She rolled her eyes, lips tightened with anger, and sighed. This wasn’t the only time I’ve had to drop whatever I was doing to and run to Troy’s aid whenever things got out of hand.
I took a light jacket off the back of one of the dining room chairs and slipped it on. Claire followed me to the front door where I retrieved my car keys from the two-pronged piece of pegboard hanging on the wall. She followed me out to the driveway, gave me a quick kiss on my right cheek and went back inside as I backed out of the driveway.
A bulbous-white moon sat high in the starry black sky, glowing faintly behind a thick roiling cloud cover. I cut my Subaru toward the west side of town and took a right, cutting through a small cookie-cutter subdivision of cozy brick and stucco homes and turned right onto County Road 67.
I followed an old gravelly road through knee-high yellow weeds, heavy thick pines and gnarled gray oaks. My headlights pierced the darkness, throwing odd shadows that weren’t supposed to be seen by human eyes. A black snake squirmed across the road, its slick dark form an ominous talisman of impending danger that I knew nothing about.
To be quite honest, I was jealous of his carefree lifestyle; it was like trying all thirty-one flavors and then coming back for thirty-one more. I was happily married and nothing or no one in this world that could persuade me to fuck it up; nothing.
The other half of what he said was everything I’d told Claire two years ago as we were leaving the rivalry football game between Parker High and Shallow Rock. I knew she hadn’t told him because, in her words, she’d “rather smell pig shit from a distance than talk to him”.
If he hadn’t heard it from us, then where? I hadn’t said it to any of the other teachers at school so it couldn’t have come from them.
Two minutes later, I pulled my car through the entrance of a massive trailer park backdropped by a wall of dense-green trees like the ones I’d passed on the way here. I turned left at the main road and drove three blocks until I found the right one, a slate-gray aluminum-sided number with a red USC Trojans flag hanging across the front window. I killed my headlights, parked next to his red Chevy, slid out of my car and knocked on his door.
When the door eased open on the third knock, I stepped inside and shut it behind me. The place was silent save for the mingled sounds of a clock ticking from the wall above the living room television and a soft pop song spewing from the opposite end of the house.
I peered down the hallway and saw the bathroom door standing ajar, spreading an L of soft brass light across the hallway; odd shadows bled across the walls and floor. I gave a derisive snort, shook my head and followed the half-lit corridor toward the bathroom. I stepped inside, drowning myself in a blanket of thick stifling heat and steam that fogged the massive sink-top mirror.
No Doubt spewed from the little Bluetooth speaker sitting on the far-left corner of the sink. I killed the speaker and leaned casually against the sink with my arms folded across my chest and waited for him to react. Nothing; nothing but the rhythmic tap of water dripping from the faucet.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Okay.” I intoned. “We’ll just try this.”
I took a step toward the toilet when something tapped against my left leg, stopping me in my tracks. I grimaced at the thick coppery smell stinging my nostrils, burning the back of my throat. I glanced down, my brows furrowed, and watched the cloud of steam drifting through the bathroom in lithe surreptitious coils slowly dissipate.
Troy’s left arm jutted out through one side of his white-plastic shower curtain and sat perched on the edge of the tub, his fist grasping the ribbed yellow handle of a box-cutter. A long jagged gash was etched across his wrist, exposing the soft pink flesh beneath. Blood slid down the tiny three-inch-blade in dark-red pearls and dripped onto the book lying face down on the floor beside of the tub.
An alarm rang in the back of my head, urging me to run just fucking run but I couldn’t. Beads of icy cold sweat trickling down my spine, I grasped the shower curtain in both hands and tightened my grip until the plastic gave a loud crinkling sound. I flung it back, jarring the curved metallic hooks together like tuning forks and stared down into the tub with wide panic-stricken eyes.
The thick coppery odor intensified, tingling the back of my throat in waves of acidic fire. My mouth falling open on slack-jawed hinges, I stumbled back into the countertop and gave a loud terrifying gasp. Tendrils of heat seeped past my skin and into my bones, I threw my arms out from my sides, grasped the doorknob with my left hand and the edge of the sink with my right.
