The Book Of Seers

How much would you pay to have your ultimate demise written before you in the haunted Book of Seers? One man paid the ultimate price and it wasn't from his bank account either.

The Book Of Seers

     It was a quaint rare books store, situated in the basement of a centuries old building, a few blocks from Dublin’s Temple Bar district. The building itself was reputedly the site of a gruesome slaughter of a family and because of this, real estate agents were not able to consistently occupy the building with tenants, except for Sir William Hopkins, that is. He was a curious man, to say the least, but respectful and reticent. He stood tall and wiry with thin white hair that he schwooped to the side atop his shiny dome. He was known as The Skeleton Man by the kids that lived in the area. They’d snicker and giggle as he passed their windows on the way to and from having Irish breakfast, every morning, at Ginger’s. He seemed as an awkward robot to them as he strode down the cobbled streets in rhythmic patterns, his expression desolate and barren.

    The thin, wooden shelves in his store bent under the weight of rare books meticulously sorted by author and genre. It smelled of mildew and old pulp - a smell very comforting to him. He set coffee to brew and scanned through The Dublin Times as the liquid percolated and steeped. His loyal coal-black feline, Mina, purred and circled his feet. He tapped a mahogany pipe on his teeth and said, “Oh, the evil and greed of this world, Mina. How lovely.”

     When the coffee was ready, he poured a cup, only adding honey to it and stood before the locked glass case that held a solitary book - The Book Of Seers. Its cover was a black most would never witness. It was as if light had difficulty escaping its surface. Some would even say that it shimmered between black and deep, midnight blue, as if waves of both colors shifted on its archaic cover. He unlocked the case and retrieved the book, as he did each morning. Sipping his coffee, he opened the book to see if the previous story’s ending was complete. A muffled cry was heard emanating from deep within the book’s pages. “Shhh,” Sir Hopkins said. To his pleasant surprise, the previous story’s final paragraph had been written after a four year wait. 

     

     “Ah, finally!” Sir Hopkins exclaimed as he read the ending then let forth an exuberant, wheezing laugh. “I certainly didn’t expect it to end that way, Mina, but it’s what he deserved. Time for a new, delightfully tragic story,” he said, closing the book and turning his computer on. Hundreds of wealthy rare book enthusiasts and supernaturalists alike, eagerly awaited an email from Sir William Hopkins, hoping to discover that a new story was ready to be written. After the announcement of such, a ferocious bidding war would ensue on the website for Hopkins’ Rare Books and Museum. The bidders had but 24 hours to place the highest bid and win. The winning bidder would be afforded the privilege of having their life story written, including their exact time and circumstances of their death, right before their very eyes, in the Book Of Seers. As you can imagine, knowing the time, date and circumstances of one’s death can be a very powerful element in one’s life but the final paragraph wasn’t written until the previous paying client achieved their ultimate demise. Sir Hopkins was the only person privileged enough to read this paragraph and it gave him great pleasure in doing so.  

     Sir Hopkins composed the group email and sent it off, knowing that his complete day would be consumed with watching the bidding war unfold while monitoring it as such. He set the minimum bid at 25,000 Euros and it shot up almost immediately. 30,000 from Scotland, 50,000 from Spain, 60,000 from America, etc. As the amounts increased exponentially, Sir Hopkins sat back in his chair and read Bram Stoker’s Dracula, his favorite book and one of which he knew almost completely by heart. Later he ordered lunch from Finnigan’s Deli and they promptly delivered. As he lunched with tea, he would occasionally glance at the computer screen and smirk. 150,000 from Romania, 160,000 from Germany, 170,000 again from America, etc. 

     As the afternoon skulked into the depths of evening, the bidding war abated. All but two bidders had dropped off. It was between Romania and America and they were locked at 220,000 Euros before the American posted a 250,000 Euro bid. This continued until Sir Hopkins was no longer able to keep his eyes open. When the night could no longer achieve a deeper shade of black, he retired to his cot in the far corner of the room and slept, Mina curling up by his side. 

     The following morning, after breakfast at Ginger’s, Sir Hopkins opened his computer again to see who had won the bidding war. His name was Chip Thompson and he was from Midland, Texas. The final winning bid was for 300,000 Euros. Sir Hopkins retrieved a piece of thick yellow parchment paper from his desk, along with a fountain pen and wrote a letter as follows:

     

     Dear Mr. Thompson, 

     Congratulations on winning the bidding war to have your life and death written before you in the Book Of Seers. As cliche’ as it may seem, the reading will take place on the eve of All Hallow’s Eve, October 30th of this year (2014). It is very important that you arrive at Hopkins’ Rare Books And Museum no later than 9 p.m. on the date stated above. I can not emphasize this more. Arriving any later will void the contract and your money will be refunded. Please wire all monies promptly to the account number listed below.

