The Absence of Light

The moment I stepped into my brother's study I knew something was wrong. The room was warm, and there was an odd, unearthly smell reverberating from every wall. It was dim but not dark, something I knew was strange as he would not leave it on if he left, and yet at the same time I knew he would not leave it dim if he were working. It felt humid; the air was so saturated that it was almost tangible with moisture.

I called his name once, feeling something change in the air the moment I did. Tensity fell from the ceiling and set down on me like a weight. I shut the door behind me, knowing Kalen wouldn't want to be disturbed, the next room over. "Jett?" I called again, louder this time, stepping forward into the passageway. Books lined the wall, dusty smelling and fragile looking. The spines were old, covered with leather and bound by steel. They were valuable, but I knew that if threat ever came to them Jett would not hesitate to bury them far into the earth where they would rot with time. Once I was caught trying to open the locks on one of the books; who wouldn't be curious as to what valuables were written inside?

Still no answer rang back to me from the hollow of his study. Frowning deeper I advanced through the bookshelves to the room itself: several trunks that were stacked up along the inner wall, a circular desk at the far wall and a tall armchair facing that desk. Papers littered the floor. The lights on the ceiling weren't lit; nor were any of the candles that covered the desk. There weren't any windows in the room; it wouldn't have mattered as it was 7 o'clock on a late February night. Even in the seclusion of the study I could hear the wind nipping through the drafts in the old house. If you stood in certain spots in the house you could even feel the breeze.

"Jett." I knew he was in here, because he had disappeared into the study early that morning and had yet to emerge. "Jett, Emmett told me to warn you that the twins are coming tonight, and that you're to room with me until they leave." I waited by the bookshelf for his response, for which there still was none. "Jett?" I called a fourth time, starting to feel uncomfortable. There was a loud shuffling sound from the other side of the room.

I whipped my head around, surveying the room. Nothing had moved. "Jett, stop. It isn't funny." My voice had a hollow quality to it, and it cracked. Being a fourteen-year-old with a quickly changing physical stature, my voice sometimes cracked; degrading as it was, it was something we all had to deal with. It was either this, however, or the high soprano voice I had inhabited during my elementary years. I felt subconscious at that particular moment about it.

For once his laugh didn't fill the room. He didn't tease me about it. I still couldn't place where the strange dim light was coming from. With a sudden spurt of confidence I approached the tall armchair. My eighteen-year-old brother sat in it, staring up at the ceiling with glossed eyes. Clown makeup was smeared across his face, which was frozen in laughter. The rest of his skin was deathly pale.

No doubt about it; he was dead.

Authorities searched the room a few minutes later, and I stood near him the entire time; this was the only piece of my family I had left. I wasn't letting him go that easily. The panic had subsided, though the depression had yet to seep in. Mostly I felt shocked. An officer walked by with a book in his hand, one of the secret books on the wall. It had sat in front of him, on the desk. I leaped forward. "Excuse me, may I see that?"

The officer frowned. "What for?"

I couldn't explain my sheer curiosity for what was in the book. "...I..."

He shook his head. "Look, kid. We dusted it for fingerprints, and there were none. We traced it for poison, and there was nothing there."

Before I could help myself I found the words out of my mouth. "But what's in the book?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. It's a blank book."

I frowned. "Blank? But that's not right."

He handed me the book. "Knock yourself out."

I took the book and looked at the pages. Each of them were blank. I sat there for a couple of hours, even after the authorities had taken my brother's body away to be investigated, flipping through the pages. There was nothing there. I tried spilling water on a page, to reveal anything secret, and there was nothing. It was a blank book.

On a sudden whim, I turned the book horizontal and fanned the pages, looking one more time. My eyes caught something. I frowned and did it again. There it was.

Flipping through the book there appeared to be a picture etched in the pages even though there was nothing there. It was a design, a symbol.

The book wasn't blank.

If no one was to find my brother's killer, I certainly would.