The Green Ledger

I work in a converted textile mill on the outskirts of Blackwood, where the machines still hum with ghosts of the old looms. My desk sits in a mezzanine above the main floor, overlooking a labyrinth of cubicles and the breakroom we call ‘the Hollow’ because it never gets any sunlight. The only clock is a cracked analog that hangs crooked above the coffee machine, and it’s been stuck at 3:07 for as long as anyone remembers.

A year ago, we hired a temp named Marcus to replace our data entry clerk who’d quit after a nervous breakdown. Marcus was quiet, too neat, always wore a green vest over a starched shirt. He didn’t talk much, but he had a habit of leaving a small, leather-bound notebook on the shared desk near the printer. The notebook was titled ‘The Green Ledger’ in embossed gold letters. I asked him about it once, and he just smiled and said, ‘It keeps track of things.’ I thought it was a joke.

But then the small things started. The coffee machine would make three cups when only one was poured. The thermostat would drop to 60 degrees at 3:07 PM every day, right when the clock’s frozen hands seemed to mock us. Marcos would be standing by the window, staring at the wall, when he should have been at his station. I’d catch him adjusting the ledgers in the old accounting room, the one we’d sealed off after a fire in the 80s. I told the manager, but he shrugged, ‘Eh, Marcus is a bit odd, but he’s fast.’

One afternoon, I stayed late to finish a backlog. The office was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped wasps. I saw Marcus’s green ledger lying on the printer desk, open to a page I’d never seen. The entries were neat, in black ink, but the names were familiar: all the people who had taken a sick day last month. Their dates of absence, what they were diagnosed with. And then I realized: those were the days they’d come into work, not stayed home. I flipped back a few pages. There were the names of everyone in the building, with columns like ‘Missing Items,’ ‘Lost Time,’ ‘Strange Events.’ Under my name, it said: ‘Investigate. Leave a warning.’

I should have burned the book. But I was curious, and I’ve always been a skeptic. I tucked it into my coat pocket and took it home. That night, my apartment’s lights flickered at exactly 3:07 AM. A cold draft swept through my living room, and from my bedroom I heard a sound like fabric slithering across the floor. I stood in the doorway, and there was a figure hunched over my desk, wearing a green vest. It was Marcus, but his face was a gray, featureless mask. He turned his head toward me, and his voice came from everywhere, ‘You took my ledger.’

I ran. I drove back to the mill, and the place was dark, but the clock on the wall had moved to 3:07 PM. The breakroom coffee machine was brewing a pot, but the carafe was cracked, and coffee dribbled onto the floor. In the accounting room, the door was ajar. I stepped inside, and the room was untouched by the fire—it was pristine, except for a stack of green ledgers piled on the old desk. Each one had a different year on the spine: 1985, 1992, 2001, 2010. And on the desk, lying open, was the current one, with new ink appearing as I watched: ‘He came back to take his place.’

I turned to flee, but the door slammed shut. The lights flickered, and in the glow, I saw writing on the walls, in the same black ink: ‘You’ll be my new recorder.’ A shadow formed in the corner, tall and thin, with Marcus’s green vest, but its arms stretched too long. I woke up the next morning in my car, parked outside the mill, the engine dead. The clock on the dashboard showed 3:07. I went inside, and everything was normal. Marcus was at his desk. But when he looked up, his eyes were not human—they were empty white circles. He smiled, and said, ‘I’m glad you’re back. I have a new entry to show you.’

I quit that week, but the curse followed. Every job I take, a green ledger appears on my desk, and my handwriting starts appearing in it, listing small ‘coincidences.’ Last night, I found a page that read: ‘Subject: Michael. Date: 3/07. Outcome: Attempted escape. Penance: Eternal recorder.’ I’ve been trying to destroy the book, but it always returns, and the ink never fades. I’m writing this from a remote cabin in the mountains, but I can already see a figure in the treeline, wearing a green vest. The ledger is on the cabin’s table, open to a fresh page. It’s waiting for my first entry.