After a few minutes of waiting (during which I checked my wristwatch numerous times, so I can justly verify that at least three minutes had indeed expired while I lingered), the old man re-appeared and sat back down on his stool at the counter. He held up a pinkish book for me to see.

  “Is this the title you seek?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Excuse me, but I am quite sure this is the book you came here for today.”

  “Sir, you insult my intelligence. What you hold there is one of those blank journals, which you took from behind the counter and simply wrote ‘Necronomicon’ on the cover with a black marker.”

  “It may have the general appearance of one of these blank journals on the counter, but I assure you it is not. But more importantly, I do not appreciate some young whippersnapper coming into my emporium and accusing me of fraud. If that is indeed how you feel, I shall have to ask you to leave. Good day!”

  I stood flabbergasted by his response and truly did consider running out the door. His spiteful stare seemed to drill straight through me, causing my face to heat up and become blushed. Not wanting to appear yellow, I mustered the courage to ask, “May I inspect it?”

  “You want to inspect it, do you?”

  “Yes, sir, if that is not a problem, since you seem like a fair businessman who has his clientele’s best interest at heart.”

  “So, first you accuse me of fraud, and now you claim I am a fair businessman. That is quite fickle, isn’t it? But as far as this particular book is concerned, if you were really familiar with its content and its legacy, then you would know that the secretive nature of the text restricts it from being opened or read, except by its rightful owner.”

  “You must take me for a fool, sir.”

  “Very well then, if you are no longer interested in acquiring this book, which you originally claimed to be, and you are no longer interested in learning the forbidden secrets contained therein, then I have no further time to waste on a fool’s folly and must request that you leave these premises.”

  Catching me off guard with his ultimatum, I quite frankly did not know what to do or say at that precise moment. I have always been one to avoid confrontation at all cost, no matter how small, but this difficult old man was challenging my integrity, at the very least; and was certainly being rude at the very most. I contemplated the convoluted conversation for a few seconds, and then I smiled and replied, “Did one of my classmates perhaps compensate you to orchestrate an elaborate practical prank upon my person?”

  “Do you think they also compensated my cat as a co-conspirator?” he responded. “Perhaps providing her with some catnip or a feathered string toy?”

  Indeed, I looked down at my right leg to discover the black cat with its four clawed legs wrapped snuggly around my ankle, preparing to sink its sharp teeth into my shin. “Aiyee!” I yelped as the feline followed through.

  The storekeeper had a hearty laugh at my predicament as I tried unfurling the furry feu d’enfer from my fibula. I looked toward the cackling coot for assistance, but my panicked prancing was apparently too precious to warrant his interceding. I reached down to try to pry open the locked jaws and got my hand bit as a consequence.

  “Okay, okay!” I begged. “I shall buy the book without further question!”

  The man rang a small bell at the counter and the cat obediently retreated from its scratching post and scampered away. I limped toward the counter.

  “How much is the book?” I sighed.

  “That will be eight dollars and ninety-nine cents, plus tax. Would you care for a bag?”

  “I see that the price you quoted me matches exactly the price on the cardboard display for the clean journals here on the countertop. That is quite a coincidence.”

  The man glared at me and raised an accusatory brow. I then heard the cat hiss from some hidden locale.

  “Never mind,” I concluded. “Here is a ten dollar bill.”

  “Thank you,” the old man snarled as he snatched the sawbuck. “By the way, all sales are final.”

  ***

  Once the tied brown-paper-bagged book was in my possession, I took my leave with haste from that horrid place, planning never to return (especially since all sales were final). Indeed, I could have unwrapped the parcel in the merchant’s presence and then called him upon revealing the proof of his charade, but I feared such admonition would only prompt more hostility on behalf of the old man and his carnivorous cat.

  As I rushed up the street, holding the package close to my cloaked chest, I considered stopping to leaf through the suspected blank pages of the journal, but I was shocked to discover that all the periphery lighting in the neighborhood had died out, perhaps from the solar panels not receiving enough energy on that particularly overcast day. With barely enough moonlight available to traverse the darkened thoroughfares, I realized I would have to wait until later to discover what I already knew was in (or wasn’t in) the book I had purchased.

  When I eventually arrived at my dormitory, exhausted from having to power-walk the distance that the bus had carried me earlier, I had to use my key to gain entry into the building, and I immediately noticed that the lobby was quiet, except for a crackling fire that someone had left unattended in the hearth. I scurried upstairs to my private dorm room.

  Kicking my boots off and tossing my coat aside, I headed straight for the desk upon entering my small but accommodating room. I clicked on the desk lamp as soon as I was seated and began the task of tearing open the package.

  Much to my shock and awe, I was astonished to discover that the journal I held in my trembling hands did indeed have words contained therein. The book contained hand-scrawled, illegible and seemingly foreign words, but words nonetheless. With the book still open under my burning and weary eyes, I reached for the switch on the desk lamp, ready to bring my evening adventure to an anticlimactic close, when the scribbling suddenly became surmountable to my decipherable psyche.

