanted me to escape in the same way he’d told me was too dangerous for my own good. But there was no time to dwell on such impertinent tangents. I took off in a sprint, turning my head once--only to see the house being completely devoured by flames. I knew it wouldn’t be long before there was nothing left.

But what I really wanted was for Dad to be okay. I clutched the notebook tight against my chest, imagining that my father was there, running beside me. That he was fine, even if he was stuck inside the house. That he would escape, that--

But a gunshot rang out. And at that moment, I knew it was over.

* * *

I gasp for breath as I throw myself upwards. I’m wrapped in cold, sweat-stained sheets--the product of the recurring nightmare that refuses to go away. I pull the covers off and turn to put my feet on the cold, hardwood floor. I like the cold--it doesn’t consume you the way fire does. Startled to full consciousness by the striking ice that shoots up through my feet, I immediately make my way to a trick floorboard I’d fashioned for this room, and silently pull it up to reveal a sleek, black notebook hidden just beneath the house.

I sigh with relief. Even though there’s no reason that it wouldn’t be there, I’d picked up a nervous habit of checking the floorboards every time I wake up and go to bed. For three years, it’s just laid there, undisturbed. I’ve never even bothered to check its contents. That’s a lie, actually. I’ve deliberated extensively on whether or not I should open the notebook, but realized that there was no way I would be able to go through with it. In reality, I’m too scared of what I might find out. Even though the notebook is only about the size of my hand, it's the thing that scares me the most in this world.

The nightmare comes back often enough that I have to take a strong dose of sleep aid to fall asleep at night, and even then, I can’t shut it out of my mind. In the daytime, I’m plagued with doubts and questions about my father that I wish someone would answer for me. I shouldn’t think that way, though. Especially when he’s not around to defend himself. But it still gnaws at me no matter what I do. One question, in particular, seems to take center stage:

What inside that black notebook was so important that Dad had to die for it?

I put the floorboard back in its place, brushing my foot over it to secure it back into the ground, making sure that not even the least discernible creak escapes from beneath me. Not even my aunt knows about the hiding spot, even though she lives in the room next to mine.

It’s been a while since I’ve been living with my Aunt Rena, who took me in after the incident. At twelve, I completely disconnected from the outside world, feeling nothing but overwhelming feelings of grief and anger. My dad was gone in a manner almost as mysterious as he was--and for me, that was no small thing to accept.

Any normal kid would’ve opened that black notebook and analyzed its contents a hundred times over by now, but I still can’t face the fact that what might be inside wasn’t worth my father’s life. Because although he was mysterious to me, he was also the best dad I could’ve asked for. He was always there, to cheer me on in my achievements and to lift me up when I was down. He loved and took care of me in the best way he could. I only wished that I would’ve had more time with him. That I could’ve said goodbye.

It isn’t fair that he’s gone. He’d never done anything to deserve being killed in the dead of night, with no help in sight. It wasn’t fair that those black-hooded assailants took everything from me. I know it’s selfish of me to think that way, but that’s why I can’t bear to do anything but lock that notebook away. I resent it too much for what it stands for, and yet, it’s the only thing that will tell me everything I want to know about my father. Keeping that notebook away from my eyes is a choice I’ve made my peace with for several years now, and one that I don’t intend to go back on.

So I start to get ready for the day, hoping that I can face whatever it has to offer.

My Aunt Rena isn’t rich, but she still makes do with what she has. She helped me cope with the death of my father and even invested in therapy for me. Although the therapy itself didn’t do a great deal for me, it reassures me to know that someone out there still cares about my existence. So, as an unspoken favor to her, I’ve continued to make efforts to succeed in school and to make the best of every situation--which ultimately made me seem like a carefree, stereotypical overachiever. It was easy to create that image for myself once I transferred to a new school, anyway.

I arrived at my first-period classroom, setting down my bookbag and readying myself for a long, arduous day of effort and expending energy that I don’t have to begin with. I have some acquaintances who stir in a lively manner, starting a conversation about this or that, which ultimately never interests me. What they talk about is always the same, anyway. School, romance, hobbies, or whatever new gossip was filling the halls and ears of this school. I’d been living one endless cycle for the past three years, and nothing was going to stop that.

