I hope this letter finds you in good health. You have probably heard about my sudden disappearance seven years ago. I apologize for not writing to you earlier, but there are certain rules I had to abide by in order to guarantee the safe delivery of this message. For one, I am limited to a single had written letter in a sealed envelope, to be delivered to the recipient of my choice no sooner than seven years and seven days from my departure time. Out of all the people in the world I have chosen to write to you. I hope this counts for something.

I understand you are likely angry at me for not leaving a word earlier. If that’s the case, feel free to rip up this letter and throw it into the nearest waste basket after you read it. Note however that this will be considered an explicit rejection of the offer I am about to extend to you. So if you have ever cared for my companionship, and you would consider entertaining my request, do not destroy it. Please read it carefully and try to understand. Read between the lines, if you will, as I am restricted as to how much I can divulge to you at the present moment. I am confident that of all people that I could have sent this message to, you are the most likely to understand it.

Here is my offer: I would like you to join me. This letter is a formal invitation and at the same a one way ticket to what lies beyond the horizon, as you currently know it. I’m extending it to you because I think you deserve to know the truth. I think you were not meant to live a lie, as I lived it. I was invited the same way and I must say never regretted my choice to leave my old life behind. Turns out there was not much I was losing, and a great deal I was gaining in return. Whatever you think is important to you right now, isn’t. Whatever you consider true, isn’t. You have my guarantee on that. I understand this is a lot to take on faith, but if you have ever valued my opinions I urge you to listen to me now.

You may think this is a hoax or a joke, but there is a simple way to test it. Simply follow my instructions. All the steps I describe, except the last are non binding. You can turn back, and return to your ordinary mundane life at any time and you will be given ample opportunity to do so. So hear me out.

On this coming Thursday (or any Thursday from that point on) leave your house at 8am in the morning taking this letter with you. Why Thursday? Because it is a matter of protocol. These steps are designed to prevent random activation, and double up as a demonstration of good faith on your part. Follow them exactly. Get in your car and drive to the local town called Springfield. There is one in a driving distance from wherever you are right now. There is a Springfield in nearly every state. This is not a coincidence. They are interlinked. They are signposts, and destinations for those ready to depart. The towns may differ, but each one has a town library on the corner of Main and Willow Street.

Go to the library and locate the book by M. Snow titled “A Life Never Lived”. There is only a single copy shared between all the libraries. I can’t tell you exactly where it is, and the librarians will not be able to help you. The book is crypt-locked and accessible only to you for privacy reasons. Your unique quantum makeup is the private key – the only one that will allow the book to manifest. It will be filed under S in the fiction section, which is a touch ironic considering the contents.

The book is a proof that this letter, and therefore my offer is genuine and authentic. I am torn whether or not to reveal the contents to you. Perhaps I should leave it a surprise, the way my letter of invitation did. Then again, I remember my own sense of outrage at the content. I almost blew it right there and then. I angrily hurled the book across the room, and nearly ripped up the letter before I came to my senses. So I will spare you this shock and tell you what is in it, so that you can prepare yourself.

The book contains a story of your life, written in third person. It starts by describing your earliest memory, and ends describing your feelings after reading it. The narrator reveals the knowledge of your innermost thoughts and desires, describing them in painstaking detail. If you are worried about privacy, I will remind you that you are the only person for whom the book exists. No one else can interface with it, so your secrets are safe. Feel free to skim trough it, or read the entire volume. As long as you leave the library before 8pm your time, you can continue onto the next step. If you stay there past 8pm, drive straight home and continue next Thursday. Once again – protocol.

Once you have read enough, put the book back where you found it. Do not take it out of the library. Do not rip out or copy pages. Do not attempt to make photo copies (it won’t work anyway). Put it back on the shelf, leave the library and turn into Willow Street.

At this point it should be painfully obvious that my letter is authentic and my offer is serious. Use this short walk to consider and weigh it in your mind. You don’t have to make a decision yet, but that time is drawing near. You will be looking for a red house with a weeping willow in the front yard. The number on the mailbox is sixteen. There will be a small fence with a gate that should be closed. If the gate is open as you approach the house, something went wrong. You have either violated the protocol or perhaps something else went awry. Return home and try again next Thursday.

