Uncle Arthur

Until about 3 months ago, Uncle Arthur was a man who never feared his actions. It was as if his head bounced off the pillow at dawn, already knowing what the day entailed. When he went to the races, he always won. He never got a big win, but he made £10 here or there, and one time he even won £100. He always spoke about when my father was drafted for the war. Uncle Arthur was always certain he would come home. After a while, our family grew superstitious of what appeared to be luck. He invariably realized the outcome of his plans before they were finished. The rest of the family started asking him if he could help them “see their fate” but every request was faced with a stern no and for whatever reason we never opposed his refusal.

As you can guess, he was an especially fortunate man. You had to be, if you were constantly so sure and right about your future. This was all until about three months ago. The business he built from scratch, that had made him comfortably wealthy, abruptly collapsed. The engine in his cherished car blew up. Extreme rot in the home's foundation, he had built many years prior, led to the property being condemned to demolition. Saddest of all was the rapid withering of his health. He had always been healthy and ate what my father called “Rabbit food”. So quickly he became ill. A trip to the doctor revealed he had stage four terminal cancer.

Seeing him fade away physically was difficult, but watching his spirit be crushed was the hardest thing I have ever witnessed. He went from the happiest man alive, untouchable to misfortune was now frail and broken with no hope. His mind also faded. He would spend days scribbling into a warn black note book but the ink of the pen had ran out, and the book was empty. Near the end, when his body was so close to giving up, Uncle Arthur was a shell, waiting for death’s last beckoning call, and one day, it came.I sat beside his bed, though Uncle Arthur referred to it as his prison. His eyes had ceased to open hours before and his breathing was becoming slower. We were all just waiting for it to happen. Even as his life faded, his hands were clenched firmly around the black notebook. The faintest cough came out of Uncle Arthur’s lips.

“Mary.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

A wave of emotion flooded over me. I knew whatever he was about to say would be his last words.

“Mary. Destroy it. Please!” said Uncle Arthur.

With what slither of strength he had left, he thrust the black notebook towards me.

“Destroy…” His voiced tailed off.

In seconds his breathing stopped and the single tone of the heart rate monitor rang out his death like the church bells ring out for a wedding. I moved his hands back into what seemed like a peaceful position and took the notebook and placed it on my lap. My two brothers held my mother as she wept over the death of her brother. My father flicked a switch on the machine and the tone died.

The room became deathly quiet, bar the sobs of my mother. Uncle Arthur laid expressionless. I couldn’t bare it. I clenched the notebook and ran from the room, from the misery, as fast as I could to my bedroom. I threw the book on my bed and paced around the room. I was looking for something, anything, to comfort me. Not knowing what I was hoping for, I grabbed various objects and when the pain didn’t subside, I threw it away. Until I grabbed a pen and so vividly the image of my Uncle scribbling in his notebook came into my head. The very notebook that now lay on my bed.

Again, I don’t know what I expected, but I jumped on my bed, opened the blank notebook and scribbled. Just thrusting the pen around on the paper, creating a mess of lines. Turning the pages a few times, I scribbled again and again. Then, I jotted down every thought in my head.

‘It’s not fair,’

‘Why him?’

‘Why was life so cruel?’

‘He didn’t deserve to die like this,’

‘I cannot bare this feeling,’

‘Will I ever be happy again?’

The moment the pen left the paper after the dot of the question mark, something weird happened. The notebook wrote back. Letters, in black ink, formed from nothing.

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

My brain was so addled with grief at the moment, I didn’t even stop to evaluate what had just happened. I simply wrote back, yes.

New words formed.

‘I have a few rules. Read them, close the book and if you open again you accept them.’

Once I finished reading the sentence, the words disappeared, and new words formed. The entire notebook was now filled with the smallest of text. This was all so silly. I slammed the book shut, but a thought occurred to me. Uncle Arthur always seemed to know his future, he was obsessed with this book in his last days and the book had just suddenly began talking back to me. Curiosity got the better of me. I opened the book, and the pages were all blank again until the word ‘Wonderful!’ appeared and quickly faded.

‘Ask me again.’

I wrote the question again. Will I ever be happy again? A paragraph formed and it read;

‘Yes, sadness is inevitable, but so is happiness. One does not exist without the other, but I can help you. I can tell you the future. You can prepare for the worst and expect the best. Just ask me anything.’

Well, you might guess at this point it was all very weird, but I was here now so before I knew it I wrote;

‘When will I die?’

‘2021 May 9th’

So I had 64 years left. That’s not bad. A new thought came into my head. My uncle died in such an undignified way, so I asked the book.

“How will I die?”

This time the reply was written in red ink.

‘Rule 4: The writer cannot ask to know the manner of their death.‘

That seemed like a bit of a weird rule and now I was concerned over what other rules there were, but I had a little fun.

‘Which horse will win this Friday,’

Again the book wrote back in red ink.

‘Rule 7: The writer can only ask about his or hers own future.’

I reworded the question.

‘Will I win if I bet on the horses this Friday?’

The book wrote back in black ink once again.

‘You will not bet on the horses this Friday.’

That seemed like a weird assertion. I wanted to prove the book wrong, but Friday was an odd day. The funeral came so suddenly, and so I could not even try to make it to the races. I learned quickly that what the book said would come to pass and what it said could not be changed.

In hindsight, I wish I focused more on my Uncle’s funeral. I was so absorbed by the notebook and its ability to help me be successful. I may lay here now surrounded by riches but I know he is coming. It was the price of knowledge. Each day I grow weaker, I can feel his breath stronger on my neck. I do not have long left to live, but I hope this note finds whoever next writes in this book. I warn and urge you. Do not use this book. Discard of it in a place no one can find. Knowing the future is a curse.

Thomas scoffed at the note written in the book. He threw it in the bin and grabbed a pen. The note was clearly just another insane story from his estranged mother. He wanted to try the book to prove it and his mother wrong. He wrote;

‘When will I die?’

The words ‘Are you sure you want to know’ formed on the page.