No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Scott walked through his rainy neighborhood. It was near midnight and all the shops were closed. But those neon lights forever glowed on those dark, sullen streets, watched over by old apartment buildings and high rises off in the distance. The harsh barrage of rain on asphalt gave off that familiar musty, oily aroma that some city dwellers found comforting, despite the wet chill.

But Scott just wanted to get home. After working a 14-hour shift at the warehouse, his feet were crying out for mercy while his back struggled to remain upright. 22-year-old man, yet he was already feeling like a senior citizen. A semitruck rumbled past, sending a splash of water as it rampaged through a large puddle, soaking Scott even more. All he could do was sigh.

He passed the donut shop on his block. Approaching the nearby alley, he suddenly felt a sharp pang in his gut. It was as if someone, or something, stabbed their fingers into his stomach. He held his abdomen, breathing deeply. What the hell? he thought, stumbling into the alley and placing his free hand against the wall for support. The cold, wet brick ground against the calluses on his palm.

It was then that he noticed a dark, blood-red leatherbound book nestled in a wooden crate. Normally this would be nothing out of the ordinary; however, this particular book seemed to be unsullied by the heavy rain. Almost as if it were immune. That’s weird. Scott pondered the anomaly then reached down to grab it. Before his fingers even touched the red material, he could feel something off about it. The thought was completely illogical, but he felt the book was wanting him to pick it up. Like a child reaching out to him. Scott was a curious fellow, but he wasn’t one to be spiritual or superstitious.

The book felt warm to the touch. Inspecting the outside, it was clear that it was a journal or diary of some sort. And rather old, but not very worn. Quite the contrary; it was in fairly good shape. The spine was most odd, as it was engraved with strange runes that he’d never seen before. He ran his fingers along the markings. Each symbol they passed sent a chill up his arm and down his back. He shivered. Not once had he shivered from the cold rain, but for some reason, touching this journal filled him with an immense unease.

Scott pressed a finger to the closed pages, feeling the rough edges scrape along his thumb. Then a sudden shock, as if something cried out to him from within the book. Startled, he dropped it and stepped back, gasping. What the… At that moment, he felt he should just walk away, leaving this dark thing to the whims of the elements. But he couldn’t. No, Scott felt compelled to keep it close and safe. And so, he did.

Minutes later he stumbled into his tiny studio apartment, splashing rain water all over the entrance floor. Grimy pools formed under his stamping feet. His coat was soaked, leaving little comfort in his travels. Still, it was better than nothing. But how he longed to be able to afford a proper raincoat that time of year.

Eating that late was out of the question. He simply brushed his teeth, took a shower and laid on his mattress that sat on the floor. It was then that he noticed he was still holding the journal. He had never let go of it, even while in the shower. “What’s wrong with me?” he sighed, too exhausted to think about it. He stood and placed it on the kitchen counter before lying back down.

One good thing about the rain was that it was comforting when one was in their own bed. It gave him some companionship—a friend. The pattering against the one window in his apartment brought him some semblance of calm. And it blocked out the sound of police sirens and subway trains echoing throughout the nights.

He sighed again, rolling over to see the red journal sitting on the counter. That was the last thing he saw before the windows to his mind shut for the night.  

Harsh whispers. Scott found himself standing in an open field surrounded by giant, thick trees. The sky was scorched with ominous black and red storm clouds. And rain; he felt it on his skin, sliding down his face. But it was different—metallic. Reaching up, he felt the thick substance. Blood? He was covered in it, as well as everything else around him. The sky cried the red plasma down upon all, drowning the forest and field in its life’s essence. I'm dreaming. This has to be a dream!

Thunder. A lightning strike split one of the trees on the edge of the field. The tall, waist-high grass brushed against his fingers, cutting him. Scott looked down to find they were sharp black blades, daring him to slip and fall. The blood rain began filling up the field, rising to his ankles. He could feel it squishing in his boots. What’s happening? Thunder boomed once more, as if answering his cry with mockery.

That was when he woke up. It was still dark, and the rain had yet to cease. Light from the neon signs across the street shone through the window like an intrusive gnat, constantly buzzing and flashing. His eyes were dry, as if he slept with them open.

Then something eerie caught his gaze. The book on the counter was sitting upright, facing him. Did I… It seemed to be staring at him. Another chill surged through his chest and down his spine. Lighting flashed across the rainy sky, soon accompanied by a thunderous boom. Scott shivered and turned over, curling up into the fetal position and clutching his knees. Stop freaking yourself out man. He just had to go back to sleep.

