"The Book"

                                                                                      “The Book”
                                                                                            by
                                                                                  George R. Lasher
                                                                                Word Count: 4,808


Birthdays were for those that had friends or family with whom they wished to make merry. Timothy Lynch cared for no one and nothing other than his work and his collection of rare books and antiquities. Relieved to have his 50th birthday celebration behind him, he poured a generous amount of brandy into a snifter, took a sip, nodded his approval and headed for the library. Having dismissed his staff for the evening, he luxuriated in the silence and freedom provided by solitude. As he passed through the dining room he reached above a pear shaped, bombe chest, and turned on the lights. Gold glistened on the walls, the furniture, even on the laurel leaves adorning the wide moldings that framed the painted ceiling. Tonight, however, besides the gleam of gold, the lights revealed one final reminder of the day, sitting by itself at the end of the long, formal table. "Another gift?" he sighed.

The sparkling, white package loomed like an iceberg on an otherwise empty sea. Figuring it was from a member of his house staff, perhaps Bradley Herrington, his long-time, head manservant, he smiled. It was a thin smile of simple acknowledgement, not to be mistaken for one indicating warmth or caring. Setting his drink down, he eased into the end chair and tugged on the satiny ribbon, undoing the elaborate bow. After tearing away the glossy wrapping paper he whistled with mild surprise and whispered, "Well, will you look at that." It was a book.

As President and CEO of Pierson - Thompson, one of the largest and most successful publishing companies in the world, he wouldn’t normally have been impressed by a book, but this wasn’t just any book. He slipped out of his jacket, draped it over the nearest chair and leaned forward to take a closer look.

“That’s not a restored cover.” His eyebrows arched in appreciation. “That’s an original. Probably late eighteenth century, maybe older, maybe much older.” The book’s cover was ornately adorned with gold engraved scroll work on rich, dark red leather. Mint condition, he thought and then spoke out loud, “No title and no author listed either. Hmmm.” With no one around to play yes-man, his words hung conspicuously in the air.

The moment he lifted the book’s cover to see what lay therein, the lights above the table flickered and dimmed. He’d be sure to mention that to Herrington. A wiring problem could lead to a catastrophic fire. The subdued lighting and the silence of the empty mansion cast a decidedly different atmosphere from the festive one that had existed earlier. With barely enough light to read, Lynch began turning page after thin-milled, gilt-edged page, puzzled by the fact that the first six or seven leaves of the book were blank. Curiosity became major annoyance as he riffled through the rest. The thought struck him; was this somebody’s sick idea of a joke? Who would dare do such a thing?

“Not one word,” he muttered. Illuminated by the ceiling’s recessed halogen bulbs that brightened as soon as he closed it, the book lay on the formal dining table like a lone, charismatic performer on an intimate stage. It tempted him, as if it might be able to provide answers to the questions its presence presented if only he would take another look.

Never before had he felt a sensation similar to the feeling he experienced in the fingers of his left hand as he drummed them in frustration on the table. As the tips made contact with the wood they thumped appropriately and his well manicured nails clicked on the polished tabletop, but something was different. Rubbing his thumb across his fingertips he noticed an odd numbness and a papery texture to his skin. Lynch shrugged and reached up to loosen his collar while contemplating who might possess the wherewithal to perpetrate such an elaborate hoax. He ran the thumb of his left hand across his fingertips once more. Satisfied that the odd feeling was receding he reached up, brushed his dangling white hair out of his eyes, and rose to go to the bathroom.

Strolling through the library, he passed by his favorite acquisition- the world's most expensive book. In the middle of the room, housed within a special climate controlled glass enclosure, sat Leonardo Da Vinci's Codex Leicester, a notebook filled with the master's original drawings and scientific writings. Microsoft's Bill Gates purchased it for $30.8 million in 1994 and subsequently sold it to Pierson - Thompson's CEO for a cool 50 million in 2015. The Da Vinci notebook wasn't the only noteworthy item in this library. In 2011 Lynch had paid 17.3 million dollars to obtain one of the original Gutenberg Bibles.