Troy was lying waist-deep inside of his tub in a pool of hot soapy water, his brawny athletic body dimpled by beads of sweat, condensation and blood. His head was slumped forward, his chin resting firmly on his chest, his aphrodisiac green eyes were now diluted down to a blank motionless stare. His right arm rested limply against his hip; his cracked pale lips were twisted into a lopsided grin.
Waves of cold fear bristled across my skin and raised the hairs along the back of my neck. I lost my grip on the doorknob and knelt onto the floor, tears brimming in my eyes.
My cheeks flushed with intense anger, a strangled cry issued from somewhere deep in my throat. I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out and felt the taste of my own blood coating my tongue. A ball of confusion and anger swirling in my chest, I clamped my hands together until my knuckles turned white and tiny cuticles were branded deep into my palms.
I knew it was too late to save him but there was also a part of me that if I had I’d have punched him in the mouth for pulling something like this. I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands and crawled toward the tub on my knees, my vision growing more blurry and weak by the second. I stretched my arm across the foot of the tub, killed the faucet, leaned over the side and buried my face in my hands.
My lips and eyes wet with tears, I held his face in both hands, and spewed an incoherent string of cuss words at him until my voice died down a low, painful wheeze. His rugged tan skin had faded to a sickly-white pallor, its somber cold touch sending waves of electric dread tingling through my skin. I patted the sides of his face as quick as I could, hoping to stir him awake (because even I knew slapping him wouldn’t help his cause) and saw something stirring from the corner of my left eye.
My body rigid with fear, I peered over my left shoulder. A cloud of blood rose up to the surface like a mushroom cloud and stained the island of soap bubbles floating above his stomach in a pastel-pink shade.
Not that; not the one thing I couldn’t avoid when he stood up from his chair.
He hadn’t exactly cut it off but he sure tried. A crooked incision was etched across his shaft from one side to the other as if he’d started it from one side and then once the first try didn’t work decided to start from the other end. Now, it hung down from between his legs in an L; bits of skin and flesh floated under the surface of the water in tiny flakes like fish food.
I slapped my hand across my mouth, backed away from the tub and fell back against the cupboards under the sink. My body trembled while my mind continued to grasp the concept of what I’d just seen. I could understand him having sliced his wrists but.. this was just–
Although my mind was too foggy and distorted, there was only one word that I could use to associate with what I was seeing: lunacy. Pure and total. All I knew was that I had to leave before things got too bad for my liking.
(I read about it inside of your goddamn book)
I didn’t know what he meant by that but I wasn’t going to stick around and play twenty questions figuring out why. I saw the book still lying face down on the carpet only there was something different about it.
The river of blood dripping onto the book’s spine was now streaking across the cover in the same fashion as it was when I first bought it. What did it all mean?
I sat up, wiped the sweat from my brow and took two deep breaths to shake off the fear-induced paralysis seeping into my bones. There was a side of me that wanted t
o leave it here and let someone else worry about it but I had my reasons.
How could my words come off harsh enough to drive him to...to...this?
How did my words get onto the page in the first place?
I retrieved the book, used the edge of the countertop to hoist myself up from the floor and stuck it in my back pocket. I wiped my fingerprints off the edge of the sink amongst anything else I’d touched and hurried back out to my car.
The cool spring breeze seeped through my half-open window bringing with it the smells of fresh carrion and pin sap; it caressed my forehead with soft, chilly fingers. Moonlight filtered through the encroaching forest high above, spreading alien shadows across my front windshield.
Nausea churned deep inside the pit of my stomach and rose toward the back of my throat like lava. I reduced my speed and, my tires crunching over loose gravel, eased my car onto the shoulder of the road. I flung my door open, lurched over the rocker panel and, blocking my face from any oncoming traffic, heaved until it hurt.
