The Guilty Party

What is it about funerals that makes people feel so guilty? I never understood. There shouldn’t be any guilt just because you didn’t like someone while they were alive--chances are they didn’t like you either.

My father barely spoke to half the people in the past twenty years, yet they all attended, bringing with them a few tears for show that most likely came bottled for “dry eye.” Maybe it made them feel better about all the crap going on in their life. Perhaps they believed if they could show remorse for the death of someone they disliked, then they could surely atone for other sins.

For instance, Julie Menken was the last to leave the wake, though I don’t know why she bothered to show in the first place. She hadn’t spoken to my father since her husband passed away a couple years back, and she never liked him anyway. It was my father and her husband that were friends, and over the years she made it obvious that she wanted nothing to do with my father. Julie barely uttered a word the whole service; but as she departed, she grabbed my hand in hers, looked directly into my eyes, and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss. I hope you can forgive me. Henry was a good man and didn’t deserve this.”

And there was the guilt.

“It was a heart attack and could have happened to anyone. It wasn’t your fault, and it isn’t like he tried to keep in touch with you either.” I meant to bring her some comfort, but the words came out like a pair of worn-out shoes: tired, rehearsed, and well-tread, as I’ve been offering the same condolences for the better part of the day.

There was nothing more to say. She patted my hands and gave me a faint smile as she walked out the door, silver hair disappearing into the evening fog.

The absence of my father didn’t hit me until this moment, with everyone gone and the house empty. I battled oncoming tears and looked for something to do to keep my mind from being haunted by his ghost. Walking into the kitchen, I found the perfect distraction and began to sort out all the food cluttering the counters. There were even more platters piled in the living room and dining room. Looks like I’ll be living off muffins, lasagna, and casseroles for the next year.

I was almost finished cleaning up the last box of muffins when I heard a knock at the front door. Who on earth could it be this late?

I begrudgingly set the box down and opened the door to watch a drone flying away. Must be one of those fancy new delivery systems. On the doorstep sat a box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pristine white string. It looked as though it belonged to a high-end bakery, though I couldn’t find a logo. There was no note either to claim this display of compelled hospitality. The string came loose with little effort, and I peeled off the paper, praying it contained a batch of gourmet cookies. I needed some chocolatey comfort after today’s events.

Much to my disappointment, there were no desserts of any kind. Instead, I was surprised to find a black, leather-bound notebook. When it occurred to me who could have left it, an uncontrollable burst of giggles escaped my lips. Barbara, my mother’s psychologist friend, must've had it delivered. My mother passed in an accident almost ten years ago and my father would have died of a broken heart if it wasn’t for Barbara’s help. This notebook was probably her way of telling me that I should journal my feelings.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a sigh, I cracked it open. But it didn’t crackle the way new leather would. Between the creases on the spine and worn edges, a closer look at the binding told me that I wasn’t this notebook’s first owner. Why would Barbara give me a used notebook? My confusion increased further when I saw half the pages missing, leaving torn edges as the only evidence of their former existence. On the first visible page there was a handwritten note addressed to me:

“Dustin Goode,

We are sorry for your loss and wish you our sincerest condolences.

We would like to give you the opportunity to partake in an experiment, years in the making! The experiment simply involves answering a series of questions, for which you will receive substantial compensation. For your comfort, all communication will take place through this notebook. If you are interested, please write your response on the following page, return the notebook to the box, and place the box on your front porch before retiring for the night. We hope you will consider our offer.

Deepest sympathies,

The Messengers”

This was certainly strange, but I was too tired to think about it further. I reasoned that it must be a follow-up survey from the funeral home and “The Messengers” was the survey company they used. I don’t normally agree to these things, but they did a wonderful service at a decent price, so I figured I’d throw them a bone.

After fishing out a pen from the back of the junk drawer, I sat down again to write my response on the next page, accepting their offer. Following instructions, I placed the notebook back into the box and on the porch before retiring for the night. I hope it isn’t a hundred pages long, was my last thought before sleep washed over me in soothing waves.

_

“Dustin Goode,

Thank you for agreeing to participate in our study!

Enclosed, you will find $500 for your initial compensation. You will receive another $500 upon returning the book with all questions completed.

Please write your answers to the questions (listed below) on the following page, return the notebook to the box, and place the box on your front porch before retiring for the night.

Thank you for your time and cooperation.

