"And thus Logos spoke to the masses: 'Do you not feel the need to live free? What is the price of freedom but choice? And the consequences of our choices will live with us whether we be free or not! Therefore, does it not follow that we should desire freedom above all else, that we should truly enjoy the choices we make?' But the masses replied: 'We do not need your freedom, we have made our choice. We do not need your freedom, we have submitted ourselves.' And a few with wisdom said amongst themselves 'Would our submission to him not violate the very freedom he requires us to attain?' And so once the crowd dissipated these wise men met with Logos, and he instructed them in their own wisdom."

- Andre's Diary

Alright, I couldn't do it.

I'm mildly ashamed, but now only the mug of coffee on the table and tall white expanse of my refrigerator bear witness to my blushing.

Tomorrow I'll hit the library.

Maybe I'll find some answers . . .

In the meantime, I think I'll read a little farther into that book.

Hands shaking, I placed the paper back into the billfold of my wallet.

That was the eighth time I'd read it.

I wish it was kind of strange to me that I knew the precise number of times I'd read the letter, but the truth is, it wasn't. You see, when I'm put in a stressful situation I tend to wrap myself in details.

Lots of details.

For one thing, the box was made of cedar. I'm no naturalist, but I know that cedar likes to grow in swampy areas.

Just so you know, there's a massive swamp not even three miles from here. Town Hall was gonna' turn it into a development, but the boss man said it was too dangerous.

And rumor has it one of the workers disappeared.

Now, I'm not usually the adventurous type,

But curiousity does sometimes get the better of me . . .

Sometimes I wish I could dilate time . . .


Hurriedly I throw on my coat and rush into my car. I can only hope the box hasn't been auctioned off yet. As I drive I cannot help but glance repeatedly at my watch. I know that it takes precisely six and a half minutes to get to the house, but with sufficient motivation I think I can make it in three.

It's been two and a half.

Rounding the corner, I pulled awkwardly into the driveway, almost rear-ending a beautiful new mercedes. With a prayer and a promise I jogged towards the now-ending auction.

It was still there.

So now I waited.

Very few people were left, but there was one man in particular who I was wary of. He was a tall man, dark skinned with a pronounced chin. His glances my way were anything but friendly. Wait, hold on.

The box is being auctioned.

"Can I get twenty five dollars for this beautiful antique box! Made of-"the auctioneer stopped and sniffed the outside.

"Do I hear twenty?" he resumed. No sooner had I raised my hand then I heard a reedy voice from the crowd.

"Twenty thousand dollars!"

I couldn't help myself, I almost swallowed my own tongue. There was no way I could afford that much for the box, I barely earned that much in six months. I pushed my way to the front and stood at the auctioneer's feet.

"That box was left to me by my father and is my legal property!"

I hadn't planned to put it that way, but in retrospect it sounded very official, almost scripted. The auctioneer looked at my license and flipped through his copy of the will before he continued.

"Sold, to the young man with connections." The icy glares from the gathered bidders could not phase my joy at getting something for free (even if it wasn't really worth 20k). Walking on air, I returned to the car. As I pulled out, something caught my eye. It was the tall man, donning a khaki trenchcoat, and looking my way. Before he could catch my attention and force me to stop I quickly backed out (in the process almost destroying a positively gleaming Benz) and continued on my way.

I had the book.

Dearest Son,

There are so many things that I wish I could have told you during my life. How much I loved you. How proud I was of you. All of these and more, but most importantly, I must instruct you on the proper disposal of this book.

First and foremost, it must not be destroyed. I can only assume you've read it by now, and that you see how imperative it is that it stay preserved. On the other hand, it must be hidden for a very, very long time.

Son, I know I was never the greatest father. I've always been a writer first and a dad second, and I regret that with every aching beat of my heart. So it breaks my heart even more that I must leave you with so great a responsibility.

The book must be hidden, preferably in stone, although water would suffice and might be better over the long term. Do as you feel is necessary to ensure it's continued safety and secrecy.

Please . . . I beg you . . . do not hate me for this.

"And so Logos struggled whilst the waters overcame him. Lo, it was too late, and the waters didst consume him."

- Andre's Diary


Today I found a box in the attic. Because of my sadness at my father's death, I found that taking the things that once belonged to him was a task far too emotionally taxing. Now, precisely one month and seven days after his death, I wish only that I had discovered this thing sooner.

The book is strange, written almost like the bible in manner and in verse. It seems to chronicle the journey of someone named Logos, and my hands tremble for some unknown reason every time I turn the pages. It is as if something dreadful waits inside, some deep dark secret, drawing me in . . .

Consuming me.

Alas, I cannot continue any longer. I won't bring it back to my house, I feel that the temptation would be too great.

The house is to go up for auction, and all the contents within sold to the highest bidder. May whoever recieves this book have more luck than I with it.


What's this? As I replaced the book in its box a sealed envelope fell out. It has my father's name written on it!

I don't have much time, I'll just put it in my pocket and be on my way . . .

I know it's too late for me to hide it.

I wanted to hide the box, to drop it in the deepest part of the ocean.

But I couldn't.

So instead I called in my lawyer, had him write up my will.

I'll leave it to my son . . .

Maybe he'll be able to finish what I started.

But I can only hope against hope that he'll never open it.

Hope . . . what a frail thing for me to cling to in my last moments.

Hope . . .

This paper I found, it can't be for real!

I won't even begin to cover what it says . . .

Not that I could if I wanted to.

For now I'll just put it back in the box.

Dear God, I hope I never see it again.