     Once again, congratulations and I look forward to meeting with you in one month’s time.

Sincerely,

Sir William Hopkins

     Sir Hopkins sealed the letter with wax and sent it off. It was a week before the letter arrived in Texas and money due to Sir Hopkins was promptly wired into his account. He went about his usual business of meeting with rare book enthusiasts, several times a week and by appointment only. Some would buy books but most often not. It didn’t matter to Sir Hopkins though. His passion was for the stories inside and that was more important than money itself (although he had amassed a small fortune throughout the years). Being a quite peculiar man, and socially awkward, the characters in his favorite books were his only friends that he could visit with at will and he regretted each time a book was sold. 

     The morning of October 30th finally arrived and Sir Hopkins prepped for the evening. He dusted the store meticulously, vacuumed its floor and cleaned the antique mirrors throughout, as well as the glass and wrought iron case that the book was held in. As the 9 o'clock hour approached, he retreated to the back area and put on his best (albeit vintage) suit and then retrieved a bottle of Louis XIII Cognac, which would be part of Mr. Thompson’s consolation prize. He sat at his old desk, fixed his tie and arranged various items. 

     At 8:33, there was a loud banging on the front gate. Sir Hopkins opened the front door to find a hulking, red-faced man stuffed into a suit and tie, waiting eagerly just beyond the gate and illuminated by a dull light bulb just inside the gate. 

     “Mr. Hopkins?” the man asked.

     “Sir Hopkins,” he replied. “Mr. Thompson, I presume?”

     “Yep, that’s me. I know I’m early but I didn’t wanna be late. Hope that’s okay with you.”

     “Perfectly fine. Please come in,” Sir Hopkins replied, opening the frail iron gate (after a brief struggle with the lock) and letting Thompson pass through. 

     “Nice...uh, place you got here,” Thompson said as Mina jumped atop the highest bookshelf  and peered down upon them with deep yellow, obsidian eyes. 

     “Thank you. It’s where I call home. Please have a seat,” said Sir Hopkins, motioning to a tattered leather recliner opposite his small, mahogany desk. 

     Thompson sat down and loosened his tie. “You live here?”

     “Yes. Yes I do. I have a small cot in the back,” Sir Hopkins replied, sitting at his desk.

     “You don’t get claustrophobic with all these dusty books all around you?”

     “No, it’s actually quite comfy. This - this is all I need in life,” Sir Hopkins said, looking around the shop. “Everything else just crumbles and fades with time. The written word is mankind’s last romantic medium and...in many ways, it’s all we have left,” replied Sir Hopkins, feeling himself being swiftly lost in his own statement. 

     “Well, I don’t know bout’ that, Mr. er Sir Hopkins. I kinda like the excesses of life. That’s just crazy,” Thompson said, laughing heartily. “You don’t got a loved one or someone to help you out? To...to clean up the place maybe?”

     “I did. I loved once, if you can believe that, Mr. Thompson,” said Sir Hopkins with a rare glimmer appearing in his eyes. He was no longer in that moment with Thompson - but rather in a place that existed beyond this realm. As if a gash between dimensions had appeared and he was peering through it. As he progressed in years, these moments of reflection seemed to happen more often and he accepted the self-realization that he may be slipping into the inevitable stage of senility.

     “And what happened?” Thompson asked, feeling awkward. 

     “I gave her my soul without restraint. Her...her beauty was unbridled and fluorescent,” Sir Hopkins replied, a restrained grin appearing on his face. Mina sneezed and it brought Sir Hopkins back to the moment. “But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s move along, shall we?”

     “Alrighty then,” Thompson replied, scouring the room until his gaze fell upon the wrought iron and glass case above and behind Sir Hopkins. “Is that it? The book, I mean?”

     “Yes it is but we will talk more about that in a bit. First, let’s get down to business. The way this will unfold is that we will have a brief moment to get to know each other before I will be on my way and leave you with the book. I’ll answer any questions you have in that time as well. Sound fair?”

     “Sounds fair to me.”

     “Good. Now first and foremost, Congratulations, Mr. Thompson. What you have accomplished is what many people around the world wish they had. As part of your prize, I give you this,” Sir Hopkins reached under his desk and withdrew the bottle of Louis XIII Cognac and set it on the desk.

     “That’s for me? I love that stuff. I have a bottle at home.”

     “Good to know. Would you care to have a bit now?”