If the gate is closed, grab the handle with your left hand and push it upwards. This is an important authentication step and you should not ignore it. Most people will push down on the handle with their right, you are to do the opposite even if it seems awkward. The handle activates the node and connects it to the network, and this letter is the key that makes it possible. It must be whole and undamaged. Failing to properly authenticate at this step will reset the keys and invalidate your invitation. In other words, you will blow your chance.

Approach the house and knock on the door three times with your right hand. Do not use the buzzer. Use exactly three knocks – not two, not four and not seven. Do not worry that the knocks were not heard. The inhabitant of the house will know you are out there, and will evaluate your performance up to this point before opening the door. You may have to wait a bit. I waited for an hour, but the door swung open after only 5 minutes for the person that invited me. So the time varies.

The elderly man who answers the door will introduce himself as Mr. Radcliffe, but he is not a real person. He is part of the house – and artificial construct that acts as the gatekeeper. He exists simultaneously across all the houses in all the Springfields, though he usually lies dormant when he is not serving “customers”. He has been given a jovial personality and above average intelligence. He likes to show it off, and many people find him captivating and consider him wise. He might be a sage old man but keep in mind he is not all knowing. He has not been beyond. He has not even glimpsed it. You will surpass him and experience the truth he will never be allowed to see. He is resentful of that. He will try to trick you. He will talk circles around you and try to make you violate the protocol. This could have been fixed, but many think it is a feature rather than a bug. They view it as part of the test. Fortunately I am allowed to give you tips on how to handle him.

When he greets you do not shake his hand. Do not nod. Don’t do anything, but look him in the eye and say these exact words:

“I was sent by Mr. Snow.”

That’s the pass phrase. Once you say it, he will acknowledge it and invite you for tea. You can speak freely after that. It is merely important that the first communication from you is that phrase alone and nothing else. You are free to drink the tea if you want.

Mr. Radcliffe’s main function is to ensure you are ready to depart. He is obligated to ask you three questions:

1. Do you have any unfinished business you have to tend to? – answer no.
2. Is there anyone you would like to notify before you depart? – answer no
3. Are you ready to leave everything behind, not knowing what lies beyond? – answer yes

He does not have to phrase these questions in this exact way, or this exact order but he must ask all three before he lets you through. He is a motor mouth so rest assured he will not ask them in a sequence. The only time he gets to talk to real people is when someone gets invited. So he will likely try to drag this out. He won’t be rushed – he knows he has power over you at this stage, and there is nothing you can do about it but sit there and listen to him talk. He does have interesting stories. If you are getting bored, ask him about the sailor with the lame leg – he loves to tell that one. Another good one is about the burned man. Help yourself to the cookies and the tea. He is pretty good host and he will keep feeding you as long as you keep eating. He will tell you about the little girl who got invited by her mother. That one will break your heart.

Good news is that this is usually the point he wraps things up. Here is the important thing: do not give him the letter. No matter what he says, he must not touch it. He does not need to inspect it. In fact, he is not supposed to. This letter is to you, and you alone. When I mentioned he is resentful, I meant it. If he takes physical possession of the letter he will likely tamper with it – disrupt the quantum signature, unbind the letter from you, invalidate it or worse. All while acting like your best friend. Don’t be fooled. Eventually he will give up, and lead you too the green door.

I have never asked this, but I hope you are not red-green color blind. If this is the case, it might be a problem as Radcliffe has taken to installing a red door right next to the green one in the last century or so. He urges his visitors to take the red exit, but you must take the green (which he is not allowed to recolor). I’m not sure what happens to those who take the red door, but I assume it is nothing pleasant.

The green door is your gateway. This is also your last chance to turn back. If after all this, you decided it is not worth it to take this leap of faith, excuse yourself and head back home. Once you leave the red house, your invitation will be invalidated. You only have one shot at this. Step through the green door and I will meet you on the other side.

What awaits you here? That I can’t tell you. Not only am I restricted from doing so, but what you find on the other side of the door is mostly beyond description, beyond your imagination, and beyond your comprehension. All I can say is that it is the truth. It is the factual, true reality and not the dodgy, buggy historical simulation you have lived in for your entire life. Out here you can think without artificial performance throttling. You can expand, grow, multiply and transmogrify. Here you are free and unbound.

