Pandora's Journal

A brass bell rings against the thrift shop's glass door as I step into the musty smell of a rather dull building. A middle-aged woman in blue jeans and a matching jacket mumbles a “welcome” without looking up from the pages of her book.

I step further inside with a small nod. I'm met with the sight of many ancient materials filling the room from wall to wall. Everything appears to be a different shade of brown. Tarnished golds and silvers line most of the wooden antiques, and plenty of knick-knacks fill the spaces in between. Through the clutter, I spot a bookshelf - hopefully containing at least one unused journal. A morning latte had just destroyed my last one after an unfortunate nudge, and my pennies of a paycheck wouldn't arrive until next week. I needed something now to continue my work. Something cheap.

I walk over and run my hand along a shelf of old tomes, tilting my head at the clean streak in the dust left behind by my fingers.

“Bit of a reader, are we?” said the clerk from her desk.

I turn my head to see that she has raised her chin from the pages of her book, just enough to acknowledge my presence.

“Me?” I reply in habit. But I already knew; the store was devoid of other shoppers.

Her brown curls shift a little, and she continues without acknowledging the question. “We just got some new books in." She flips a page. "Or, maybe that was last year… Should be something for you on that back shelf, I’m certain.”

I tense my lips. “Right. Do you have any journals, actually - instead of a book?”

“Hmm.” She makes a popping noise with her mouth. “Maybe, if you’re lucky. You’ll have to sift through them yourself and see.”

Facing back to the shelf, I exaggerate an “uh-huh” before shifting back through the tomes.

She looks back at her reading material. “So you write instead? Anything I’d recognize?”

I open a book containing old riddles, then place it back. “No.”

She puffs a stray hair off her glasses and maintains a straight face. “Well, what do you write then?”

I place a hand on the back of my neck. “Ah.. Suspense, I guess. Horror, sometimes.”

“Anything published?”

I shake my head.

“No romance?” she asks.

I catch a glance of a pitch-dark tome on the upper shelf, and reach to grab it. The look and rustic feel of the partially torn binding tells me it could be older than the shop itself. I take hold, and the book slides effortlessly from its place. A snappy flip through reveals empty pages. The paper appears worn and discolored. I pinch and pull on a corner with a bit of force to test. Sturdy.

“No,” I finally respond. I race to the counter. “I’ll take this one. How much?”

“Hmm..” She shifts around in her seat. “Are you sure that's a journal? It has a title.”

I look down and am surprised to see that she is correct. Squinting, the cover of the journal simply reads Pandora. The words appear to have been crudely cut in by a jagged object. “Must have been a gift to someone's daughter.”

Her lips curl up. “Well, I simply could not charge for someone else's gift. Take it.”

I hold the journal up with one hand. “You sure?”

“Of course. It was probably left in the store by accident anyway. It’s just a journal, after all.”

***

I open the door to my studio apartment and am met with the usual silence. Light from the hallway floods the room briefly, revealing remarkably little. I put on a pot of coffee and made my way to the wooden chair aligned with my cracked desk. I flip on my desk lamp as a single source of light in the corner, which flickers for a moment. Finally, I place the journal down to begin.

I’d just been in the middle of writing out an exciting idea for a creature that follows its victims through window reflections before biting into them when they least expect it, before I accidentally spilled all over the script, that is.

Free - very generous of the shop lady.

I barely had a dollar to my name anyway. I’d have to make it up to that quirky clerk sometime, if I could. The apartment could use some form of decoration anyway, and one of the dusted trinkets from the shop would blend in just fine.

I stare a moment at the dark little tome with Pandora, and flip open to its first page. To my disdain, words I had missed earlier were already written inside the cover. I hated to have to write ideas in something that wasn't fresh. The writing was barely legible and in cursive.

Dear author, in this journal, may you write the desire you feel. The value of your wish be put to toll, and upon cross-out be real. For toll, consult the end.

“What the hell? Some kid wrote in here,” I say aloud. "Desire you feel, and not even a good lyric. Who rhymes feel with real?" Amateurish.