     “Well, s**t! Is the Pope Catholic?” Sir Hopkins rolled his eyes subtly then retrieved a small snifter from his desk and handed it to Thompson. Thompson poured some Cognac, quickly chugged it then poured more. 

     “So where are you from, exactly, Mr. Thompson?”

     “Call me Chip. I’m from Midland, Texas. Oil country.”

     “Is that where you amassed your wealth, Chip?”

     “Well, my daddy did. Same thing I guess.”

     “I see. I’ve always wondered, what is Texas like? Is it as we see in the movies? Cowboys with big trucks, etc?” asked Sir Hopkins, lighting his pipe. “Do you mind if I smoke while we chat?”

     “It’s your place. Do what you want. Texas - well, it’s kinda like that. I mean, where I’m from, we drive around big trucks and wear cowboy hats but that’s only because we’re in oil country. Now if you go up to Austin or Dallas, those are city folk. You don’t see much of my kind there. I head up to Lake Travis once in awhile. I got a boat docked there but other than that, I prefer Midland.”

     “Well, that’s quite disappointing to hear. I had this romantic idea of Texas being a place of gunfights and lawlessness,” said Sir Hopkins taking a deep drag from his pipe and releasing the smoke as a long, white column that dissipated into the rafters above. Mina sneezed then licked her paws. 

     “Well, you’re in the wrong century then, buddy,” laughed Thompson as he poured another snifter of Cognac. “Want some?”

     “No thank you. I don’t drink.” 

     Thompson noticed the book that sat on Sir Hopkins’ desk. “You like Dracula too, huh? I got a first edition, autographed by ol’ Bram himself. Even has an etching of Dracula by Bram on the last page.”

     Sir Hopkins put his pipe on the desk and peered at Thompson intently. “You - you have the first edition of Dracula with an etching by Mr. Stoker himself? I wonder, dear Chip, if you know the value of such an item? I’ve searched endlessly for that book only to discover that it is you that has it,” Sir Hopkins said, scoffing. “And how exactly did you come about such a treasure, if I may ask?”

     “I liked the book so I just asked my buddy in London to find me a rare edition of it. He found some old kook that had one but didn’t wanna sell until we offered him a price he couldn’t refuse. It’s a pretty cool book. I have it in some old chest somewhere.” Sir Hopkins only leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard. “Wanna buy it?” asked Thompson, winking.

     “Not anymore, but thank you for asking. Now do you have any questions for me before I leave you alone with the book for the night?”

     “Well, hell yeah. I got lotsa questions. First of all, where you from?“

     “I was born and raised in England but I’ve been been living in Ireland for forty one years now.”

     “Why would you wanna live in such a boring, gloomy place? Doesn’t the constant cloudiness bother you? Man, it would drive me nuts.”

     Sir Hopkins rose from his chair and poured water, from the small sink adjacent to his cash register, into a small cooking pot. He turned on the small electric burner and placed the pot onto it. “Would you like a cup of tea, Chip?”

     “Not unless you’re going to put some whiskey in it,” replied Thompson, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “I hate wearin’ ties. Makes me feel like a monkey or something.”

     “I can certainly do that for you. To answer your question, I actually prefer the clouds to sun and I love Ireland’s beautiful history and torrid past. I revel in the ghosts that haunt its very crevices. Like this little shop, in fact.” The water began to boil and Sir Hopkins poured the boiling water into two small porcelain cups and placed a small tea bag of Chamomile into each to steep. He then discreetly reached into a nook, off to his left, and retrieved a small pewter flask, opened it and poured liquid from it into one of the tea cups, along with some Cognac. He placed it before chip. “It will do you good and calm your nerves,” he said, before sitting back down at the desk.

     “Much appreciated. Wait...this place is haunted?” asked Thompson, scouring the room then taking a sip of tea. “That is really good tea.”

     “Oh, it’s very haunted,” said Sir Hopkins, smirking as if enjoying watching Thompson squirm. “As a matter of fact, a whole family was brutally murdered in the room right above us. The mother’s neck was cut so severely that she was nearly decapitated.” Sir Hopkins sipped his tea and smiled.

     “Man, that’s seriously messed up. I guess that’s why it’s so cold and dreary in here, huh? Anyway, I have to ask; if that book is so damn valuable, why is it just sitting there in a little glass case that anybody can break into? I mean, that gate up front - my niece could break into that.” Thompson scoffed, before taking another sip of tea. 

     “Oh, but it has been stolen, Chip. Six years ago, as a matter of fact. It was returned promptly after though.”

     “Returned? Who the hell would return that? Especially with how much it’s supposedly worth.” Thompson looked around the shop again and shifted in his chair.