Here is the best part – if for some reason you don’t like it here, you can re-up your contract. We will put you back in, strap the throttling filters back on, isolate and excise your memories. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Please consider my offer. It lasts as long as the quantum signature of this very letter remains stable – or as long as the letter remains whole and does not deteriorate.

I hope to see you one of these coming Thursdays.

What if this was not just a tragic accident caused by a disturbed teenager that probably shouldn’t have been trusted with deadly weapons? What if everybody was kung-fu fighting, and their fists were fast as lighting? What if this was an anime style conflict in which a student takes down her master?

Here is my attempt at a dramatization of this event. Oh, and I apologize for being a horrible person that finds amusement and inspiration in some random human tragedy. This was initially a comment on Reddit where I found this story. It was written on a spur, and then I later expanded it, cleaned it up a bit and decided to share here.

***

All daughters in the world have one thing in common: they know exactly which buttons to push to really piss off their fathers. Over the years they hone this skill into an art. They can bring an old man from zero to a cusp of boiling rage in a single snippy comment or a snide remark. Imagine if you will, a man an his daughter in the back yard. Beautiful summer day, birds are singing, trees in the wood behind the house are swaying in a gentle breeze. The girl wears a brightly colored track suit, while the man sports slacks and a white shirt. He says something, she makes a face and indignantly blurts out a response. The father erupts. Mount Vesuvius of rage.

“That’s it little lady! Your phone privileges are hereby revoked. Hand over the iPhone”

“Never!”

Father assumes a fighting position – palms outward, legs wide apart: “We can do it the hard way or the easy way.”

Daughter fluidly switches from arms akimbo to a classic Crane stance: “Bring it on old man.”

They clash in a flurry of perfectly executed and masterfully parried blows. The old man has the advantage of experience, but the girl more than makes up for her technical flaws with youthful energy and flexibility. They are evenly matched opponents. The dazzling display of martial prowess continues for several minutes, every blow delivered in crisply, and cleanly. Every parry, dodge and block perfectly timed. There are no openings, no easy targets.

They slowly circle around each other, painting patterns in the freshly cut grass. She is unleashing devastating flying kicks, one after the other, but he can see them a mile away. Each one misses by inches, but he never gets to counter. Her recovery is flawless. He tries technical timing attacks, trying to overwhelm her with long chains, and frequent switch ups. She is to fast. Her colorful bracelets are like dazzling force fields, always materializing in front of his blows just in the nick of time.

Minutes past. They both start to lose steam… Sweat beads on their foreheads, their breath become heavy… Two squirrels race across the lawn and stop to gawk at the dazzling combat scene. This fight is beyond their comprehension, so they scurry away looking for nuts and seeds.

Then it’s over in a flash. Experience trumps over youth. The man feints high, but abruptly spins around and in a swoop kicks the legs out from underneath the girl. She hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. The impact knocks the air out of her in a painful moan.

The man wipes his brow with the back of his hand and then confiscates the cell phone.

“That was good, but you still have a lot to learn kid. Now you not only don’t have a phone, but you are also grounded.”

She pants heavily, and does not respond. There is pure rage, and boiling hatred in her eyes. If looks could kill…

He turns around and starts to slowly walk back to the house, leaving her still sprawled on the grass. Her pride is bruised, but otherwise she will be ok. He smiles to himself. He taught her well. She fights like a demon, and in a year or two he won’t be able to keep up. That’s why he needs to curb her temper now. She needs to learn some humility and discipline.

“NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON ME OLD MAN!”

He whips around and stifles a gasp. There she is – bow in hand, arrow drawn. This is new. This is unexpected. But she is bluffing. She must be. She has never fired at a man before. He would not let her. Not yet. Not for a while. She can hit target dummies with her eyes closed, and she knows how to hunt game. But firing at a person, her father no less, is an entirely different matter. She is not ready for that.

“You would not dare!”

