Mr. Black's Collection

She held the book in her hands as delicately as if it was some ancient thing, a breeze away from disintegrating into dust. Never before had she held something with so much power.

Her father had lived for this book. It was the first thing he touched in the morning, always resting on his bedside table while he slept, before putting it into the small shirt pocket above his heart. Even when he showered, the book was always within arms reach. Her father was attached to the book as if the words within it were the story of his life, and he wouldn’t let it go until it ran out of pages.

…

He’d reached the last page on a sweltering weekend in August. Audrey had watched as he absently flipped through the pages, skimming the names in the little black book to see if there were any he’d missed. When he couldn’t find a single name without a line through it, he closed the book and placed it on the table in front of him rather than in his shirt pocket. “Well, I guess that’s it, then,” he had said, smiling at his daughter.

“So what happens now?” she’d asked. As long as she could remember, her father had worked as a debt collector for Mr. Black, the names written in the book sending her father all over the country to track down each debtor. If there were no names left in the book, no one left to collect from, what was he going to do now?

“I feel like some ice cream,” he’d said lightly, his contented smile wiping away any worry Audrey had felt.

…

A week later, Audrey had sat next to her father’s hospital bed, her hands clasped together so tightly the whites of her knuckles looked like bone. She’d been listening to her father’s breathing for the past hour, slow and rasping. With every inhale, she braced herself for the exhale that wouldn’t come. But the exhales kept coming, though, to her, they seemed weaker every time, a countdown to the final breath that would take him from this world.

“Audrey,” he said quietly. He struggled to push himself up to sitting. Audrey reached to ease him back down but he pushed her hands away. “I need to sit up.”

She nodded mutely. He’d lost so much weight in the past week she could make out the bones shaping his once round face. But when he looked at her, she saw the same spark and intelligence that she’d always known from her father.

“When I’m gone, Mr. Black will send someone for this.” He pressed the little black book into her hand. “You give it to him and you say ‘I never asked. And I’ll never tell’.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, staring at the book.

“He’ll know. The messenger will nod, take the book and leave. Do you understand?”

She nodded again.

“Take care of this book until the messenger comes, Audrey. It’s very, very important.”

It did feel important. The small black rectangle seemed to hum in her hand like electricity in a lightbulb. It practically pulsed.

“I understand,” she whispered, looking back to her father. He closed his eyes, sinking back into his pillow, and sighed as if a weight were suddenly lifted from his chest.

…

The man standing in her living room did not look like a messenger. He strolled around the room with the air of someone who belonged anywhere he went. With his sweep of black hair and grey tailored suit, he seemed more like a Lord surveying his holdings rather than a guest in a stranger’s home.

“My father asked me to relay a message to Mr. Black,” she said, a little louder than necessary, watching the man pause to examine her graduation photo on the mantle.

“What’s the message?” he asked, eyes still wandering.

“He said to tell Mr. Black, ‘I never asked. And I’ll never tell’.”

The man nodded and made a contented sound in his throat. “Yes. Your father was loyal. I expected as much from him.”

He stopped moving and turned, locking eyes with Audrey.

“Tell me, Audrey. Are you much like your father?”

“I’m sorry?”

He took a step forward. His stare was intense. She struggled to maintain eye contact.

“I know very little about you, even though you father worked for me for years. He rarely spoke of you.”

She shifted uncomfortably but fought to keep her eyes ahead. It stung to think that her father had never spoken of her with his coworkers.

“I suppose I’m like him. People always seem to tell me I take after my dad.”

He nodded again, more enthusiastically this time. “Yes. I can sense that about you. I sense that you would be loyal as well. Trustworthy.”

He stepped forward even closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened at the contact.

“Audrey, I’d like to make you an offer.”

She didn’t answer but raised her eyebrow skeptically.

A small smile quipped at the corner of his mouth.

“Your father worked for me for years as a debt collector of sorts. I now find myself with an opening in that regard. I see from your photo that you’ve recently graduated university.” He nodded to the silver framed picture on the mantle of me, wearing a cap and gown, holding a gold “2020” balloon.

“You must be looking for employment. I’d like to offer you your father’s old job.”

If she’d doubted it before, she didn’t now. This was no messenger. This was Mr. Black himself. Her father had never spoken directly about him, but she’d gleaned enough from her father talking about his day over the years to know Mr. Black would never send a messenger for something as important as the Black Book.

She carefully fixed her expression to bored nonchalance. “Is that so?”

“The signing bonus is $20,000.”

Her mouth fell open. It took her an embarrassingly long second to close it again. Her mind whirled with the possibilities of not just the $20,000, but the salary associated with a job that had a five-figure signing bonus. Was her father made the same offer when he started?

“I assure you the income associated with this position is far more than any position you’ll be applying for as a recent graduate. More, I assume, than anything you’ll be applying for in the next ten years. You’ll have full benefits, flexible hours and 4 weeks vacation per year.”

“And what is the job, exactly?” she asked, working to regain her composure.

“You will collect what is owned to me by the people listed in the black book. You still have it, I presume?” His tone was light, but it didn’t completely mask the sharp edge that told her if she didn’t have it there’d be hell to pay.

She pulled the small black book out of the back pocket of her jeans. She hadn’t put it down except to sleep since her father put it in her hand.

“Excellent.”

He released her shoulder and she swayed slightly in place. The sudden release of pressure left her feeling off-balance.

‘Think about my offer. I’ll email you a contract to review. Sign it and you can start on Monday.”

He extended his hand. She glanced at it but didn’t take it.

“I think you forgot something, Mr. Black. About the job,” she said, raising her eyes to his to find them gleaming at her like glossy black dimes.

“Oh?” he replied, eyebrow arched in interest.

“You forgot to mention what I’ll be collecting.” Audrey straightened, drawing her shoulders back and letting her chin rise slightly. “You see, I know you’re in the business of souls, Mr. Black. My father didn’t tell me, as he said ‘I never asked. And I’ll never tell.’ but this book of names… it doesn’t feel like just a book of names. I hear them. I feel them writhing when I hold the book, like they’re trapped inside.” She looked at the book in her hands and swore she saw the cover ripple subtly like snakes slithering underneath the black leather.

“If I’m going to be collecting souls from the people listed in this book for you,” she continued, “I have some demands.”

Mr. Black’s lip twitched, the small smile from earlier trying to break through. “Go on then.”

Audrey reached into the other back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a slip of paper. Mr. Black’s dark eyes danced at the sight of it.

With a confident, professional voice Audrey wasn’t sure she’d had before that very moment, she read her short list of demands. She waited for a counteroffer, or at least a clarification, but Mr. Black simply said, “Done.”

He extended his hand again and, this time, she took it.

“I’ll see you out,” she said, gesturing to the front door.

“No need. I’ll show myself out. You look like you need to sit down.”

She watched as he strode to the front door. Just as his hand reached the doorknob, she called to him, “Mr. Black. There are no more names in this book. My father crossed them all off.”

At this he turned back, the dimly lit foyer casting him shadow, except for an unearthly light glinting off too white teeth, a smile too wide to fit a human’s face.

“I think you will find enough uncrossed names in the book to get you started. Good evening, Audrey.”

She watched as Mr. Black exited the front door. Watched him through the window as he walked down the driveway to a waiting black car and drive away. Only then did she let herself collapse onto the couch, book in her hands.

The book hummed when she opened it, “Mr. Black’s Collection” inscribed onto the first page in a faded, elegant script. She flipped through the book, paper vibrating against her thumb. There, in the same handwriting, were freshly written names on every page.