Regards,

The Messengers”

Holding five-hundred dollars in hand, I stared at the open notebook. There were more questions than I was hoping for, but I didn’t care. I was swimming in college loans, and the funeral set me back in payments—it was only a matter of time before I drowned in the steady stream of debt. I never thought about how much it cost to die, and neither did my father, apparently. As his only living relative, he left me whatever he had, but it barely covered the cost of his tombstone. This money was a blessing, and I would gladly accept whatever payment “The Messengers” were willing to dish out.

With no other plans, I sat at the kitchen table, scribbling the answers as directed while munching on a muffin.

The questions started out easy and thoughtless: What is your favorite color? Highest level of education pursued? Etc. Then they started to get deeper and darker. I continued though, thinking of the money as a constant incentive.

The light around me changed as the sun moved in the sky—my only indicator of time lapsing. It was mid-afternoon when I paused at the last question:

“How much money would you want to be paid to kill someone? (‘N/A,’ ‘I would prefer not to answer,’ and similar responses are not permitted. Answer must contain a dollar amount.)”

There was no way I was comfortable with answering this question. I almost quit, but then I glanced at the five-hundred dollars laying on the counter, a seductive sight in the sun’s warm evening glow. It’s just a harmless question, right? I reassured myself that this was simply for a random questionnaire developed for some psychological experiment.

To make myself feel better, I answered as sarcastically as possible, including a ridiculous number with a hefty amount of zeros behind a number one.

_

I must be dreaming, I thought, gawking at the coffin-sized box on the floor. A few moments ago, I lugged the box inside and unwrapped the signature brown paper and white string, exposing the jaw-dropping contents: the black leather-bound notebook atop a bed of neatly stacked cash—more cash than I could have hoped to see in my entire life.

A car honked in the street, snapping me from my trance.

With a shaking hand, I opened the notebook to read the next message:

“Dustin Goode,

Thank you for completing the questionnaire!

Enclosed, you will find half the money you requested from the last answer on the previous questionnaire. You will receive the rest upon returning the book with an answer to the following question:

“We shall kill someone in the next year. Who should we kill?”

You must answer the question. If you leave the page blank or write a response that states you cannot choose, we will execute a random individual, unknown to you.

Please write your answer on the following page and follow usual procedure.

Do not contact the authorities. We will know.

Regards,

The Messengers”

I didn’t set the notebook on the porch that night, hoping they would just leave me alone. There is no way I could kill, or choose to kill, someone in cold blood. I just wouldn’t do it, and I wasn’t about to risk calling the cops. “We will know…” I shivered at their words. I was not about to call their bluff.

That night, I prayed I would awake to an empty porch.

_

My prayers went unanswered.

On the mat was a manila envelope with the following message scrawled on the outside:

“Dustin Goode,

We hope these will help facilitate your decision.

Regards,

The Messengers”

Puzzled, I opened the envelope and pulled out a handful of loose-leaf pages, edges torn from where they were separated from their source. I skimmed through them, a name popping out on each page: Julie Menken.

Julie wrote these! She must have been sent the notebook before me. That’s why she was acting so strange at the funeral. Her words kept running circles in my mind, “I’m so sorry... I hope you can forgive me… Henry didn’t deserve this…”

I read the pages more thoroughly. Another name popped out, penned in Julie’s handwriting: Henry Goode.

I read them again… and again.

By the tenth time, I only saw red.

_

Light streamed through the curtain, glinting off specks of dust sifting through the musty air. My eyes fluttered open. It was morning and I was up before the alarm—this was a rare occurrence. My eyes widened as the events of last night dawned on me.

No, no, no… I thought as I sprang from the bed, squeaky coils complaining in protest, and rushed to the front door. Please still be there. Please, pleeeease… I prayed silently that the package I set on the porch last night was still there. I twisted the lock and yanked the door open to find a package on the mat.

I was about to sigh in relief when I noticed this package wasn’t the one I put outside, nor was it like any of the others I received over the last few days. This package was also wrapped in brown paper, but it was tied with a string the color of blood.

My heart raced faster than cars on the highway, sweat beading on every pore. With a trembling hand, I picked up the package and brought it into the kitchen, gingerly unwrapping the paper as though it was as fragile as a bomb. Inside was a letter addressed to me:

“Dustin Goode:

We thank you for your participation and for making a wise selection. Within the next year Julie Menken will die, as per your written request in last night’s submission. Her daughter, Sophia Menken, will be our next participant. Should you attempt to notify her or the police, or interfere in any form, we will know and terminate all parties involved.

The money has been transferred to your bank account. Thank you for your time and cooperation.

With all tasks completed, our communication will henceforth cease.

Best of luck,

The Messengers”

My knees buckled and I dropped to the ground, disoriented.

What have I done?