The Little Black Book of SINS

By T.M. Jacobs

Clifford Swanson was not much of a reader but when a strange leather-bound book caught his attention he couldn’t resist. It turned out to be about a dark sin he committed. Realizing the book was a curse, he quickly passed it off to Mary Kate Bowman, a complete stranger.

She in turn passed the book off to Steven Striker. From there it went to Benjamin Howe, Susan Crass, and Daniel Moss. What sins did they commit? How did the author of the strange leather-bound book know this? And more importantly, who will Daniel pass the book off to next?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.M. Jacobs
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463684221

T.M. Jacobs

T.M. Jacobs resides in various locations along the east coast with his fiancé, Kathleen, traveling and working from their RV motorhome. He has published nine books, over 400 articles published in various newspapers and magazines, teaches classes on writing and publishing, and currently is the owner of Jacobs Writing Consultants. He is the founder and former editor for Patriots of the American Revolution magazine and has been a freelance writer for over 30 years. He has been featured on C-SPAN 2TV for his writing on the Civil War. When he's not running the business, he's busy writing, reading, and giving presentations to writing groups.

Book preview

"There are no unforgivable sins."

Miroslay Volf

Croatian Protestant theologian

Copyright © 2018 T.M. Jacobs

The Little Black Book of Sins

Cover design: Patti B. Jefferson

ISBN-13: 978-1717318770

ISBN-10: 1717318770

This is a complete work of fiction. All characters are the creation of the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Printed in the U.S.A.

There are only a few who have read this book. Their whereabouts till this day are unknown. That is the only warning. Read if you dare.

Clifford Swanson

Flames were shooting through the window on the fifteenth story of the Metro-Cannon high rise as the Newtown NYC Fire Department responded to the three-alarm blaze. Residential renters and business owners were flooding the street as they evacuated the structure. Smoke billowed along the side of the building. Shards of glass and chunks of concrete fell to the sidewalk sounding like firecrackers.

Please stand clear of the sidewalk, hollered Sergeant Richard Woodbury with the use of a bullhorn. More sirens filled the area as ambulances, police, and fire rescue trucks converged on the scene.

Oh my God, shouted a woman pointing to a man standing on the ledge with the flames licking at his feet. His arms were flailing and it appeared as if he was about to lose his balance.

Please stand clear, Sergeant Woodbury shouted again.

Swanson, Miller, Harris, set up the trampoline, Captain Virginia Gibson, one of three women on the force, ordered. The firemen began to spread out a thick cloth, as Captain Gibson hollered for the man to jump.

He drew in a deep breath and then pushed off from the ledge, sailing backward toward the ground. The crowd let out a huge gasp, then a louder sigh as the man landed in the trampoline. He was helped over to one of the trucks and treated for smoke inhalation and shock.

The fire continued to burn and smoke poured upward, left and right. Two fire trucks hoisted up buckets with hoses, while a third team manned four hoses from the ground. It looked as if there was a waterfall in front of the high rise. For a brief moment, a rainbow appeared through the water, but no one took any notice.

One hour later, the fire was out and slowly the on-lookers began to dissipate. Only the captain and the fire marshal remained on scene to begin their investigation while news reporters snapped pictures and interviewed a few witnesses who had yet to leave the area.

Back at the station, Clifford Swanson changed back into his civilian clothes and chatted with a few of the guys about the fire. While he, like the others, hated for people to suffer through what a fire can do to you mentally and physically, they lived for the adrenaline of battling the blazes. For Clifford, it was a way of life, and he’d do anything to climb the ranks within his unit.

For him, like his comrades, it was in his blood. His great-grandfather, Henry Swanson, founded the Newtown department in 1922 and served as fire chief for twenty-three years, until his death in 1945. His son, Henry Jr., stepped into his father’s shoes, then was proceeded by his son, Charles.

Although Clifford had it in his blood, he didn’t have the same stock of his father and his forefathers before him when it came to discipline, politics, and business of the department like they did. He was in his thirteenth year with the department, up for promotion to Captain, and was awarded Fireman of the Year three years ago after rescuing a young girl from a burning building. After finishing the fourth day of his shift, he walked down 35th Avenue, headed toward his favorite cafe to indulge in a greasy order of eggs, bacon, and rye toast, when he passed the Dorchester Used Bookstore. Something in the window caught his eye. Not just something, but a book on display seemed to call out to him.

He must have passed this bookstore daily, but never noticed it. Never noticed the New York Times bestsellers stacked twenty copies high, the seasonal decorations, or the occasional book signing event advertised for the weekend. Clifford simply didn’t notice. He never set foot inside the store, and there was one occasion at the fire house he did remember. His Sergeant and Lieutenant were rattling their brains, trying to recall the name of the bookstore, and they asked him if he knew the name. Didn’t know we even had a bookstore on 35th, he replied.

But today was different. He stopped in mid-step, pivoted toward the bay window, and stared at the black book. A black, solid cover with no title, no text on the spine, no author name. Clifford went inside.

Other than the bookkeeper, the place was empty. It reeked like the basement of an old library, musty and damp. A haven for mold.

Good morning, said the store keeper, pushing his thick-lensed eye glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. What is it we enjoy reading?

Well, actually I must confess, said Clifford, I’m not much of a reader, but that book in the window caught my eye.

Ah, yes. It’s one-of-a-kind. Let me grab it for you. The store keeper carefully reached over the partition and retrieved the book. He gave the cover a quick sweep of his palm to remove any thumbprints and handed it to Clifford. The cover was faded and had a leathery feel to it. Flipping it over, there was one paragraph of text on the back cover:

There are only a few who have read this book. Their whereabouts till this day are unknown. That is the only warning. Read if you dare.

Clifford looked at the store keeper then glanced back down at the book in his hand. Have you read this?

Why no, I haven’t. If I could, I would read every book in here. That only came in yesterday. I thought it odd there was no title or author. But I hadn’t time to skim through it, yet it does look rather interesting, I must say. And I’m afraid it’s my only copy.

I see. Can I ask an odd question?

I don’t see why not. Go ahead.

Can a book call out to you? Like the way someone says they put a spell on you.

The store keeper paused. "Well, I can honestly say I have read a few books and wondered if the author hadn’t written