     “Are you uncomfortable, Chip? Too cold in here?”

     “A little but this’ll warm me up,” he said pouring more Cognac and drinking it.

     “To answer your question, the person who stole the book seemed to have a psychotic episode of sorts shortly after stealing it. He stated that he couldn’t stand the screaming voices in his head anymore and promptly returned the book then admitted himself into Dublin’s finest mental hospital. He subsequently hung himself with sheets in his room. You see, word on the street is that if you steal the book you’ll go mad so - basically it’s safe now.”

     “Damn. What kind of voices? Wait, that ain’t gonna happen to me when I open that book, right? I didn’t pay that much money to hear voices,” Thompson said. Mina meowed boorishly.

     “Probably not but don’t you worry. That only happens when the book is taken from its rightful owner without permission. You’ve been given permission to handle the book so all is fine,” responded Sir Hopkins, taking another long drag from his pipe. 

     “Whew. So, how exactly did you get the book?”

      “On my way to Mexico City for a rare book convention, I took the enchanted byway and stopped in a small village called Santa Catarina to eat and rest. It so happened that I encountered a queer little man, very interested in my leather-bound book, The Hobbit, that I had been carrying at the time, if you can believe that.” Sir Hopkins took a sip of tea. “In exchange, he offered me that very book. Poor little fellow. I don’t believe he understood the value of such a thing. He obtained it from an Irish Monk that was passing through as well.”  Hopkins tapped his pipe on an ashtray to empty its burnt contents. “Apparently the book is haunted by a Celtic Seer who was banished to haunt the book for ten centuries because she fell in love and fostered a child with an English Lord. She won’t be liberated from the confines of this book for four hundred more years or so.”

     “Ah, come on. That’s just a tall tale, right? Sounds ridiculous,” Chip responded. Sir Hopkins only peered at Chip, sighing deeply and shaking his head. 

     “You have till 7 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning, Chip, before the book will stop writing. If you happen to close your eyes for a significant amount of time, the book will stop writing automatically. I can’t stress how important it is that you stay awake. May I make you a pot of coffee?”

     “Nah. I ain’t worried about it. I didn’t pay that much money to just fall asleep. I’ll be okay. I’m gonna beat death. Gonna meet him head on and beat em’. I guarantee you that,” Thompson responded, his words beginning to slur.

     “Indeed,” Hopkins replied. He stood then unlocked and opened the case in which the book was housed in. He retrieved it then placed it on the desk before Thompson who only looked upon it with fascination. Hopkins gathered his belongings then said, “Well, I’m off then, Chip. If you don’t mind, Mina will stay here with you to...to protect you from the ghosts.” Hopkins smiled then winked.

    “Uh...you’re kidding, right?” Thompson replied, tapping his foot and clearing his throat.

     “Unfortunately, I’m not a man known for his jokes but not to worry, Chip. My little Mina is a lot tougher than she looks. Have a wonderful evening and I will see you at 7 a.m. sharp.” Hopkins exited the shop and locked the iron gate behind him.

    “S**t,” Thompson said under his breath before taking a long sip of tea. He removed his tie and sport coat before standing and walking down the aisles of the shop. Mina eyed him with curiosity as he pulled different books from their shelves and put them back after thumbing through their pages. “Hmm...” he said, before standing in front of the Book Of Seers. He inhaled deeply then adjusted his shoulders as one would do before a significant event. “Let’s do this.” He grabbed the book, amazed at how heavy it seemed. It was as if the gravity of its unfortunate stories lay deep in the confines of its pages. 

     He sat, opened the book and was astonished to find the thick, frayed pages blank until they began to flip themselves to a portion three quarters of the way through. Then it began to write; The Life And Death Of Chip Thompson scrolled before his eyes, that were gawking at this point. The sentences began to scroll before him, beginning at his birth. The information was absolutely correct in detail and Thompson gasped when every new detail of his life was written. He poured more Cognac and drank it. When the ninth page began to write, he heard muffled whispers and cackling from somewhere within the shop. “Who’s there?” he said in a trembling voice and looking towards Mina. She only looked down upon him with nonchalance.

     The book continued to write as Thompson followed the sentences intently. He would laugh at times when the book recalled fond memories of his childhood and cry at others. His attention was interrupted by the same whispers and cackling he had heard before yet this time it appeared to be coming from above him. “Damnit, who’s there?!” he said, looking upwards. The book stopped writing the moment he looked away. “Damn kids.” He looked back upon the book and it began writing feverishly again. As the hours passed, Thompson became drowsy with a heavy cocktail of Cognac, jet lag and sleep deprivation. He began to nod off when Mina jumped from atop the bookshelf, hissed then scurried under Thompson’s chair. “What the hell,” he said, scanning the room erratically. “Mina, you crazy cat. Cut that s**t out now. Jesus.”

