Ruthanne held back the urge to roll her eyes. This morning had another story time attached to it. Her grandmother was recounting the famous folklore of Montbrook Pier to her younger sister, Esmae. Ruthanne’s grandmother had a knack for telling her stories whenever they visited over the summer. Still, this one had to be the icing on the cake.
A notebook that granted someone’s deepest desires, Ruthanne snorted and continued doodling in her sketchbook.
She once believed in it, too. That hidden magical lore within the lone seaside town was true. That magic and magical creatures, and the supposed arcane history behind the town’s founder, Josepha Montbrook, were all true.
But reality hits some harder than others, and Ruthanne lost faith a long time ago in the mythical and the magical, and whatever nonsense her grandmother spewed. As for her sister? Not so much. Esmae’s mouth gaped open, her hands cupped her chubby cheeks, and her brown eyes sparkled from the morning light pouring in through the kitchen window’s curtains.
“As Josepha’s family continued to fight over her fortune, she grew tired of it,” her grandmother said, bringing her mixing bowl over and holding her spoon, waving it around like a magic wand. “So, she conjured six black notebooks, each with a random signature, and hid parts of her wealth within them—”
Ruthanne cut in, “And told them ‘live your life, and if your soul’s deserving, will my fortune appear to you’ then, poof, the notebooks disappeared, and no one ever saw them again.”
“Ruthy.” Her grandmother shook her head. “One was found. A local family’s great uncle stumbled upon one!”
“He also won the lottery, too.”
Esmae took quick glances between them, then sighed. Her sister’s awed expression now riddled with confusion and disappointment. Ruthanne knew, deep down, she should’ve kept her mouth shut. If only to avoid the stern stare her grandmother sent her way while mixing the contents inside the bowl.
“Ignore your sister, Mae,” her grandmother said. “She used to believe in this tale more than anyone.”
Until it was crushed by some stupid book. Ruthanne finished, recalling the evening she thought she had found one of the fortune notebooks.
Much like the story, it had blank pages, but was in pristine condition and laying right beside a park bench, hidden by shadows and halcyon rays. Turns out someone had dropped the book after rushing home from the store before curfew. How did she know? Their details were written in the back of the book, and it happened to be someone from her school.
Ever since then, she noticed that, whenever someone had a black notebook, they would win the lottery or receive a large sum of money from a distant relative’s inheritance, or something. There was always an explanation, so Ruthanne passed it off as another local town myth.
Following that abrupt conversation, an awkward silence simmered alongside the guilt eating Ruthanne up.
Maybe she was a bit harsh.
Her sister was only five, and while Ruthanne had good intentions, the last thing she wanted to do was ruin the magic. After a few more minutes of silence, Ruthanne excused herself from the kitchen. She figured she would return to the blank canvas waiting for her upstairs, where her dreams rooted into reality rather than a foreign land long gone from memory.
“Thank you for your purchase!” the cashier handed two bags over to Ruthanne and gave her the brightest smile she could muster.
Ruthanne nodded, taking the bags and exiting the small arts and crafts shop. Warm sunlight danced over her dark skin and lightened the edges of her tight coils that bounced with each step she took across the barren road. She stayed inside most of the morning painting away.
Becoming an artist was her lifetime goal. To experience art and the world the way her mother did prior to her death. Death that brought her peace after a final stroke on her canvas. A canvas, in her eyes, worth dying for. Ruthanne wasn’t sure about the dying part. She was inspired to live her life through unending landscapes and playful yet daunting strokes, though. And then, perhaps, she would also understand the secret her mother always alluded to whenever she propped Ruthanne on her lap and revealed a true spell woven in a blank future.
Turning around a corner, Ruthanne stopped in her tracks. A small notebook laid on the ground. Right there. Just smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk. She shook her head. No way would she take a gander and look, only to be disappointed in the end. It was a plain old notebook. Nothing more, nothing less.
Yet, when she passed by it, an eerie feeling crawled up her back, and she stared down at the notebook. It showed signs of wear and tear, some parts of black hardcover had faded, and odd pen markings were scrambled faintly into it. The cover was blank, too.
Ruthanne had a strong urge to pick it up. But why? Maybe someone dropped it?
Curiosity won over the logic trying to knock some sense into her. Sighing, she bent down to pick the notebook up, readjusting the bags in the process and flipped it opened. First page was blank. There also wasn’t an information or contact section in the front or the back of the book either. Ruthanne frowned. She had this small feeling to wait until she got home. And as stupid as it sounded, she did just that.
Ruthanne placed the notebook on her dresser, continuing to stare and wondering if it would grow a pair of lips and speak. On her way home, the urge to skim the pages grew stronger to the point that, maybe, she was crazy for picking up the book after all. Out of everything common sense told her, nothing explained the feeling besides the quiet whispers of Josepha’s spell casting inheritance lingering in her mind.
It wasn’t real.
She was positive.
“But I still brought it home anyways,” Ruthanne muttered, assorting her brushes and new paints in their respective places. Her eyes, for another brief moment, wondered back to the notebook, almost as if it was a siren song, luring her to discover the secrets within its pages.
That made no sense either. Her mother’s point about a canvas carrying a thousand lives was more reasonable than a battered notebook, dirt and worn down, left out in the sun. Ruthanne exhaled. Maybe one more look. Something wasn’t right about the notebook. Walking around her bed to the dresser, she opened the rough hardcover, a sensation of wood beneath her fingertips, and skimmed the pages.
Every page so far was blank. She inwardly chuckled. What was she doing? Yet she was drawn to flipping one page after the next, and then… she froze. Ruthanne’s eyes stared a page with a line, almost like a signature, and no matter how many times she blinked, words appeared on the pages.
You have a soul deserving of my fortunes.
It reminded her of the old town’s tale about Josepha. Words echoing, urging her to sign her soul away, and whispering the truths awaiting her beyond that signature. A few minutes passed. Ruthanne wasn’t sure if she should sign. Her soul was deserving? But why was a signature needed? What did that even mean? Ruthanne wanted to close the notebook and toss it away.
Keyword was wanted.
Something inside of her cried to know what lay beyond. Cried to know the secrets hidden behind a simple signature.
“I can always rip it out,” Ruthanne grabbed a pen and gave into that strong urge begging her to sign it. She wasn’t sure where this feeling came from, but seemed innate, a trustworthy feeling—a gut one. Taking her pen, she signed her name on the line, only to feel like an idiot in the end.
What am I doing? This is ridiculous, she scowled. She dropped the pen on the dresser and went to rip the page out. The only thing that stopped her was a faint white glow on the pages, and the pen, she just dropped, floating mid-air and writing something on the page. Ruthanne’s jaw dropped. Was she dreaming?
When the pen finished, it dropped on the page. Ruthanne squinted her eyes, and the words that appeared on the page resembled her mother’s handwriting. On the page were three lines, each detailing something like a contract that followed after a brief passage. And true to the town’s myth, the notebook recounted the tale of Josepha’s fortune and stated that this notebook was one of the six.
What caught Ruthanne’s eyes the most was written on the first line… a hefty sum of money. The amount was $20,000. However, the next line swore her to secrecy about the money, and the one after stated to use the money for her life purpose: painting. In its final line, something her mother always told her stared back.
She almost choked on the tears, as that message felt more personal than anything. Ruthanne didn’t believe in magic anymore. But those words hit something deep within, causing her to drop to the ground and to grip the notebook tighter. She could deny the notebook all she wanted, but those words...
She couldn’t deny a silent whisper from the grave.
Let the canvas tell its tale and it’ll reveal a secret worth living for.
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