In obtaining insurance for the crown jewel of all privately owned book collections, as well the other priceless antiquities he had acquired, Lynch had complied with the Lloyd's of London representatives when they insisted he employ a fulltime security force of no fewer than ten guards to patrol the sprawling grounds of his French countryside estate. They were outside, on the grounds at this very moment. As he emptied his bladder he considered calling the chief of the security team. "This could be more than a sick joke," he murmured.

Zipping up, he thought about the countless individuals he had fired from the publishing company as well as his own personal staff. As he washed and dried his hands he admitted that some of the firings were undeserved. Some had come as the result of sexual liaisons, but, he shrugged, what multi-millionaire wasn't guilty of a few minor indiscretions? The affairs didn’t concern him; most had ended with generous financial settlements and the signing of legal waivers. There were other skeletons in his closet, skeletons whose bones he didn't wish to see rattled about in public.

On his way back to the dining room he passed through the library again. Above all others in his mansion, he loved this room the most. He stopped for a moment to admire his copy of the Gutenberg Bible. Only 48 copies existed, not all of which were perfect, but the Lynch copy was. When the opportunity to obtain it had materialized, he immediately seized it. "Carpe diem," he whispered. The purchase had been widely publicized and was hailed by his public relations team as being a stroke of genius. The public's perception had been that he must be a righteous man of great conviction to pay so much for the word of God. "Humpf," he shook his head, amused by the thought. "If they only knew."

Sitting back down at the end of the dining table he reached for the wrapping paper he had previously tossed aside. There was no card and nothing was written on the paper. Too bad, he thought. He tossed the paper aside again and reached for the book. It was slightly bigger than the Gutenberg bible, which measured a little under one-and-a-half-feet tall by nearly one-foot wide. Grunting slightly with the effort of lifting it, he guessed its weight to be about ten pounds. Turning the book over, he found nothing of interest, only the leather cover with none of the elaborate scroll work.

Shaking his head, he set the book down and opened it once more. There, on the very first leaf, where nothing had been before, was a boldly printed title: "The Murder of Adele Badeau." Goose flesh formed on his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise up. Beneath the title, the author’s name appeared: “by Timothy Lynch."

Suddenly he felt invisible fingers tightening about his throat exactly as his had closed around Adele's. Panicking, he jumped up, spilling his brandy and almost knocking the chair over in his haste. He was overwhelmed by the feeling that if he hadn't closed the book, his fingers and hands, which felt strangely numb again, would have been turned to paper and dragged right into...Into what? he wondered. Keeping his eyes on it, fearing that it might fly open at any moment, Lynch backed awkwardly away from his "gift."

Trembling and breathing hard, he stood there trying to make sense of what he had just seen and felt. Could his mind be playing tricks on him? It was late. He had been drinking. Perhaps he should look again. Lynch took a tentative step towards the table and stopped. Something inside him screamed Hell no! He shuddered and retreated one step. Then, because that one step made him feel no safer, he took yet another. Digging his cell phone out of his right pants pocket he hit the speed dial number to ring the head of his security team.

“Delaflote here,” the chief answered. “Is there a problem?” Lynch never called unless there was.

“Oui, Francois, we have a problem; gros problème.”

“Has something been stolen?”

“No, quite the opposite, monsieur, something has been delivered.”

“Something has been delivered?” Francois seemed confused as to how this how this represented a problem.

“It would be easier if you came inside," Lynch suggested. "Bring a couple of your men with you, s’il vous plait."

                                                                          ~      ~      ~

Lynch halted about five feet from the end of the table and pointed.

Seeing the confused faces of his two guards and still having no idea what was going on, the chief of security spread his arms and complained, “Monsieur, what is it that you want us to do? Clean up the spill?” Delaflote produced a handkerchief from within his jacket and dutifully began to dab at the puddle of spilled brandy.

Annoyed, Lynch pointed again. “The Book. When did it get here and how did it get here?” Before Francois could begin to answer, Lynch added, “And, where did it come from?”