After I had nothing left, I pulled up to an all-night convenience store and bought a bottle of orange juice from a frumpy old woman in a blue shirt and tight jeans. When I pulled into the driveway, I drank the bottle straight down, heaved a collective sigh and unfurled my stiff-white fingers from the top of the steering wheel. I slid out from behind the wheel, my eyes still wet and blurry from all of the crying and the vomiting I’d done a few minutes ago, and locked my car on my way inside.
The house was dark save for the light fixture above the oven and the pools of mute-gray moonlight streaming through the curtains; shadows were splayed across my house like cryptic ink-blots. I hung my jacket on the back of a nearby chair, kicked my shoes off across the living room and over beside of my recliner and crept into the bathroom.
I turned on the shower, stripped down to my bare ass and pulled the curtain back. Steamy hot water poured down my back, slipped across and down my shoulders and pounded the stress out of my muscles before it dissolved in the torrents of water sliding toward the drain. I scrubbed myself down as hard as I could but I knew nothing would cleanse that image of my best friend’s corpse out of my memory no matter how hard I tried.
When I reached the bedroom a few minutes later, Claire was sleeping peacefully on her side; moonlight poured through the blinds, grasping at the covers and highlighting her pale blonde hair. I eased the covers back, slid in beside of her and threw the covers back across me. I laid there for some time, tracing the curlicues stenciled across the ceiling until sleep finally took over.
I had dream that I was lying in a bathtub filled with hot soapy water and castrated sex organs while Troy stood outside the tub, leaning casually against the sink with his arms laced across his chest, bellowing a loud maniacal laugh.
*****
WHEN we woke up the next morning, we were greeted with the news of Troy’s death from a text I’d received on my cell phone from one of the other teachers; they told me that Mrs. Thompson had indeed gone over to Troy’s place and found him lying in the bathtub. I did my best to look surprised when I was told about it.
“What happened over there last night?”
“I just made him a cup of tea and made him take some aspirin.” I shrugged. “He’d drank a little more than what he usually does on a regular basis. All he did was throw up half of the time I was there but he seemed okay when I left.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth because not only had I not shaken it off yet but I also knew she wouldn’t believe a word of it. She offered to cook breakfast but I gently brushed her off and settled for cereal instead. As we were getting ready for work, she asked me if I was okay and I told I was.
I kissed her as she hurried out of the house and then pretended to have forgotten my phone. I waited for her car to pull away when I slipped my phone from my satchel and called the school to tell them I wasn’t coming in today. Principal Greene was sympathetic to my plight, as he always was with everyone, and hoped that I would feel better by Monday.
Troy was my best friend and this book killed him. I wanted to know why and there was only one way for me to find the answers I was looking for.
I locked the front door on my way out, grabbed a cup of coffee from one of those Star Bucks rip-offs you see on every corner and headed out of town. The sun was a blind-white beacon in the clear blue sky and there was a slight chill to an otherwise cool spring breeze. I’d left the book back home because I couldn’t bring myself to look at it without going back to that terrible night when my best friend became the poster child for abstinence.
When I pulled up to Minerva’s around ten thirty, I got a text from Claire: U CALED IN SICK? R U OK? I told her no but I wasn’t feeling up to going to work because of what happened with Troy. She came back with a sympathetic greeting of her own and told me to relax.
I gave myself a pat on the back for coming up with that on such short notice; now I know how exciting it felt for my students when they lied to me about their homework. The bad news was that I only had so much time to do everything I needed to do and then get back home before she did.
When I arrived at Minerva’s, there were probably fifteen people floating around the place. I took a right, just as we’d done two days ago, and made my way passed a makeshift diner that sold greasy food on even greasier plates. As a show of respect, I browsed all of the kiosks along the way until I reached the right one.
When I found it, it’d been closed off by an aging blue plastic tarp that’d been strung up across the doorway by thick bands of white rope. I approached the tarp, eased the left flap aside and peered in to see if they’d either closed down for lunch or hadn’t opened yet.
