The little black book

Able had entered the profession, a fit and lively young man, hoping he would be able to make moving on a little easier for the families of dead loved ones, make them look a bit more alive before their families said their final goodbyes. Using this as his motivation Able made his work his life, but his work was death. And slowly as his work became more of his life he became more of death until all that was left was a shell of a man looking for something to fill it, now gaunt appearance and the spark gone from his eyes. The rent did not help.

One night when he was preparing another shell for viewing. He felt something different. He had been around death so long that he almost knew how it felt. As he manipulated its face with his tools in an attempt to change the cruel smile into one of bliss, the skin felt unlike what he was used to, like there was something still there behind it.

The funeral was like normal. Tears were shed. Speeches were read. But he could not shake the feeling. The contents of the coffin made him uneasy, like his first and only kiss, but that did not matter, the body was soon buried.

Nights later, he was preparing another shell for viewing, various tubes lay about, those for removing bodily fluids and others for replacing what was taken. As Able picked up the makeup brush there was a knock on the door. The figure (it was too dark to make out features but he spoke in the voice of someone who was suffering from an ailment of the lung) told him that his name was Duncan and that he came bearing gifts. The body of a few nights ago had left, ‘to the one that tends my corpse’ all his possessions. Twenty thousand dollars, the house, of which the mortgage had been completely repaid, and a little black book, but only on the condition that the money given would be used to maintain the house, nothing else and that no matter how much his curiosity begged of him he must only open the book on a Friday, the seventeenth of a month. Able thought this unusual and exclaimed that he could not think of taking the inheritance from the man's family, although he was grateful for such kindness. However when he was informed that the body had no family he quickly reconsidered and swore to the man that the final will and testament would be fulfilled. This strange man, who remained in shadow, away from the meagre pool of light in the doorway, reached into his jacket pocket and extended his gloved hand with the documentation and checks. He declared that it had all been put in order and all documentation taken care of before disappearing into the night without another word.

The new house felt different, and the curious way that Able had come to live in it bothered him. He struggled to sleep that night, but instead looked over the little black book. He felt its plain, weathered leather but he dared not open it. It had given him a new opportunity, and it was his responsibility to fulfill the final will of its former owner.

As months passed his curiosity burned, but he stayed true, he did not open the little black book. And as time grew shorter he worked with increasing vigour knowing that he would soon be able to open the little black book. It felt like a becoming of life. His life had become death but he had been saved by the body and the little black book.

As the time grew closer still he worried he would give in to temptation, so he locked the little black book in a safe. And as the time grew ever so close he worried that others would try and open it, breaking the trust he had with the body and the little black book, so he changed the safe's hiding spot and combination every day.

On the final night he could not sleep, his curiosity would not let him, the ebony grandfather clock struck midnight but still he waited. He waited as long as his curiosity would let him, just in case the clock was wrong and it was still in fact the sixteenth. He held the little black book and opened it to its first page gently, so as not to damage its old figure. Names were penned into the old page, all in different hands and various colour. He flipped to the next page and the next revealing beautiful illustrations of different people standing outside the house in which he resided. The landscape in the drawings changed but the house and the stance of the person in front never did. He observed the drawings until sleep took him.

When he woke the sun had set, but that did not matter to him, he needed to continue his work. The pages never seemed to end, but that did not matter to him. He reached the final illustration. It contained the body of a few months ago, bent and old with the weight of age bearing down on it. It was his turn to sign his name in the book. And he did so as all the previous owners had done before. As he signed his name into the little black book, though, he felt something drain from him along with the ink, and the book’s weathered leather became smooth and uncracked again. His eyes teared, the candle light he read by died. Darkness.

The little black book was wrenched from his hands and he felt something of him go with it as lethargy grabbed hold of him. He could no longer feel his own fingers, though they had just written in the little black book. His heart beat laboured. He felt that a curse had fallen upon him draining his life away prematurely. He had been tempted by something of great evil. It must be destroyed before it is too late.

The moon was bright orange in the sky that night as he dug up the grave of the body, the previous owner of that dreadful book. He knew it must be destroyed. The mud was slime, the shovel had to be unstuck with each swing but still he persisted, each swing draining him more than the last. He reached the coffin that contained the shell. He clambered to retrieve his axe, which was slippery in his hands. With a few swings powered by desperation he cracked the coffin. He saw, lying there, a man. Holding the evil black book. In defiance of all reason and reality, the man clambered out of the coffin. Able felt the feeling he had when near the man months ago but now he recognised it as sinister. He swung his axe at him in an attempt to destroy this ancient evil. It landed deep in the dead man’s side.

Able fell back in pain clutching the wound where his axe had landed. I, clutching the axe planted it into him again. He lay still. I retrieved my little black book and then placed Able into his coffin. He was a shell in life and now is a shell in death. I reburied the coffin that contained him before day break.

I returned home, it had been well maintained while I had been gone. I entered, I need not sleep, I had done enough of that already, instead I pored through a whole new life of memories and sat back appreciating the new drawing in my little black book. It was a good likeness, one I would get used to.