Again, Francois reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, this time pulling out his I-phone. He touched the screen and pulled up his notes from the entire day. “Let me see, there were a lot of deliveries today. I don’t believe Monsieur Herrington kept us up to date on everything that came in, but that is understandable. Things got a little hectic.”

“You mean you weren’t checking everything and cataloging it as it arrived?” Lynch was mortified. “My God! Someone could have delivered a bomb!”

“No, no monsieur, I assure you, we sent everything through the metal detectors and had the explosive-sniffing dogs check everything out. We opened and cataloged every single item that set off the detectors, but we did not open all of the items that contained no metals.”

“What about plastic explosives and--”

Delaflote interrupted before Lynch could finish. “The dogs would have detected any plastic explosives, monsieur. They’re trained to sniff out C-4, dynamite; any explosive powders. We were very thorough.”

Unconvinced, Lynch pointed at the book again and said, “If you were so thorough, tell me where that came from and who sent it.”

Unable to answer, Delaflote asked a question of his own. “Monsieur, may I ask, why are you so concerned about a book?” He stepped toward the table, intending to open it when Lynch stopped him.

"Don't do it. Don't open that book!" Lynch cautioned. He couldn’t allow Francois to see the story of the first murder he had committed and he couldn't voice his fears that the pages might pull them in.

"Search the mansion," Lynch ordered. "I don't think we're alone, and I still want to know where this book came from."

Delaflote turned and ordered the two guards that had accompanied him to begin searching. As they briskly walked away, each in a different direction, Francois turned back to his employer and asked, "What is going on, monsieur?"

"Blackmail," Lynch replied. "Blackmail or something worse. My life may be in danger."

"Come with me, monsieur. If what you are saying is true, you should not be alone." They walked out of the dining room together, leaving the book where it had been found at the end of the table, begging to be opened.

                                                                              ~      ~      ~

Nearly an hour later, climbing the stairs that led up from the wine cellar, Lynch remained unconvinced. "Somebody has to be here, Francois. I don't know where they could be hiding, but I know somebody has to be here." He opened the door to the main floor of the chateau and headed up the hallway towards the formal dining room.

"What makes you so sure, Monsieur Lynch? We have looked everywhere."

Lynch stopped just short of the room where it had all started and turned around. "I've done some things, Francois. Things of which I'm not particularly proud that might give someone a reason to, uh, well, to try to get even."

"What kind of things?" Delaflote asked, his expression revealing his curiosity.

"Never mind," Lynch refused to take the bait, "Suffice it to say, there are those who could cause me a great deal of trouble if they so desired."

Lynch pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the button that would ring Herrington's home phone. Waiting for the call to be answered, it struck him that Pierson - Thompson had recently published a book entitled, “Hounds of Hell,” in which demons and saber-toothed mongrels from hell existed within the pages of an ancient book. The hounds devoured the souls of unrighteous individuals whose sins were sufficient to warrant damnation. {i"Preposterous, he thought. Yet, try as he might to dismiss the notion that this might be that book, the thought persisted.

"Bonjour," Herrington answered on the third ring, sounding profoundly British even when he spoke French.

"Bradley, is that you?" Lynch asked.

"Master Timothy? Yes, yes, of course it’s me. Is something wrong?"

"This is your home phone, right? I mean the land-line, not your cell?"

"Yes sir, why?"

"Because there's a book on my dining room table that I think you know something about. I wanted to be sure you weren't still here, somewhere."

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." Herrington sounded confused. "Did you just say you were making sure I wasn't still there, instead of being here, at my home?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. Where'd the book come from, Bradley?"

"Book?"

"Yes, Bradley, the book, B-double O-K, you know, one of those things we publish at Pierson - Thompson." Delaflote was standing next to him with his arms crossed, listening intently.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know..."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Bradley, you know what book I'm talking about; the one on the formal dining table. I found it, just as you intended, after everyone left. Ding, dong, ring any bells?"