Scott awoke to a grey, rainy morning. It seemed the sun would not be making an appearance today, as the clouds were relentless. Pops and crackles from his joints echoed across his apartment walls while he stretched, reaching up to the ceiling, feeling his back ache and burn. I need a new job. He turned to the kitchen counter to discover the book still lying down upon it, right where he placed it. Guess that was just a dream too. Weird.

He went through his morning routine: bowel release, shower, brush teeth, coffee, breakfast, etc. Before he knew it, he was walking down his neighborhood sidewalk. The rain was light then, so he was comfortable with a simple hoodie. Not that he had much choice given his one heavy coat was still damp. The morning was filled with the usual denizens of his area. Neighbors—most of whom he'd never spoken to despite having lived there for over two years—shop owners, delivery drivers and the occasional homeless person were all out and about.

Speaking of, one of the local homeless men was approaching Scott as he walked past the pawn shop. Scott didn’t know him well, but they had a few interactions in the past. The man was gentle, kept to himself, but was clearly mentally ill.

When they approached, Scott nodded a greeting. But the man’s eyes grew wider than a truck tire. He immediately began rambling while backing away. “No more! No devil in here! Getcha! Getcha gone, devil! Run devil!” he spat at Scott, then backed away into the alley. He crawled in his usual spot by the dumpster and covered himself in newspapers, muttering incoherently.

Scott was confused. But it was then that he realized he was holding something in his right hand: the red journal. Huh? I don’t even remember picking it up. I gotta find out who owns this thing. And the first place he reckoned to check, was the bank.  Book looks rather fancy; the owner probably has money.

He stepped inside the small local branch. There were already several people in the teller line, so Scott went straight to a banker sitting at one of the cubicles.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked with a professional demeanor.

“Um, yeah. Kind of a longshot, but I was just wondering if someone came in asking about a red book they might have lost? I found it in the alley last night and it looks kinda important.” Scott held up the red journal.

Almost instinctually, the banker leaned back in her chair, a small gasp escaping her lips. “Oh, uh. I can ask around really quick. One moment.” She stood, never taking her eyes off the book before she went behind the teller counter.

Scott watched as she asked around the other bankers and tellers. Too many shaking heads to give him hope. When she came back, her head shook as well. “I'm sorry, sir. But no one has been in asking about it. I can put it in the lost and found if you like?” she said reluctantly. Her eyes betrayed the offer.

“Oh, no. That’s okay.” Scott clutched the book to his chest. “I'm not even sure if the owner came in here. I’ll just ask around. Thanks though.” He stood and rushed out the bank, but not before hearing a relieved sigh emit from the banker. What is going on with this thing?

When he stepped outside, he noticed the pigeons on the electrical wire above him suddenly stopped cooing. They huddled together, each and every one quietly staring at him with soul-piercing eyes. Weirded out, Scott headed further down the street. One of the local feral cats was digging in an overturned trashcan. When he passed, it froze and locked eyes with him. Normally they ignored people, but it didn’t stop staring, eventually hissing and running off. The red book grew heavier in his grasp.

The pawn shop was next. Tony, the owner and manager was behind the acrylic window that blocked off the area behind the counter. A cordial nod acknowledged Scott’s presence. “Morning. What can I do for ya?” Tony greeted him.

“Hey. I was just wondering if anyone was asking around about a lost journal. I found it last night and I’m trying to find the owner.” Scott held up the red book.

Tony’s eyes squinted slightly, his head tilting to the side. “You look inside? Maybe there's an address.”

“No. I—it just doesn’t feel right. Don’t want to invade their privacy.”

“Well, that’s probably your best bet to finding the owner. But sorry, nobody’s come here looking for a book. Although…”

“Yeah?”

“There was this one fella. Came in yesterday afternoon. Tall guy, slender. Had this black trench coat on with a fedora. Round sunglasses. Really odd guy. Kinda gave me the willies to be honest.” Tony scratched under his grizzly black beard. “He was from out of town and looking for a fancy pen. Something antique. He looked to be the kinda guy that would carry a journal like that. Maybe you can hunt him down.”

“Great, thanks! I’ll try and find him. Have a good one,” Scott replied with a wave.

“Good luck, kid.”

At least I got a possible lead, Scott smiled, somewhat enjoying his detective work. Clutching it in his tight grasp, it almost felt as if the journal was guiding him, wanting him to find its owner. But the thought was silly. Scott was simply trying to do the right thing. Wasn’t he? Aren’t I?

He spent another hour or so trudging around the neighborhood, stopping by the coffee and tea shops, convenience stores and cafes, even the local motel. Eventually, he lucked out in the bookstore. The lady behind the counter said a man matching that dark description was there the previous evening. She saw him frequent the bar across the street. Awesome. I might have him!