  I had to squint to make sense of it, but I’m certain the opening line read: Take heed who dares study this primordial prose, for madness and sorrow are certain to follow.

  The next page had a rather disjointed poem, which was even more difficult to interpret than the cryptic warning. It was written in the same bizarre long-handed cursive style, but its loops were looser and its curves were courser.

  Such boy was evil,

  who orphaned his self,

  and cursed his fam’ly,

  for lack of their wealth.

  At only ten years,

  his desires outgrew,

  the humbling sal’ries

  his parents accrued.

  Angered and bitter,

  his hatred increased,

  till dreamt a wa’fer

  disturbing their peace.

  Pouring out petrol,

  about the abode,

  he lit the wood’n

  the house did explode.

  Mommy and daddy,

  did perish that night,

  as he stood list’ning

  for cries o’er their plight.

  Teardrops dotted the page as I read the final lines of the poem, for the words reminded me of my own childhood tragedy. I was about the age of the subject of the prose when a similar house fire destroyed my life as I knew it at the time. Although I would not coin myself an orphan, since I had an uncle and aunt to care for me, my parents did indeed die from smoke inhalation, while my first floor bedroom allowed me quick access/egress to the fresh air of a new frontier, so to speak. I missed my parents. I cried myself to sleep that night.

  The morning came far too early for my beleaguered brain to comprehend and it belligerently responded to the alarm clock by awarding me with a stiff neck and a migraine headache. The sleep that I was able to achieve was uneasy and restless, being threatened throughout with fierce dreams of fiery screams.

  My English Lit classmates were, of course, anxious to see me that day, obviously deprived of their predisposition to ridicule me, going on now for almost the span of twenty-four hours. Starved of scoffing, ravenous for razzing, taut to taunt, these gentlemen were indeed ready for some close-fisted chaffing of my person as soon as I entered the room.

  “Sorry, boys,” I greeted as I took my seat. “You’ll have to save your rapacious ribbing for another sucker, because I did not take the bait yesterday, but instead decided to stay in my dorm room all evening and studiously study, my ah, studies.”

  There was much grumbling and gnashing of retainers from my cohorts, until the professor arrived and class proceeded without further incident. Thankfully, the topic of this day was not the subject of that day, but was a lecture on The Day of the Locust. I also did not dilly dally after the dissertation, because an hour of oratory on an obscure satirist of the 1930’s did nothing to sooth my still-aching head.

  I eventually found solace and some modicum of mellowness to mollify my agitated angst within the empty catacombs of the campus library, where nary a student was present as a result of the university’s omnipotent wireless fidelity (Wi-Fi) system, which satisfactorily fed their Internet-ready personal computers (PCs) and other parentally-purchased electronic devices (PEDs). I actually preferred the anonymity of the library computers, especially since software installed on the machines effectively wiped out the user history upon restart, setting the hard drive back to its original virgin configuration and not leaving a trace of any activity for that Internet Protocol address; not that I had anything to hide.

  The poem I read the night before was still weighing heavily on my mind. My childhood guardians, Auntie and Uncley, were never shy about relating the many positive attributes of my deceased relatives, specifically my unfortunate parents. But my wards would never discuss the fatal fire that put me on their doorstep one dreadful winter night. Now I hoped the World Wide Web would not be so tight-lipped.

  I knew the year of the fire and the approximate place of the fire, but relied on my favorite search engine to fill in the details that my memory either blocked or never retained in the first place. I found online the obligatory obituaries, thankful that my survivor’s name was spelled correctly, but could only find one small article concerning the fire itself, dated a week after the disaster. The news story was posted as a follow-up to the original coverage, providing comments from the fire marshal explaining that his investigation discovered the presence of an accelerant. At the end of the arson…I mean, article…was the address of a bank account where donations were being collected for a college fund on my behalf.

  “Wha’cha doin’?”

  I closed the browser window as soon as I heard the familiar voice behind me. It was my Asian female friend, Lulu, whom oft times would join me in my studies in preparation for mid-terms and other critical exams. However, there were some subjects of my research that should only be examined by me alone.

  “Oh, nothing,” I lied. “I was just surfing the web.”

  “For porn?”

  “No, not for pornography.”

  “Sorry, I just assumed you were, considering how you closed out of it so… [giggle] prematurely.”

  “Very funny. Actually, I was just preparing to return to the sanctity of my dorm room.”

  “Wow, like, I was heading for the dorm too. What a co-inky-dink.”

  If Lulu was expecting an invite to my private room, she was sorely mistaken. Other times I would have enjoyed her awkwardly-platonic and unconsummated company, but that afternoon I was more interested in independently studying the titular contents of the so-called Necronomicon.

  “Gimme a call when you’re ready to ‘study’,” she said when we parted ways inside the dormitory, winking slyly while crooking the middle and index fingers of both hands to silently communicate the parenthetical double-entendre meaning of the word “study.”