"That was a book? I wouldn't have thought that. It was rather heavy."

"Oh, so you know what I'm talking about, after all?"

"Well, I laid a fairly large present down on the end where you normally sit."

"And then what?"

"And then I went back to the kitchen to make sure--"

Lynch interrupted, "To make sure someone knew they needed to switch the books? Is that what you did? You had to make sure someone stayed behind and replaced the one with no writing in it for the one that had a certain, incriminating title and a story that would put..." Remembering he was not alone, Lynch stopped in mid-sentence. Delaflote's eyebrows twitched upward.

"Timothy, I'm an old man. I've been your employee for over 40 years, and I worked for your parents before that. While I don't think I've completely lost my mind, I am not at all following you. Not at all."

"Over the years I've paid you a lot of money for your loyalty, Bradley, and for your silence."

"And I've never once complained or given you any reason to doubt my loyalty, have I, sir?"

Lowering the phone, Lynch thought about that for a moment. He’d been only eight when he inherited the estate. As his mother and father lay dying in the field near their smashed Bentley, Bradley had promised them he would look after young Master Timothy. Nodding, Lynch conceded that the butler had lived up to his oath, albeit with significant compensation. He had made up his mind. Bradley Herrington was either blackmailing him or punishing him. He raised the phone to his lips and replied, "Not until tonight."

Herrington sighed heavily into the receiver and asked, "What time would you prefer me to be there in the morning, sir? Perhaps we can reconcile our--"

"No. There's no need for you to come in, at all, Bradley. You're fired, and this time I won't be changing my mind. I'll have legal draw up the papers.”

“Sir, you don’t mean that. You mustn’t. You can’t do that, sir…”

Closing the phone, Lynch smiled thinly at Delaflote and said, "There, that should take care of that."

"You fired Herrington? Mon dieu," Delaflote couldn't believe what he had heard. "I thought he was like a father to you."

"Hardly. He's been a thorn in my side for years. He worked for my parents, although not in his current capacity. I'm sure he's behind whatever is going on with that book. My guess is that he was planning to spring some kind of blackmail scheme, looking for one big, final payoff before retirement."

Just then, the other two guards came into the room and reported what Delaflote already knew. "There's no one else here."

Francois directed them to search the grounds of the estate. Once they were gone he turned to Lynch and said, "Now, what about that book?"

Lynch sat down and scooted up to the table again. The earlier shock having dissipated to no more than a distant memory, he explained, "I was impressed when I saw the engraved scroll work..." As he opened the book the lights flickered and dimmed again, but that wasn’t what sent an icy shiver down his spine. The title page had changed! Now, instead of "The Murder of Adele Badeau," the words in large print were, "The Murders of Adele Badeau and Jennifer Bell Lynch."

His features frozen by the shock of what he saw, Lynch cried, "It's not the same!" He felt a sudden tug at the ends of his fingers where they clutched the book. The tug graduated into a strong, insistent pull as his skin began to transform, disappearing within the pages and the wine-red leather. Someone or something was dragging him in; trying to yank him into another dimension buried deep within the book. At the same time, instead of feeling invisible fingers tightening around his throat, he witnessed a dark head of hair exploding in a puff of red mist and realized it was the back of his long-dead wife's head as seen through the sight on his favorite hunting rifle. The healthy tan he worked so hard to maintain drained from his face along with the last vestiges of composure. “Get if off me!” he cried out. “It won’t let go! Get it off, get it off!”

Delaflote broke Lynch’s vise-like grip on the book, and pushed it aside, wondering why he had been unable to let go. He grabbed Lynch’s shoulders, shaking him to get his attention and shouted, “What is different; what is happening, Monsieur?”

Seeing the book lying open on the table, Lynch slammed it shut the way someone would slam a door to shut out a threatening intruder. He shuddered and cried out, "The title!"

Attempting to regain his poise, he gasped for breath while rubbing his tingling hands and fingers together; shaking them to restore circulation. “It started pulling me in," he explained, wide-eyed. "It wanted my soul." His voice was husky with fear. "For a second I saw Jennifer, and then I heard a growl, not a normal, dog kind of growl, or even a wolf, but a sound so profoundly vicious..."