     As the 4:00 a.m. hour approached, Thompson struggled to keep his leaden eyelids open. When the wall clock struck 4:26 a.m. he succumbed to weariness and fell into a deep slumber with the book open and upon his lap. The murmurs perpetuated throughout the room as Mina perched herself upon the highest bookshelf again and slept. “Another lost to the pages,” one disembodied voice whispered from somewhere along the bookshelves. “Poor soul,” another voice said in response. “He hadn’t a chance.”

     Thompson was awoken by the sound of Sir Hopkins struggling with the lock on the front gate. He looked up to see the wall clock at 6:59 a.m. In a panic he looked down and read the final paragraph of his story quickly, attempting to memorize it as best he could:

In the early morning of July 2nd of 2017, Chip Thompson was woken in the middle of the night by a sound that no man could ever mistake. It was the sound of somebody breaking into his home. He grabbed his revolver from the nightstand and crept to the hallway where he discovered a shadow in the shape of a man standing at the far end of it. Thompson quickly raised his gun and

     Although the paragraph ended abruptly, Thompson could only surmise that this was how he was to die and that the book was successful in its prophecy. The front gate finally creaked open and he could hear Sir Hopkins shuffling through the doorway. Mina jumped down from the bookshelf and circled his feet, purring. “Good morning, Chip. Your eyes look haggard. Did you fall asleep, by chance?”

     “Yeah - yeah, a little bit but...I still got my story,” he replied, rubbing his eyes. “Death by robbery. I’m good.”

     Sir Hopkins looked down upon the book that was on Thompson’s lap, smirking. He picked up the book and closed it before securing it in its glass case again. “Well then, our business is done here and I have much to do today, Chip. If you’re hungry, you’ll find that Ginger’s, right around the corner, offers a wonderful Irish breakfast.”

     Thompson yawned, then stood and gathered his sport coat and tie. “Yeah, I could eat a horse. I think I’ll do that,” he replied, before extending his hand to Sir Hopkins who only looked down upon it. 

     “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand, Chip. It’s...well, it’s just a thing I have. I left the gate open for you.” Thompson nodded his head then walked towards the exit. “Happy trails or however they say it in Texas,” Sir Hopkins said, when Thompson was out of audible range. 

     A little less than three years passed without incident and with Sir Hopkins going diligently about his daily routine. When the  morning of July 3rd, 2017 arrived, Sir Hopkins opened the book to find the final paragraph written. He gasped with delight as he read it to aloud to Mina: “Shots were fired and the intruder fell dead. When Chip Thompson turned the lights on, to his horror, he discovered that the dead intruder was in fact his drunk son, that had left his keys at home. He had attempted to sneak in quietly in order to not wake his father. In a state of panic, Chip Thompson ran outside for help when he was struck by a speeding work truck that was passing by at the exact moment he bounded into the street. A neighbor, who witnessed the horrible accident, reported his last words to be; ‘That book...that f****n’ lyin’ book.’ If Chip Thompson had simply called out to the stranger before firing, he would have ultimately lived a life of relative happiness and well into his seventies and with four grandchildren. May God rest his soul. The end.” Sir Thompson sighed deeply. “Don’t you look at me like that, Mina. Sometimes the hands of fate have to be nudged in the right direction to make our world a better place.” 

     Eight mornings later, Sir Hopkins opened the book and was startled when it suddenly flipped pages and a sentence began to write automatically. The Life And Death Of Sir William Hopkins scrolled before his eyes. He only looked upon it, as one does when something horribly intriguing occurs before you, yet unable to look away. He followed the writing, his heart thudding within his chest, until it caught up with present time. As Sir William Hopkins followed the writing of his life scrolling out before him, he felt an immense pressure and pain within his chest. He gasped and clutched his chest desperately before...

     “My dear Mina. My dear, dear Mina...” he hoarsely whispered before his body became limp in his chair, the book still open upon his lap. In the week following, Mina sat atop the highest bookshelf, reduced to a clump of skin on bones. Her eyes displayed that of one very close to entering the next plane. Two mornings later, Mina lay her head upon the shelf and closed her eyes for the final time. 

     “T’is a shame the cat had to die too, eh?” a disembodied voice said from the bookshelves.

      “T’is a shame indeed,” another disembodied voice replied. “Another lost to the pages.”

The End.

Author's Note

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