The Small Matter Regarding His Inheritance

Hemingway Manor loomed tall against the sky, the red brick vibrant against the creeping ivy. James felt the pea gravel crunch under his feet as he approached the massive oak doors. He paused, searching for his nerve. He had no clue this place existed until the lawyers showed up at his apartment. They said a long lost uncle bequeathed it to him along with a trust fund to maintain the grounds and property taxes.

The lawyers mentioned there was something else, but he would have to drive the four hours to the manor to collect it. His uncle demanded it remain in the house. So, here he was putting more miles on his beater, heading to his new house, all based on instructions from a dead relative he’d never met.

He fished the keys out of his pocket, the jingling shattering the silence. A crow cawed in the distance. His hand shook as the key found the lock. With a click, he twisted the handle and stepped inside.

The massive entryway dwarfed his six-foot frame. The grand staircase led toward each wing of the house. Dust danced in the light from the stained glass above the door, collecting on the once polished marble floor. The curtains hung limp, moth-eaten, and filled with holes. The place needed a serious upgrade, thought Michael.

The lawyers said the item was in the study. It took Michael a good fifteen minutes of wandering around before he found it. It was a scene straight out of a Miss Marple novel. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, a large desk overshadowed the oriental rug, and there, on the desk's leather pad was a manila envelope, his name scrawled across the center.

His feet wouldn't budge. Time slowed. His heart thudded in his chest. As if in a dream, he blinked, breaking the spell. He tore open the envelope. Inside was a letter and a small black book.

He dumped the contents on the desk, picking up the book. Turning it over in his hands, it was the most unremarkable thing he had ever seen, the worn edges and dull leather its only defining characteristics. He tossed it on the desk and slid his finger along the seal of the envelope.

Michael,

Though we have never met, I have watched your life for some time. I met your parents once. It saddened me to hear of their passing. I know you do not know who I am and that, my dear Michael, was on purpose. I left the family in a fit of rage when I was about your age. I was always the black sheep and felt more at home on my own.

You, my dear boy, are my heir. Hemingway Manor was the jewel of my life. I have put my vast fortune into the upkeep of the grounds and the taxes the house occurs each year. You will never need to worry about the house. As you are well aware, I did not leave you any money. I did, however, leave you my greatest possession.

The little black book. Read it. Heed it. You are a good soul. I know you will not repeat my mistakes.

In death,

Jamison

Michael wished he had the money, as he put the letter down and picked up the book. Pulling the rubber band off, he opened it. On the inside of the cover was a list of names, all crossed out, except for one. Just below Jamison’s was his. The hair on his arms stood.

Flipping the page, Michael saw a single entry.

Today at 5 p.m. Shelly will come by and drop off a casserole. Make a passing comment about not having time to go to the grocery store. She will give you $100.

He read it again. He didn’t know a Shelly. He glanced at the grandfather clock. It was five now. He went to grab the letter when the doorbell rang. He made it to the door faster than it took him to get to the study. When he opened it, a frail old woman smiled up at him.

“You must be Michael. James talked about you all the time. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She proffered a tinfoil covered dish. “I made you a casserole. Don’t worry about the dish. I can come by in a few days to pick it up.”

He wondered if Jamison had set this up. The entry said a lady named Shelly would bring a casserole, and here she was. If he set it up, was he expected to go along with what the book said? To talk about groceries? His head spun. Something strange was going on.

It felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. Something compelled him, and he decided to go for broke. “Yeah, um, thanks. I really haven’t had any time to go and get some groceries.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Here take this,” she said digging out a fresh, crisp $100 bill from her handbag. Michael stared at her. Jamison must be behind this, he thought. It was all too smooth. To perfect. It had to be set up.

“You don’t have to do that. I wasn’t trying to get a handout.”

“Michael, it is ok. I am happy to help you.”

“I never said I needed any help.”

“Then consider it a gift. Please take it. Jamison never took any of my gifts. Let an old woman feel good by helping you in your time of need.”

Michael took the money, closing the door as Shelly walked back to her waiting car, promising to stop by in a few days. He dropped off the casserole in the fridge and beelined it to the study. The little black book consumed his thoughts. He couldn't get over the fact that everything happened just as the book said. He kept coming back to the thought of this being set up by Jamison.

Walking into the study for the second time today, he took a deep breath. The unassuming black book on the desk called to him once again. He picked it up.

He felt nothing as he held it in his hands. The earth didn't move, the sky didn't open, and no flickering lights. He removed the rubber band once more and flipped back to the first page.

His eyes widened. It was blank.

There was no mention of Shelly or the $100, just the smooth cream pages. He grabbed Jamison’s letter and read it again.

Read it. Heed it.

How was he supposed to heed it if it was blank? He was positive something strange was going on, and it chilled his stomach. He grabbed the book and opened it once again. This time, it wasn’t blank.

Tomorrow, Mr. Henderson will come by and offer to take you to town. Make a passing comment about the weather. He will give you $250 for the old weathervane in the shed outback.

He threw the book on the floor, panicking. His heart raced just as fast as his mind. Was this magic? Something darker? Was this all some practical joke by Jamison, one last way to get back at his family for treating him so poorly? There were too many unanswered questions, the book the most pressing. He needed time to think. He needed sleep.

But sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned, his dreams filled with crazy images of Jamison laughing while holding the little black book. His eyes red, flames behind him.

That morning, he dreaded getting up. Something inside him told him the book was real and that sometime today Mr. Henderson would stop by.

He avoided the study and the book all day, using his free time to explore the house and grounds. As he sat down for a late lunch, the doorbell rang. Sure enough, it was Mr. Henderson, and the encounter played out just as the book predicted.

That night, Michael sat in the study, a hundred dollar bill in one hand and $250 in the other. His smile stretched from ear to ear. As he turned in for the night, he set the book on the nightstand, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Over the next 35 days, Michael read the book every morning. Each day a new passage told him of someone who would give him money. In total, the book bought him $20,000, all from various people in town, in a little over a month.

But, today was different. He read the passage at least 15 times. It was the first time the book deviated from its typical pattern.

Christine works at the bank in town. Her window is number three. Ask her out for coffee. She’ll accept. When it is just the two of you, tell her you know about the man at the end of the road. She’ll ask you what you want. $5000 is her limit. She will not tell the cops.

Michael closed the book. This was new territory. It read like blackmail, and that wasn’t something he was comfortable with. He opened the book one more time, but the passage was different.

How do you think Jamison got rich? Her name is Christine. Take the money.

His hands shook. Could the book read his mind? He looked at the passage again. The longer he stared at it, the more the idea seemed to take root. The book had never steered him wrong. Not to mention, getting $5k for a coffee date beat nickel and diming people who came to the door. Was this the mistake Jamison warned him about? There was only one way to find out, as he got in his car and drove into town.

Alone in the study that night, he smiled at the money spread over the desk. The book, his little black book, rested on top. He flipped it open.

In the next town over, the security guard who works at the bank is also the one who drives the money truck. His secret is his stepdaughter and the off the books cash he gives her. Her $25,000 now belongs to you.

I’m sorry uncle, he thought as he closed the book, but I am happy to make these mistakes.