While Lynch spoke, Francois managed to get a shoulder under his arm and got him up on his feet. "You were hallucinating. You need rest, monsieur. Très fatigué, you are exhausted. There is a sofa in the parlor that should be long enough to allow you to stretch out."

Stumbling towards the parlor, Lynch couldn’t understand why he felt so tired, so weary to the very depths of his soul. It was as if his energy or a sizable portion of his life force was gone, drained by the ravenous pages that had tried to consume him. He kept mumbling, "Is the book closed?" By the time Delaflote answered yes for the third time they had reached the sofa. Lynch collapsed onto it like a marionette with no strings to hold him up.

Intending to take a closer look at the book, Francois left the parlor. Headed back down the hallway, he saw Herrington hurrying towards him from the other end wearing what appeared to be a blue, flannel pajama top that hung, untucked, over black slacks. The butler was moving as quickly as could be expected for a man in his late seventies.

"Late for you to be up, is it not, Monsieur Herrington?" Francois glanced down, noticing Bradley was wearing house-slippers rather than the polished wing-tips he normally sported.

"Yes, it is," the butler responded. "Some things can be left to simmer while others need to be brought to a boil, you understand. Where is he?"

"In the parlor, on the sofa," Delaflote replied. "I was standing next to him while you were talking to him on the phone. Monsieur Herrington, I heard him fire you."

"Yes, well, this isn’t the first time that’s happened; we've had our share of disagreements over the years. I'll let you know when we're done with our little chat, if he's even up to having one, that is. I shouldn't need more than half an hour. Hope you don't mind."

Compassion appeared in the security chief's eyes as he nodded and replied, "I know how difficult Monsieur Lynch can be. Good luck." The two shook hands before Delaflote continued down the hallway and out the door.

                                                                                    ~      ~      ~

Fifteen minutes later, Bradley gave a final tug on the rope he had brought up from the cellar. Relatively certain his employer would be unable to escape, he stared down at the man who murdered Adele Badeau and Jennifer Bell Lynch, both of whom he had known and liked. He’d been forced to bury Adele, who had been pregnant and hinting she would sue for child support. He recalled the options his employer had offered; death if he went to the authorities or wealth if he remained silent. He had chosen wealth, but felt as if he had sold his soul to the devil.

Years later, Herrington’s perjured testimony regarding the "unintentional" shooting death of Jennifer Bell Lynch in a hunting accident was what saved Timothy from prison and further damned his own soul. Tormented by these incidents for many years, Bradley concluded that the book offered his only chance for absolution. Rather than an act of revenge, this would be one of atonement. He believed the Lord, in all his infinite wisdom, had provided him with an opportunity to wash away his sins and administer justice.

"Read any good books lately, Timothy?" Herrington spoke as if his captive was alert and could hear and understand every word. When Lynch stirred, but didn't answer, he sighed, "Oh, come now, I've watched you sleep since you were a baby. I've always been able to tell if you were awake."

Lynch opened his eyes and squinted up at his head manservant. "So there wasn’t a second book? This is really happening?” he asked, sounding groggy, but lucid.

“Incredibly, yes,” Herrington replied. ”My goodness, look at you, Timothy, all trussed up, the way you bound those little animals when you were a boy." Herrington paused to see if Lynch would respond before continuing, "When I discovered the book and God’s plan became clear to me, I thought, how very ironic that you would be killed by an exceptionally rare book; the very kind of thing you're famous for collecting? Actually, I had hoped the book would pull you in and finish the job for me. I almost feel as if I'm breaking my promise to your parents."

"Where’d you get the book, Bradley? I have to know."

"From Japan. I purchased it from Tatsuo Takahashi, your best-selling author. "

"Ah yes, the horror story writer." His strength slowly returning, Lynch strained to break free of his bonds. Realizing he might not be able to, he began to shout.