  I anxiously opened the book as soon as I reached the desk, tuning myself mentally to decipher the next poetic runes that lay before me.

  Such man was naïve

  to’ve ever believed

  an opus o’ccult

  t’was really conceived.

  He searched ev’ry shelf

  ev’ry store ev’rywhere

  to find the tract and

  its secrets to share.

  But said book told more

  than he cared to know

  told book said of crimes

  forgot long ago.

  Secrets are secrets

  when held deep inside

  but secrets are truths

  that words cannot hide.

  Tho’ books can be burned

  like a fam’ly scorned

  their spirits live on

  in tales to be learned.

  I stared at the page, expecting the paper to instantly ignite under my intense focus and rapidly rising rage. Was I reading more into these vicious verses than I should have? Were the similarities simply a coincidence? I studied the writing style and the type of ink on the pages, checking the backs of the pages for indications of indentations, where perhaps a familiar writing instrument had been impressed.

  Was I conning myself? Was I sleep-writing? Did I write these queer quatrains, perhaps unconsciously—or perhaps conscientiously blocking out the compositions from my conscious mind so that they would not weigh heavily on my conscience? Alliteration, annihilation, acceleration... those were the words that raced through my head like a bullet in a game of Russian roulette.

  Even though I’d always considered books to be the only friends I could really trust, this book appeared to be mocking me like the false friends I’ve had to endure throughout my young life. Books had always kept me company, soothed my troubled mind, taken me places I’d never been, entertained me, thrilled me and educated me. But not this one… This book haunted my psyche and disturbed my tranquility. I hated it.

  Since spontaneous combustion was not possible through telepathic means, I decided to take the wretched work downstairs to the lobby and fling it into the fireplace. I resolutely marched down the steps and crossed the lobby, but the gauntlet of inevitability sprung up on two sides: no one had bothered to place a fire in the cold fireplace; and Lulu was sitting in the lobby all hot and bothered.

  “Wha’cha got?”

  I looked down at the book in my hand. “Nothing; it’s nothing.”

  “Is that porn?”

  “No, it’s not pornography.”

  “Well, if it’s a textbook, maybe we can study it together. Maybe in your room?”

  “Maybe. I mean, it’s not a text book. Listen, give me some time to sort some things out, then I’ll give you a call, all right?”

  “Sure thing,” she responded from her seat in front of the empty hearth. “You have my cell, but don’t take too long, ‘cause it’s getting chilly down here.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, getting ready to take my leave and return to the safety of my room. I turned to walk back toward the staircase, but then I heard her voice call after me.

  “Hey, Joey, do you know anything about starting a fire?”

  “What?” I answered, startled by the question.

  “Can you build a fire?” she repeated, pointing at the fireplace.

  “Ah, no. No, I do not. I cannot. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Don’t forget to call,” she sang.

  A few minutes later, I was back in my locked room with that damnable book still in my hands. Should I throw the book in the trash can and take the risk of some nosey dumpster-diving garbage-picker finding it? Should I try tearing out each page and flushing them down the toilet, taking the risk of clogging up the already condom- and tampon-laden plumbing? Or should I just quit acting so paranoid?

  In my infinite, advanced-for-my-age wisdom, I decided to prove to myself that my earlier conclusions about the poems were rash and illogical. I was obviously jumping to conclusions before I had all the facts. Thus, I went back to my desk and cracked open the book once again.

  Such girl is evil,

  but hides it quite well,

  promising heaven

  and giving you hell.

  You’ll never please her,

  tho’ try as you may,

  she’ll never be yours

  so watch what you say.

  She’ll steal your secrets,

  by gaining your trust,

  taking advantage

  of uncontrolled lust.

  Beware of her wiles,

  beyond what you see,

  because yore weak will

  be at her mercy.

  Love’r with vengeance,

  Uncover her lies,

  Leave’r there dying

  Under redd’ning eyes.

  “No!” I screamed aloud, spraying spittle across the page. I was determined not to give credence to the wicked words, whether they portended to foretell my past, my present or my future. I was resolved to prove the book a fraud; its words spurious and innocuous. I, and I alone, drive my future, I concluded, and no tattered or untattered text was going to tell me otherwise.

  I would also not allow some scribbled polysyllables to skewer my perceptions of a person with pure intentions. I knew Lulu to be as pure as Shakespearian snow that is blown into drifts and is untrodden and clean. I called her up.

  ***

  “I was starting to think you weren’t gonna call,” Lulu said as soon as I opened the door.

  “Now what would have given you that impression?” I asked, inviting her into the room with a wave of my hand.

  “I don’t know. You’ve just been acting a bit strange lately, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  When Lulu sat down on my bed, I immediately noticed that I had failed to properly conceal the book under the mattress. The tip of the hardcover popped out from beneath the covering as soon as she descended upon the bed. Embarrassed at the unsightly protrusion, I quickly joined her on the bed and surreptitiously tucked in the offending object for obscurity.