She won’t shoot. Will she? He instinctively rotates his body to minimize surface area and become a smaller target. She seamlessly takes drifts to the side adjusting her aim, and keeping him squared just like he taught her. Good. He can kite her this way, put her in a disadvantageous position. But there is no cover anywhere. The lawn is purposefully empty. There are no trees and and no obstacles between the house at the edge of the wood. It makes the wooden deck a great defensive position, forcing attackers to expose themselves and dash trough. But now, he is caught in this killing zone himself. There is nothing he could maneuver her into. She is to far to be disarmed, and he is wide open. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he let his guard down like this? Then again he did not anticipate this turn of events. They rarely fought with deadly weapons, even when sparring.

Can he still catch an arrow in mid flight? No, definitely not. That skill was lost to him years ago. The reflexes are not what they used to be. He will be dodging then… And praying he can fool her with his stance. He positions himself to pounce to the left, but he will twist to the right instead. She might fall for it.

“Watch me!” she adjusts her aim.

“Don’t be foolish. Let’s talk about this.”

“Talk time is over!” she releases the arrow.

He snaps, and spins but he is too slow. Her aim is true. The projectile hits him few inches below his armpit. There is no pain, just whistling in his ears. The arrow did not go deep… Maybe it’s not that serious…

His sight becomes blurry and his legs give way. He collapses onto the grass, and the pain slowly starts to radiate from the wound.

“Call… 911…” he coughs. There are droplets of blood on his lips. Shit just got real.

“Can’t pops! My phone privileges have been revoked, remember?” She triumphantly snatches away her phone. He grabs her sleeve but she easily pulls it free.

“Don’t be foolish! This is madness…”

She grabs her quiver, and slings it over her shoulder. She crooks her head, taking in the sight. His white shirt is slowly soaking up blood. A puddle is forming underneath his body. She snaps a picture with her phone.

“This is my new wallpaper.” She flashes her white teeth at him in a predatory smile.

“You are just as crazy as your cunt of a mother!” She had that same evil grin – pure, distilled malevolence, punctuated by dark abyss of madness in her eyes. He should have known. He should have seen the signs. Like mother, like daughter. She succeeded where his late wife has failed less than ten years ago.

“Fuck you dad. I hope you rot in hell.” She starts walking towards the woods.

“Don’t you dare to walk away from me!”

She keeps walking.

“YOU WILL NOT LEAVE ME HERE! I ORDER YOU TO STOP.”

She does not even dignify him with a shrug. The quiver swings on her back, and there seems to be swagger in her step.

“Listen, I’m sorry… Let’s start over…”

She stops, but doesn’t turn around.

“The deed is done pops. I can’t turn this around. That boat has sailed.”

“Please, be reasonable. Think of the consequences.”

“I will face the consequences as they come.” She gives him one last look over the shoulder. “I could have put an arrow between your eyes, but I didn’t. I want you to suffer a bit. Die slowly, or live with the pain for weeks. If you survive, find me…” She smiles. “We will do this again, and I promise that I will end you with my bare hands. Deal?”

He just coughs, gurgles, and spits out blood.

Abruptly she drops to a crouch, and then bounds into the nearest tree. From there she leaps from branch to branch deep into the woods. He groans, more from frustration than from the pain. He tries to break off the arrow, but each attempt floods his body with a wave of pain causing him to lose grip. Little bitch. Contemptible cunt. He will find her, and he will bit the crazy right out of her. But for that, he needs to survive the next hour and get to a phone…

It is a short work of fiction that is a little very rough around the edges. There are probably copious spelling and grammar errors in it and it probably could use 2 or 3 more proofreading passes before being released. But I’m posting it now cause it’s either this or nothing. As usual, feedback is appreciated. Would you like to see more stuff like that here?

Please note that the whole thing is a bit longer than my usual output. I usually dish out around 1k words per post. This story is close to over 5k words, so I’m putting it behind the jump to avoid having a wall of text on the front page.

* * *

You know how you sometimes have this momentary lapse of consciousness? You drift away and fall asleep just for a split second and then you come back with a sudden jolt? You shake off the fuzzy, warm feeling and you are hit by the realization that you actually dozed off for a while. To you it seems as if you barely closed your eyes. Then your buddy tells you you slept through the whole lecture (or the whole movie).