Confident that the superior soundproofing of the chateau would prevent anyone outside from hearing him, Bradley waited patiently, almost nonchalantly. When Lynch finally relaxed after a coughing spasm brought on by five minutes of uninterrupted screaming and struggling, Herrington said, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, 'Hounds of Hell' was so... so vivid I was compelled to contact Mister Takahashi. He confided that although published as fiction, his story was based on fact and that he was the current owner of The Book. Did you read his novel?”

"I scanned the liner notes.” Attempting to stall, hoping Delaflote would return, or that he might still be able to free himself, Lynch inquired as to how much had been paid for the book.

"Yes,” Bradley nodded, “you would be interested in that, wouldn't you? I paid fifty-thousand Euros. A price I can afford, thanks to you."

"Fifty thousand, that's all?" Lynch was obviously disappointed. “Did you open it?”

“Yes, and I saw nothing.”

Lynch shook his head and said, "The first time I opened it, neither did I. I only felt a strange numbness in my fingers. Bradley, you'll never--"

"If you're about to tell me I'll never get away with it, you may well be right, but I want you to know something. This isn’t an act of retribution, my boy. I’m far more interested in trying to save my miserable soul, than punishing yours. Now, if you’ll pardon me for a moment, I’ll go fetch the book." Lynch’s verbal assault followed him down the hallway to the dining room.

Less than three minutes later, Herrington held the instrument of dispatch above his prisoner, whose steady string of hurled insults had ceased, replaced by fervent pleas for mercy. Blinking, from beads of sweat that rolled down the sides of his nose and stung his eyes, Lynch continued to struggle as his executioner delivered the sentence.

“I thought, perhaps, that I might hold the book down on your face, you see, as if I were smothering you with a pillow.” Inspired by the horrified look on Lynch’s face, the butler explained further, “I would imagine that would be quicker and somewhat more humane than starting at your fingers and having the book pull you in from there. That would take a while, I suspect, and might prolong the agony.”

Firmly gripping the front and back covers, the butler flipped the heavy book over, holding it open with both hands; the pages dangling, straining to reach their victim. In the process of lowering the book, he felt an odd sensation, an alarming lack of feeling in his fingers that moved to his wrists and up into his arms. Shock registered on Herrington's face as the dreadful realization dawned that rather than obtaining absolution, he had acquired a one-way ticket to hell for himself as well as his employer. Salvation was not for sale at any price.

Staring up, expecting to peer into the gaping jaws of hell, Lynch saw, instead, a new title. “Murder and Perjury Under Oath, by Timothy Lynch and Bradley Herrington.” The words materialized on one of the gilt-edged leaves just before it reached the bridge of his nose. It was then that Timothy Lynch managed to wriggle free of his bonds. He reached up and grabbed Herrington by the throat with both hands.

                                                                                      ~      ~      ~

When the chief of security returned to the parlor he found the book lying shut on the parquet floor. Stunned to discover both the chateau’s owner and his head-manservant missing, Delaflote wondered out loud where they had gone, "Où sont-ils aller?"

Francois was interrogated by the local authorities and released. Even though he passed a polygraph test, nobody believed his preposterous contention that Lynch and Herrington simply disappeared. Subsequent searches and inquiries produced no evidence to support a charge of foul play. No trace of Timothy Lynch or Bradley Herrington was ever found.

What happened to the book? It rests on a shelf next to the family Bible in Delaflote’s home, waiting patiently for a new owner and a new opportunity to feed the hounds of hell. Satan's book next to the Lord's; some might have a problem with that, but as we have witnessed, there are times when the two work hand in hand.

                                                                                    The End.

If you enjoyed The Book and would like to read the sequel, "The Festival"...I  am in the process of writing it. It is posted for you to see (that which I have written to date) and more is being added on a daily basis. Eventually, "The Festival" will be about 25 chapters long.

ID: 1513884   (Rated: 18+) Title: The Festival (sequel to The Book)  Description: Chapters 1 through 11 By: George

"Welcome to my Imagination."

George