 The bar door creaked when he stepped inside. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the place. It was mostly empty. The bartender stood behind the counter, cutting limes. Two men sat in the booth near the window. From what he could hear, they were talking about the maintenance of their vehicles. Another man sat at the bar nursing a beer and watching the football game. Then in the booth near the back of the room, was the man he sought.

Scott slowly approached, still clutching the book to his chest. As he got closer, it was as if the book was breathing. Every step was a deeper breath, reeling him in. The man looked up as he grew closer, a wicked smile spreading across his face. Despite being in such a dark room, he still wore those round sunglasses. The fedora cast a shadow just above his nostrils. When Scott finally arrived, the man simply held out a hand, gesturing him to take a seat. It was as if he was expected.

“Hello, young man. I see you have retrieved my journal. How noble of you to return it.” The man’s voice was simultaneous ice and fire. Burning with a fervent chill that seared Scott to the bone. Scott’s heart began to race, thudding in his chest like a jackhammer. But then he realized it was coming from the book.

“I, uh. Yeah. I was looking for its owner all morning,” Scott’s voice was shaky. Who is this guy? Why does he freak me out so much?

“Very good. I thank you. Now, if you would be so kind.” The smiling man held out a hand.

Scott placed the book on the table, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of it. All he wanted was to be rid of the damned thing, but it wouldn’t release him.

The man chuckled. A venomous cackle that froze Scott’s blood. “It seems it’s taken a liking to you. As it does. You aren’t the first however, nor will you be the last. May I ask, did you happen to look inside?”

Scott simply shook his head.

“No, I thought not. After all, you’re here. In one piece.” The man tilted his head, his smile never wavering. “Would you like to?”

“I—I don’t know.” Scott’s hands were shaking. The book gyrated along the table toward the man in the glasses like a vibrating cellphone.

“Of course you do.” The man reached out, gently sliding the book to himself.

Scott felt an immediate rush of relief, but also a deep longing. He was glad to be rid of the cursed thing, but at the same time he wanted to hold it again, feel it in his palms, slide his fingers along its spine.

The man pulled an extravagant pen out of his inner trench coat pocket. It shined with ornate gold patterns that looked to be red-jeweled eyes. He then opened the book, holding it chest level so Scott couldn’t see inside. Then the man pricked his wrist with the pen, bloodying the tip. While writing a few quick strokes, the man seemed to be staring at Scott from behind those dark glasses. With a thud he closed the book, placing it back on the table before pushing it over. “Go on. Have a look.”

“Not sure if I want to.” Scott leaned back. “I'm not comfortable looking into someone’s private affairs. Not how I was raised, ya know?”

“Oh, but I grant you permission. Besides, I sense you wish to see. Additionally, the book has chosen you. It wants you to look. Once it makes a decision, little can be done to stop it.” The dark smile widened.

Scott gulped down his nervousness. Just one look. What could it hurt? He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to. So, he slowly reached out, taking the book in his hands once more. Immediately the feeling rushed back: cold, discomfort, fear, longing, wanting, desire, lust. Just one look… He picked it up and slowly opened the first page. Then the next. Upon seeing the grotesque images and words of an unknown language, the intoxicating feeling of pain and pleasure was immeasurable. An immense suffering swirled through his soul, accompanied by intense lust that massaged his darkest desires. He found himself frothing at the mouth in agony while nearly having an orgasm.

Blood seeping from his nostrils went ignored as he turned page after page, wallowing in the horrors of the red book. The burning in his chest spread throughout his core and into his limbs. Before he bit off his tongue, he could hear the loud cackle of the man in the round glasses. He then saw through them, and the eyes beyond. Those bright yellow ovals, with pupils like a snake pierced every inch of his being. He knew by that point what a colossal mistake he’d made. All hope was lost when he felt his chest split open and the inferno bellowing from within burst forth, enveloping the man in glasses as well as all in the bar.

***

The morning news spoke of the incident as nothing more than a gas leak explosion. It took out the entire block, leading to a chain reaction that followed the gas lines to several other areas, sparking fires and explosions throughout the city. They noted how this was just one of several different freak accidents that happened over the past few weeks: explosions, fires, animal attacks, collapsed buildings and more. Some would say it was merely coincidence. Some would say it was the beginning of the apocalypse. Others would say it was a gang spreading fear. None knew the truth.

But afterwards, a few miles from Scott’s apartment, the man in round glasses observed a young woman walk past a trash bin in her local park. She noticed a quaint red book resting atop some dirty magazines. When she picked it up, her yorkie began growling. It was heavy in her hands. But there was something about it…she had to find the owner.