The Book of You

One could say he's fairly average. A neighbourhood living, Subaru driving, office job

kind of average. Simply by means of looking at him, you would think, how is this man not

perpetually bored out of his mind? The only thing that set him apart was his love for

gardening. He had a genuine aptitude for it. When asked “why gardening?” He could never

express the feeling of seeing what was only green a week before, become a garland of the

most vibrant blooms. He knew not everyone could see what miracle flowers are to him. To

him, they were better than any picture or movie could be, like magic. There was something

about tending to a garden, growing his fruits, vegetables, herbs and somehow always having

the greenest grass in his suburb that made him happy. Maybe it was the compliments on his

blooming spring flowers by his dog-walking neighbours. Perhaps the feeling of

accomplishment after cooking a meal with only home-grown produce. The feeling of velvet

petals dancing across his palms. Dwelling alone with no family in town, so many thoughts in

his mind, so many emotions but having no one to share them with can be lonely for the

average guy. Having a hobby lifted his spirits. After work, he always took a few hours to

water his garden and lawn and to collect what has grown. He would always save a few

flowers for the elderly woman next door. When she walked by his neatly tended garden, she

would always tell him how beautiful it looked. So from then on, he would always make sure

he would bring her the first bloom of his garden’s spring flowers.

As he was attending to his garden as his nightly ritual, he felt his shovel hit something

hard. Confused, the man began to dig around the object carefully as to not disturb the roots of

his plantings. Delicately shifting the soil away from what seemed to be an artistically crafted

jewelry box. Eventually, he managed to pull a sort of small but beautifully crafted wooden
box. A dark oak box with gold trim and a little gold keyhole, like an old victorian jewelry

box. After brushing off the earth, he brought it inside along with his picks of the day from his

garden.

For some reason, that night, his eyes refused to close, mind working a million miles a

minute. Tossing and turning, waking every hour. The man laid in his bed staring at the ceiling

wondering what could be keeping him up. He had remembered to turn off the stove, all the

windows and doors were locked. He checked off the usual things that would keep him up

late. He remembered the box he had placed on the shelf in his living room. He couldn’t figure

out why it was bothering him. There was nothing in it after all. Or was there? A shiver crept

down his spine as he crawled out of bed to inspect the empty box. There was nothing in it. It

was much too light. This was just to ease his mind. He tiredly made his way to the living

room, seeing the box perched on the shelf where he left it. Looking at it. It reminded him of

something, but what?

***

My grandmother always kept her most precious jewelry in the box my grandfather

gave her. It was a lovely dark oak with gold trim and a little gold keyhole. Every year for her

birthday, my grandfather would get her a piece of jewelry to put in the box. I had always

admired their love and hoped to find it for myself one day. I tried to find it. I’m still trying to

find it. My grandmother’s box was always kept on a shelf in her living room, I always asked

her why she kept it there. It was so vulnerable there. She said she thought the box was too

beautiful to hide and she was right. It looks like mine, sitting vulnerably on my living room

shelf.
Open it.

I grab the box from the shelf and attempt to gently pry the lid open so as to not disturb

its delicate craftsmanship. It’s locked.

Open it.

It’s locked, I don’t have the key.

Check your pocket.

My hand reaches to my pocket and feels a small cold piece of metal. How did that get

in there?

Open it.

I turn the key until I hear the click. The box is heavy. It wasn't heavy before. The

longer I wait to open it, the heavier it gets, the faster my heartbeats, the clammier my hands

get. My hand lifts the lid, revealing… a book? The book of you. What does that mean?

Quickly skimming through the pages I see nothing. It’s blank. I skim once more then turn to

the first page. It says,

Begin.

I flip to the next page, paragraphs that seem to have appeared out of nowhere have

suddenly filled the page. One could say he's fairly average. A neighbourhood living, Subaru
driving, office job kind of average. Simply by means of looking at him, you would think, how

is this man not perpetually bored out of his mind. Sitting on my grandfather's armchair with

my lamp shining on the page, I found myself very intrigued by the story. I’ve always been a

fan of scary stories. The stalker-ish horror mood and the extremely relatable character made

for a fascinating read. Extremely relatable character. The suspense began to grow the more I

read, the shadowy figure loomed over my shoulder sending chills down my spine. I was

frozen. The world seemed to move in slow motion, even the passage of light slowed and the

sounds became muffled as if they were underwater. The sound of my heart has reached its

crescendo. I dart my eyes over to the clock hanging on my wall. 3:33 am. I should be able to

smell the cooking of my elderly neighbour at this hour. This doesn’t calm my racing heart.

With heavy footsteps, the figure draws closer and without a warning noise, I see a hand

pulling out a bloodstained rope. I notice the first glimpse of colour with thick blue veins

contrasting the almost translucent skin. My lamp suddenly goes out and I jump. I take a deep

breath and check my watch, 3:33 am. This is when my neighbour begins to cook her usual

breakfast for her husband who works the graveyard shift at our local grocery store. I close my

eyes and inhale the comforting smell of bacon and eggs. I decide to call it a night and finally

head to bed. I take a moment to lay back in my chair and digest my new exciting novel. The

character in this novel is so much like me it’s almost unsettling. I force myself away from the

novel, knowing I'll never get to sleep if I continue. Average guy, average car, average job, the

neighbours - I sit and reflect on what I’ve just read. This is creepy. Someone I know must

have written this and planted it in my garden… I’m jumping to conclusions.

That’s not possible. How could anyone know about my neighbour or my flowers or

my grandmother's jewelry box? The scent of bacon and eggs in my nose turns sour, from

savoury to a rotting metallic stench. Blood. I'm Imagining things. It has to be a coincidence.
A terrifyingly accurate coincidence. Maybe I read this wrong. I must be more tired than I

think. I can’t let this get to me, coincidences happen all the time. It’s just a stupid book.

***

He slowly regained his composure until he heard the thumping footsteps and the

sound of stiff rope dragging across the hardwood.