An unsettling feeling washed over Alexander as he walked home after a long night at work. He’d missed all the buses, and frankly, did not feel like paying for a stranger to pick him up past midnight. Besides, his house was only about four miles away. It’ll be fine, he thought, just like every other night.
Of course, it wasn’t like every other night. He had decided to work late on the night before Halloween, and didn’t stop until it was well past twelve, making it the early morning of All Hallow’s Eve. As he walked the sides of the road, eerie decorations stared at him, from automated skeletons to broken dolls. It was almost abnormal the way their eyes seemed to follow his every move, always watching.
He walked past a witch decoration, a motion sensor one, which let out a blood-curdling screech and a cackle, eyes lighting up, illuminating her matted hair. Alex jumped, as many people would, being caught off-guard like that. What really was out of the ordinary that night was a book, thrown against his side, seemingly by nobody.
He started, looking down at the book that had fallen on the floor. It had a worn-out black suede cover, with burgundy accents, including a silk bookmark stuck between the pages. It was moderately thick, with a couple yellowed pages falling out the front. Alexander picked up the book gingerly, taking care not to break anything, as the book looked nearly on the brink of falling apart. It was marked, 1970-2010, italicized in a corner. Alex looked up and around, and when he was sure nobody was there to claim the book, he opened it.
Names. The book was full of names, ones he didn’t recognize, ones he lost touch with. Next to each name were two dates, a date in black and a date in red. The dates ranged from minutes apart to decades. One in there he recognized. Rachel Faucette Buck. His mother, who had passed away when he was thirteen. These dates. They were the day she was born and the day she passed away. It was accurate down to the very minute, it couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Flipping through the book, Alexander found his son. He was injured in the hospital, still alive, yet there was a date in red next to his name. November 24, 2010, 5:15 AM. If these were dates of birth and death, it must be...
He shook his head. Impossible. Nobody could accurately predict someone’s upcoming death. Yet, somehow, in the back of his head, he knew it was real. It had to be real.
All logic would tell someone to not look up their own name, not carry that kind of burden, knowing their end was coming up, from anywhere. Or maybe someone would risk the chance to avoid it. However, in the end, it’s all laid out. Everyone’s fate is ‘set in the stars’, as the cliché goes. With shaking hands, Alex flipped, page by page, until he read Alexander Hamilton. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hand, revealing those dates.
What Alex saw almost made him drop the book in shock. He recovered, pulling the book close as he slowly slid on down to the concrete ground. There they were, the time of his birth, and his supposed death. The problem was the ‘death’ date being marked a couple months after his birth.
May 29th, 1980, 10:16 PM. July 12th, 1980, 2:43 PM. Alexander wasn’t supposed to be alive. He wasn’t supposed to be here, right now, sitting near this automated Halloween decoration, breathing heavily. He wasn’t supposed to be breathing at all.
Alexander didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, his only clue being the streaks of violet and coral emerging along the horizon, signalling the sun’s arrival in an hour or so. If anyone had passed him in this dazed state, they didn’t care to notice, just stepped as if he wasn’t there.
What am I? Alex thought to himself, slowly pushing off the rugged ground underneath him, searching for the distinct silk red accents on the black cover. It was gone, however, and in its place was a single sheet of thin birch bark, with a barely legible message scratched messily into the inner layer.
‘You’ll find out in due time.’
based on this prompt by @writing-prompt-s
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