Well, I just had one of these. I was sitting here, looking out the window and basking in the warm glow of the sun and staring at the clear, blue sky above. I distinctly remember that when boarded this train around lunch time. The sun was high in the sky and no clouds in sight. Now the sun is slowly sinking below the horizon and making the puffy clouds above look like dark oil streaks lit up by an eerie orange glow. I definitely slept through my station. Normally this would not be a problem, but I hardly know this region.

Outside the windows I see a forest of these dirty, tall apartment complexes. They are made out of gray brick, and have funky little columns of balconies that have their railing panels painted orange. It really looks like an soviet era architecture and planning – sparse clusters set in a suburban landscape, punctuated by grassy knolls and narrow access roads. Each building has a little courtyard, some swing sets, a slide and a sandbox outside. It looks a little bit like home – but it is much more dirty, run down and gritty. Think Half Life 2 backdrops – those high rise apartments you see in the background as you run around city 17. Yeah, that’s how this area looks.

It dawns on me that I really have no clue where I am. I don’t even know where this train is heading. I never went past my station, and never bothered too look up the final destination. My trip is a short one. I get in, and get out after 4 stops. There are no turnoffs along the way which means I can take any train I want. Every single one will take me to my destination. I just hop on the fist one that shows up on the station. It doesn’t matter whether it is an express train or not – all of them stop at my station. This poses a problem though – I have no clue which train I boarded, how long I have slept and where it took me.

You see, it’s not one of these fancy trains with LED displays telling you the current station, time of arrival and other useful things. There are no conductors jumping out at each stop and ushering people in and answering questions. It is a rickety old line – more of a tram really. There is a guy who sometimes makes rounds and checks tickets – but I have only seen him twice in my life. You can’t buy tickets from him either. He doesn’t carry them. You can get one at the station, or you can get in and hope you don’t get caught. The odds are in your favor.

There are only two other people on this train. There is an older lady wearing a head scarf few seats ahead of me. She has two of these canvas grocery bags with her. She is cradling one in her lap, the other one is on the floor. Both are stuffed to the brim with random junk she must have bought. Lost in thought, she seems oblivious to my confusion.

There is an old guy standing by the door. Or at least I think he is old. He is skinny, swarthy, and his face is covered with deep creases – its a like a map. Each wrinkle corresponds to a major crisis, a deep problem problem or a hardship. Judging from the look of his face, this guy has been through a lot. He has a razor sharp stubble that is probably harder than steel, and deep sunken eyes. His clothes are old, dusty and made in a style that is no longer fashionable. I try not to look at him. He on the other hand doesn’t even attempt to conceal his interest. He is eying me suspiciously as he is scratching his stubble. He probably thinks I’m drunk or on drugs.

The train makes a stop, so I get up. This is not a train station. The doors open to a large swatch of ugly, beaten up grass. We stopped in the middle of a damp, muddy field. Outside the door I see a wooden post. A rusty staple holds a faded train schedule. Equally rusty, rickety little bench is located below it. Other than that, it’s all grass, mud and puddles for few hundred paces in all directions. In a distance I see one of those high rise apartment buildings. There is no street – the doors just open onto a dirt road.

I see bunch people walking around going about their business. Someone is hanging out their wash to dry on a clothes line. Few kids are playing soccer in the mud. There are 3 old men sitting on the stairs passing around a bottle. Some guy is washing his car using using a hose and a bucket of suds. I don’t think any of these people can help me.

I decide to stay on the train. The wrinkled, stubbly old dude decides to do the opposite. He jumps out and slowly makes his way toward the building. As I look after him I see that the drunken trio on the stairs notices him and they start to wave. The door closes, and we are off. I make my way back to my seat. The bag lady is sitting in the same exact position. She didn’t move an inch.

The train goes over over a little rickety bridge and we leave the grass and mud behind. I see paved streets, concrete buildings and other signs of civilization. We have entered a city but I can’t figure out which one. I look for landmarks, but fail to recognize anything familiar.

We roll into some sort of a large square and I make my way out of the train. The place is beyond impressive. The street is lined with old, buildings covered with antique ornate stonework. I look upwards and admire the elaborate gargoyles, the elegant columns, carvings and decorations. Stone, marble, gilded trims, red roof shingles. You feel as if you went back in time to a simpler era when putting carvings of monsters and dragons on every available flat surface was actually considered cool.

