Wednesday, August 4th | 12:56 PM
The class lecture dragged on, the familiar drone of the teacher's voice seeping into the room like a slow-acting anesthetic. In the back row, where motivation went to die, Arthur Bateman sat with perfect posture, an island of stillness in a sea of slouching indifference. The usual suspects surrounded him: students who treated education like an optional side quest.
What an excruciating day.
He didn't bother taking notes. The teacher had long since given up on the back row, focusing instead on the few eager faces up front.
Ring!
The bell tore through the monotony. Before the echo had faded, the teacher gathered his things and vanished. The classroom erupted, a burst of laughter, scraping chairs, the buzzing hive of teenage socializing.
"Yo, man, you ignoring us now or something?"
"Seriously,dude, stop acting like one of those stuck-up chicks we try to talk to."
Dylan and James, friends of the body Arthur now inhabited, leaned against his desk with practiced casualness. One wore a smirk, the other a look of mock offense.
Arthur sighed and stood. "It's nothing personal. Just how things are these days."
"Huh?The hell does that mean?" Dylan shot back, crossing his arms. "You're the one who's been acting weird lately."
"Yeah,man," James chimed in, scratching his head. "You're acing tests out of nowhere and you've gone all… what's the word?"
"Introvert,buddy."
"Yeah,that!"
I can't believe how cartoonish they sound.
"Look," Arthur said evenly, "I'm fine. Nothing strange going on. At least, not with me."
"Then what's with the cryptic talk?"
Arthur turned, his expression flat. "Seems like you've had your heads under a rock. I'm talking about the murders. The ones piling up lately."
"Oh…right." James rubbed the back of his neck. "That."
They moved into the hallway, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Arthur's gaze drifted downward, toward the tennis courts below.
"Now that you mention it," Dylan said, "my neighbor's oldest daughter got killed last week. You know, the fat guy who yells if you step on his lawn?"
"Him?What happened?"
"They only found her fingers where she was last seen."
"Ew,man. That's messed up."
Arthur listened without reacting. He'd heard variations of this conversation too many times, tragedies traded like gossip, each more grim than the last.
"Never had the cops as decorations till now," Arthur murmured, eyes still fixed on the courts.
"Cops?" Dylan scoffed. "They're bums. All they do is frame kids for holding a little weed."
Arthur's focus sharpened. James noticed.
"Oooh, I see what's happening," James teased, nudging Dylan. "Checking out the specimen—Ashley Queensly."
Dylan pressed against the glass. "No way! Her?"
On the court below, Ashley moved with a fierce, fluid grace. Her brown hair swayed as she pivoted, her skirt snapping with each strike. There was something hypnotic in her rhythm—rough, determined, completely absorbed.
"You've got taste, Arthur," Dylan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "But that tight little ass ain't looking your way, bro!"
Arthur didn't flinch. "Don't be stupid."
His tone was quiet but sharp enough to cut through their laughter. Both boys fell silent. Arthur finally looked away from the window and faced them, his cold mask melting into an easy, friendly smile.
"I wouldn't even dare."
---
"Already back, dear? Oh, you look tired."
"I'm fine,Mom. Just need some shut-eye."
"Well…at least eat something. I'm off to work!"
She scurried out, closing the door softly behind her.
Arthur trudged up to his room and pushed the door open. He dropped into his desk chair, exhaling slowly.
What a day. I haven't been this exhausted from talking to absolute idiots since… ever.
His eyes drifted toward the wardrobe. A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
Why don't I entertain myself a little?
He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a plain black bag. From inside, he retrieved a sleek, black notebook.
Haven't opened this thing in days.
He flipped through the blank pages. The paper felt unnaturally smooth, almost sacred. At the back of the notebook, a list of rules was written in an elegant, unfamiliar script.
"Okay," Arthur said aloud, a note of dry amusement in his voice. "Things are starting to get interesting."
He read slowly, voice low.
Rule 1: The human whose name is written in this notebook shall die.
Rule 2: The notebook will not take effect unless the user has the person's face in mind when writing the name. It will not affect those who share the same name.
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"Fufufu… These are something else."
Rule 3: If the cause of death is written within 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen.
Rule 4: If the cause of death is not specified, the person will die of a heart attack.
Rule 5: After writing the cause of death, details may be written within the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.
He chuckled softly and tossed the notebook aside.
"What a joke."
He booted up his bulky PC and began browsing, retracing the digital footsteps of the body's former owner.
Let's see what this guy was into.
A website loaded, its banner a grotesque, unblurred image of violence. Arthur didn't react. Among the typical teenage searches—games, music, girls—this site had been visited frequently.
The original owner sure had a taste for the grim.
He scrolled. Each image was more disturbing than the last: crime scene photos, evidence of cruelty, suffering packaged as content.
"Oh, Arthur," he muttered to the empty room. "Mommy wouldn't like you beating off to this."
His amusement curdled into disgust. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling with a pained expression.
"This is the lowest level a person can stoop to. This content is made from agony. From real tears."
His voice rose briefly before he caught himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers digging into his palms.
He shut the computer down abruptly and slumped back in his chair. His gaze drifted again to the notebook on the floor.
It didn't call to him. But it knew.
It knew.
Arthur stood, picked it up, and settled back at his desk. He grabbed a pen, hovering it over a blank page. Then he reached for yesterday's newspaper, flipping past the crossword until he found a small article on page six.
MAYER MENDEZ RELEASED AFTER PARDON
After a grueling two-year trial, notorious crime figure Mayer Mendez walked free yesterday following a controversial jury pardon. The case is now closed.
Arthur's eyes scanned further. The charges listed made his skin crawl: human trafficking, black-market organ trade, drug distribution, multiple homicides.
A cold, quiet rage settled in his chest.
He looked at the grainy photo beside the article, a smug, heavy-jowled man in an expensive suit. Arthur opened the notebook, pen poised.
This is just make-believe. A way to vent.
He wrote the name carefully: Mayer Mendez.
He stared at the words for a long moment before closing the notebook. A strange calm washed over him, the satisfaction of a ritual performed, a fantasy indulged.
He pushed away from the desk and collapsed onto his bed, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.
---
", good morning, and bringing you the news today—"
The sound of the television mingled with the rush of water from the kitchen sink. Arthur's mother was already busy, humming softly as she washed last night's dishes.
Arthur came down the stairs, steps measured and quiet.
"Sleep well?"
"Not really.Tossed and turned."
"At least you got a few hours,right?"
"Hopefully."
He sat at the dining table, eyes empty, fixed on nothing.
"Since when do you watch the news?" his mother asked without turning around. "You never seemed the type."
"It refuels my hatred every day,"Arthur replied softly. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Huh?"
"Nothing.Breakfast ready?"
His mother glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Sure.On the counter."
Arthur stood and moved toward the kitchen just as the TV volume seemed to swell—or maybe it was just the reporter's voice, sharp and urgent.
"—breaking news! Mayer Mendez, recently released following a controversial pardon, was found dead early this morning. Preliminary reports indicate he suffered a sudden, fatal heart attack—"
Arthur froze.
His mouth went dry. His mind scrambled, rejecting the words.
A coincidence. It has to be. There's no other explanation.
But his heart hammered against his ribs, loud and frantic. His pupils dilated; his hands grew cold.
"Arthur?" His mother's voice cut through the static in his head. "You okay?"
He blinked, forcing himself to breathe. "I'm… I'm fine."
He looked past her, up the staircase that led to his room. To the notebook.
A slow, dawning terror, and something else, something dark and thrilling, began to uncoil within him.