Or so I thought.

The overhead PA rings out, static biting into the words.

“Callista Chang to the principal’s office.”

I freeze. I’ve never done anything that merited a sudden trip to the principal’s office. If anything, it would be some kind of commendation for my academia, but I doubt that they would call me in this early if that were the case. I only hoped that nothing happened that would make me even more miserable than I already am. Either way, I just want to get this over with so that I can get back to pretending that everything’s okay with my life.

Arriving at the principal’s office, I notice that Aunt Rena is seated in one of the chairs facing the principal, and the other is left vacant. I flash them a confused expression, which they respond with a motion for me to sit down.

As I sit, the principal starts explaining the reason for my impromptu visit.

“As you know, every year, we have our students write personal essays in hopes of getting donors or scholarships to invest in their higher education.”

I nod slowly, unsure of where this is going.

The principal turns to Aunt Rena.

“Apparently, Callista’s essay struck a chord in one of the donors, and she’s receiving twenty-thousand dollars to help out with her college expenses.”

Aunt Rena’s eyebrows shoot up, the same way I want to react. But I betray no emotion on my face, sure that there’s some kind of inevitable string attached to this miracle. Time to find out what it is.

“Who’s the donor?” I ask.

The principal shakes her head.

“I’m not at liberty to say. But the donor left his telephone number here if any need for it should arise,” She peels off a sticky note from her desk and hands it to me. There are some numbers scribbled on its face in hasty, albeit elegant handwriting. “I’m instructed to tell you that if you wish to contact the donor, they would rather you made the call alone.”

Now my face can’t help but betray shock.

“It’s entirely up to you to decide how you’d like to proceed,” the principal continues. “But since this arrangement was made through the school, we thought it was best to get this information to you as soon as possible.”

Aunt Rena quickly thanks the principal and asks if I could be excused. She knows me well enough to know that I need some time to process news like this. The principal obliges, and soon we’re on our way home.

Aunt Rena doesn’t ask many questions on the way back but repeatedly congratulates me on the news. I can tell she's elated, which couldn’t be further from what I’m feeling.

The issue for me is that I’d written my entire essay about the night of the murder, down to every last, excruciating detail. Every step, every sound, every thought that went through my mind was poured into that paper. I’d debated sending it in at all, but I thought, considering our current financial means, that it would be worth a shot to secure a donor or scholarship for my future.

Arriving back at the house, I tell Aunt Rena that I want to call the donor, to thank them for their investment in my education. So I lock myself in my room and dial the number that the principal gave me. The phone picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?” I ask. "This is Callista Chang. I was just calling to thank you for your donation.”

The line goes silent, but I can decipher some whispers on the other end.

“Ms. Chang, is it? That’s not your father’s last name.” A taunting voice finally rings out.

I gasp, putting a hand to my mouth to stifle the sound. I put it back down shakily, trying to steel myself.

“What do you know about my father?” I respond with a question, trying to keep the fear out of my tone.

The person on the other end of the line snickers, seeming like they'll break out in maniacal laughter any second now.

“As much as there is to know,” they scoffed. They cleared their throat to even out their words. “But I’m glad you called. I was hoping to make a deal.”

I hesitate, unsure of how to respond.

“A deal?”

All I can imagine is a sick smile spread across the donor’s face, teasing me to delve deeper.

“Yes,” the donor seethes in a snakelike fashion, letting the rest of their words roll off of their tongue with ease. “You give me that book, and I give you the rest of my donation.”

My head spins. I don’t know how to answer. Does this person know about the notebook? How and from where do they know my father? But most importantly, why would someone with so much money need the notebook from me?

But I keep my voice as level and confident as I can muster.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what book you’re talking about. I thank you again for the donation, though.”

I hang up abruptly. I probably should’ve tried to get more information out of the person, but I’m too unnerved to do anything but shudder as I gently put my phone down. If this person knows that much about my father and is after the black notebook, I have to swallow my fear and look into my past--it could mean the difference between life or death.

One thing’s for sure, though.

I need to see what’s inside that notebook.