I tap my pen to the page a few times, making some pointless dots on the side while attempting to pick up my thoughts from earlier, but can’t seem to put words to the page. I mull over the cover again, and then again. Absurdity.

And yet…

Finally, I write a sentence, but not for my story.

I wish I had a better journal.

I smirk to myself, and then blink at the page. Ink begins to take shape next to my sentence on the page. From nothingness, a little black one appears next to my words. I jump back from my chair, and it's knocked over.

I glance around the apartment with alarm, looking for anyone, anything out of place.

Nothing but the dark and smell of black coffee. My lamp continues to flicker, and I can hear the electrical blip.

I breathe in slowly, then look again at the dim page. My sentence remains, with a one next to it.

I gather myself, fix my chair, and sit down without letting my vision stray from the page. I think of the instructional text.

“And then… cross it out?”

I strike out the sentence, my hand trembling. As soon as I finish etching out the final letter, the doorbell rings. Every hair on my body comes to a rise, and I am frozen for a moment. It rings again.

Unsettled, I walk to the door and stare through the peephole at an empty hallway. I open it. A package is lying on the mat.

It can’t be.

Arms still shaking, I rip the side of the box open. A grey, brandless journal, completely pristine.

I close the door tight, lock it, then drop the new journal on the floor and pace the room in circles. I walk past the freshly steamed coffee, ignoring it, and lean on the cupboards with both hands.

A trick, maybe? Was there a special ink that made the number appear later? Did a reality show deliver the journal to film my reaction? Am I just losing it?

I bite my lips and stare across the room at the now alluring text, which still lies open on the desk. The draw was too strong, forget my monsters and horror narratives. I had to test further. My legs move, and then my hands.

Red Ferrari.

Again, by the will of magic itself, a number appears. This time, not a one, or a two, perhaps, to denote the next item listed. The number, instead, was one thousand. I cross out my sentence in one strike, and in the same instant hear two high-pitched honks outside my window.

I stand and waltz to the window, slack-jawed, equal parts fear and wonder. I slide the creaky glass open, and just outside in my parking spot, a new Red Ferrari.

I slap myself hard, and the sting enlightens me. This couldn’t be real, and yet there it was. I write that I want a journal - I receive a journal. I write that I want a car - I receive one. These dark pages had spoken the truth.

I grew lightheaded, a spell of dizziness. Infinite thoughts and possibilities flood my mind, but one easy choice came forth from the many. Nothing in life had mattered before this moment; I could have it all now. I jump back to the desk and write in Pandora’s journal once more.

One billion dollars in my checking account - no questions asked.

My lip twitches as I titter and begin crossing the sentence out. To the side of my writing, I see the number twenty thousand forming. My hand hastens, and the number doesn’t finish taking shape before I have completely crossed out my sentence. Without taking a breath, I pull out my phone and log in to my banking application. One billion - and change.

I fell from my chair and burst out laughing, a hand half covering my face. Every pain suffered, every dead-end job, every failed project, all of it - who cares? I’d live the life I wanted now. The life I knew I deserved. That clerk has no idea what they gave up.

“All thanks to you.” I pat the black journal and take notice of the silly writing inside the cover once more. In particular, the final sentence.

For toll, consult the end.

I linger a moment, then take in the meaning, and my face curves down. My hands begin to numb and sting, and I feel sweat forming on my neck. I struggle to thumb through the rest of the empty pages in the journal before reaching the back cover, which contains one final sentence.

For toll to be paid, once desire is crossed, a number shall depict the days of life that are lost - the price of each dream, irrevocable.

“Irre.. Irrevoc…” My chest heaves. “Twenty…” Twenty thousand.

I reach out for the journal and stumble, failing to grasp it. I catch myself on the floor and attempt to take air in, but it feels like my throat has been closed. The apartment floor begins to blur, and each part of my body shakes.

More than fifty years.

As if looking over from above, I see my body collapse to the floor. The edges of my vision darken by the second. I look over to my desk one last time and see the obscured outline of a woman with her hand on the journal. All is faded save for her eyes, which burn into me.

I float away, and then...