The only evidence that they were ever here were the odd horse-shoe shaped trail of small round imprints from the rubber-topped table legs streaking across the dusty linoleum floor like animal tracks in the snow. Here today, gone tomorrow. Thin pockets of cobwebs had gathered in the corners of the ceiling above the kiosk and fluttered lazily in the soft cool torrent of air spewing from a nearby window fan.
“They left a long time ago.” A new voice said.
I spun around and peered into the kiosk on my right. An arthritic old man stood, leaning over the top of a waist-high glass-topped counter packed with cheap gold watches and handmade jewelry; the three sided shelf behind him held an array of vintage porcelain knickknacks and stuffed animals. His wispy white hair lay in a neat combover across his liver-spotted head; his narrow blue eyes, thin pink lips and broad nose was accentuated by a net of wrinkles brought on my years of wisdom and whiskey. He wore blue jeans, cracked brown-leather boots and a red pocket tee with an old company logo stitched across the left front pocket.
“I see that.”
He squinted his eyes and gave me a suspicious glance. “Weren’t you here last week?”
“My wife and I were.”
“Now I remember you.” He said, then added. “Your wife bought a few ceramics from me that day. A cute blonde with a scar on her hand, right?”
I nodded, a thin lipless smile spreading across my face. He waggled his finger and shook his head at the notion of this being a small world. Instead of Garth Brooks, a Lady Gaga song was being piped through the speakers.
“Do you know where they might’ve went?” I asked, jabbing my left thumb over my shoulder.
“I wish I could.” He said, jostling his head to one side. “They didn’t even say goodbye when they left here yesterday.”
“They left here yesterday? Do you remember what time?”
“It was about an hour and a half after you and your lady friend left.” He said, emphasizing with his hands. “After you two left they started packing everything up as fast as they could. It was like they were on fire and they had to get it all together or burn up. They kept talking to me about how they were glad to have gotten rid of that damn thing.”
“What did you think they meant?”
“Some damn book.” He mumbled. “I thought they were losing th
eir cotton-picking minds if you ask me. The brunette was going on about how they had to get rid of it to keep it from killing them, too.”
“Really?”
He nodded, a smile dancing on the corner of his lips.
“Those potato-brained twits even tried to sell it to me but I don’t read that twisted shit.”
I shook my head and sighed when something prodded my left shoulder. I glanced back at him, meeting his gaze. He held up a ceramic knickknack of two conjoined geese wearing blue and red bonnets; the anxious smile etched across his face accentuated the pleading glaze in his eyes.
I bought the knickknack and a small stuffed teddy bear in a bright red tee-shirt I thought would look nice on my desk. Once I bought a second knickknack, he gave me their full names.
*****
NOW it made sense.
After I sat in the car and Googled their names, I found out the old man had been right. Although it’d gone to great lengths to kill my best friend, I had to know what else this book was capable of doing. According to the information I gathered, it’d left an indelible mark on those women’s lives that nothing could erase.
In the summer of two-thousand-seventeen, Mary Lee’s husband Larry had read the book and decided to step out into his garage to finish off the swallow the rest of the anti-freeze he kept under his worktable; she told the authorities that the book made him think that she never loved him anymore. Flora’s husband Clyde had read the book the following summer and dove head first into a wood chipper; she claimed that her husband read that she’d been making funny of his “erectile difficulties” to her friends.
And two years later, it made Troy Woodson believe that I was jealous of his carefree lifestyle.
The title was enough to send a warning out to anyone who wouldn’t have turned a blind eye to it like I had. It was Latin for “hate”.
How could I have written what I was thinking if I hadn’t even read the damn thing yet? Had it put me under some supernatural spell, forcing me to rewrite the pages without my knowing? The pages of a journal were meant to be filled with our daily thoughts and feelings and then kept out of the prying hands and eyes of the people around us; this one had sucked every hateful thing I’d ever said about people behind their back, whether it was out of anger or not, and then mentally scribbled them across the pages without me having to know about it.
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