The Book That Doesn't Exist

By Roberto Scarlato

Found inside the hidden compartment of a Studebaker, Henry Ward has just stumbled across a very interesting manuscript. Consumed by the daily grind of life, he hopes to find some inspiration. But what he finds instead will lead him into pure madness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberto Scarlato
• Release date: Jul 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386881490

Roberto Scarlato

Roberto Scarlato is an author, blogger and audiobook narrator. He writes speculative fiction, mystery, suspense, thriller, romance, horror and crime. Scarlato grew up in a small suburb of Chicago, where his love of a good story was cultivated by shows like “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” and “The Twilight Zone.” A bibliomaniac from the moment he learned to read, he began weaving together his own tales at an early age.  In November 2014, Scarlato quit his day job. He now writes and narrates full time. He married his high school sweetheart in 2010 and they have a daughter.

Book preview

This book is dedicated to Caroline Robinson.

A constant source of determination, wisdom, and grace.

Sunday

The screen door slammed as I made my way up the concrete steps.

Sure enough, there was Edgar Simon and his friend Dale Earnest. Two vehicles were parked in the back. One a Chevy Master Coach practically rusted to the state of a tin can and the other, an old emerald green Studebaker.

A large wooden table was set up with pieces of an engine sprawled out.

It was getting late and Chester was waiting just inside the door, but I couldn’t resist. They had phoned ahead to let me know they were here.

Edgar, I said, How are you?

His sleeves were rolled up and his face brightened. He wiped his hands off on a rag as he made his way around the table to greet me. The radio was playing a tune I hadn’t recognized.

Doing well, Henry. How’s the wife and kid?

Fine, fine. Dale, I gave his friend a brief nod, to which he nodded back with a small smirk.

So where is it? I asked. This thing that needs my immediate attention?

He ushered me over to the Studebaker.

It was quite a beauty. A style like no other, white-rimmed tires, looked practically brand new and had a timeless shine. I often joked to my wife how I always wanted one of them. Looked like the perfect vehicle to disappear in.

In here, He said. A conspiratorial smile adorned his face. Dale and I just got this one in, wanted to fix it up. This cousin of mine calls me up, tells me the owner died and as much as he’d like to take it, there are too many cars at his shop. The family wants no part of it, so he signs me over the title. So we took her in, checked the tires and, like we do, decided to check out the interior. The lining for the driver and passenger side are this charcoal gray material. But there was this crease near the footrest with two hinges in the backseat. We popped it open and found this.

He pulled a case from the trunk and hucked it onto the table.

It wasn’t huge. Maybe the side of a standard Smith and Corona Typewriter, brown with a long scratch down the side.

I figured you’d want to see this before I brought it to the university. Seeing as you’re a fellow collector, wanted to give you first look.

He set it on the table after he made a clearing.

You know, being a writer and all.

I gave him a look.

So, I started. This is someone else’s case that you found in a Studebaker?

Yes, sir. He said.

I don’t know, Edgar. Someone might come looking for it. I don’t like to get under anything I can’t get out of.

Just take a look.

Edgar took a glance over at Dale.

No, not that one, he said. Dale, the three quarters wrench is further back in the garage. Go get it. You’ll be at it all day otherwise.

Dale wiped his hands and did so.

I opened the case.

Inside was a series of eight drill bits.

They were on an oily red rag.

I lifted them and set them on the table.

Underneath the rag, there was a manuscript.

The pages were thick and heavy.

My grip slipped and I got a nasty thin cut on my index finger. I sucked at it to stave off the bleeding.

Edgar laughed.

Careful there, buddy boy.

I took a look at the title page.

Written By

That was all the title page said.

I flipped through most of the pages and saw the collection of grimy typewritten words.

The last page had a home address.

I closed the case.

And you said you were about to go to the university?

Yes, but I wanted you to see it first.

How much?

I barely registered the rumble of thunder overhead.