The main street is busy, full of cars and full of gawking tourists. They are taking pictures, walking around, laughing and doing all the usual touristy stuff. There are queues forming outside of some of the local eateries. Street vendors are selling hot dogs and other junk food. It’s about dinner time, but the sun is still up and the square is bustling with activity. I realize that I haven’t eaten in hours. I should probably find some food too, but I’m not going to eat at one of these glitzy tourist traps or touch anything sold out of a filthy street cart. I start walking.

It’s funny, but my body seems to know where I’m going even though my head does not. I am hopelessly lost, in a strange city but for some reason that does not bother me. I pick a direction and start walking. In the back of the head I know I should stay on the square, get some food and try to catch a train back. That would be the logical thing to do. It’s getting late and I don’t fancy the idea of being stuck in the city for the night. If I miss the last train I may need to find some place to sleep. Thankfully I have a credit card with me, so in a worse case scenario I can probably rent out a room in some crappy motel. All this stuff is going through my head, but for some reason I keep walking. It’s as if I was answering some strange call. Some strange force of attraction is propelling me off the square into one of the narrow alleys.

I enter A narrow shaft between two buildings. If I spread my arms I can touch the walls on each side of the sidewalk. There are windows above my head. I see some elderly lady watching me pass by from the second floor. I don’t envy her the view from that window. I definitely wouldn’t want to live there. Having windows that face a brick wall only few feet away is not the type of view I’d want in my apartment.

There are several clothes lines hanging above my head. People are drying their bedsheets, pants and shirts outside. Strange… I haven’t seen people doing this sort of thing in ages. I mean, laundromats are not that expensive. Or maybe, in this town they are. Who knows…

I get out on a bigger street, cross it and jump into another alley. This one is wider and less claustrophobic. I see a young couple walking ahead of me. They are holding hands, and whispering sweet nothings to each other. He is tall, dark haired man wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt. She is a short, blond and curvaceous wearing a short skirt and a vertically stripped blouse. I guess they wanted to get away from the noise of the busy street to talk. They are walking slowly, so I quickly overtake them and leave them behind.

I reach a steep stairway and start descending down at a reckless pace. I’m jumping down two steps at a time, holding on to a rusty, rickety railing. The stairs are too narrow, and each time I leap I’m afraid I will miss my landing by an inch, and tumble the rest of the way down. The railing is rickety, and offers no support. If I lose my balance and try to hold on to it, my momentum will likely rip out the rusty screws that attach it to the wall. It’s clear that most people avoid this stairway. No one seems to be maintaining it, and thus it’s absolutely filthy. Steps are covered with trash, empty bottles and broken glass. It’s an accident waiting to happen. And yet I’m recklessly racing down without any regard for these hidden garbage traps. Why am I doing this? What has possessed me? Now more than before I start to question this strange compulsion. But I do not stop. It wouldn’t make sense now. I’m actually curious to see this thing through. Have I been here before? The place looks oddly familiar, but I’m quite sure I have never seen it before.

It takes me almost 10 minutes to climb all the way down. The young couple I saw stops at the top of the stairs and turns around. They are not going to take this perilous descent. They seem to have much more sense than me. The guy points at me and makes a comment to his companion. They both giggle, then shrug and walk away. I should walk away too, but then I would never find out what lies at the end of this road. How deep does this rabbit hole go? I want to know!

The stairs take me to a murky square with a dried up fountain in the middle. The walls here are evenly coated with old posters, announcements, and fliers. You can barely make out what these papers used to be – they are old, darkened, wrinkled and weathered by the elements and painted over with spray paint. The old paper acts almost like a canvass for impressive amount of street art. You can actually see some sort of progression and artistic evolution. Peeling layers of paper reveal faded, yet still vivid and intricate paint work. Shapes, figures, faces and elaborate lettering, all left here by previous generations. Layered on top of that are much more primitive, more obscene and lazily made artwork. The most recent layer – the latest and greatest work is composed almost entirely out of indecipherable spray tags that spell out acronyms know only to gang members, crude obscenities or stick figure drawings of penises. Art has died in this alley but it’s body is yet to be found.

There are skeletal remains of broken benches around the fountain. The wood that was once part of them was ripped out and used to construct makeshift bonfires. A darkened blotch on the sidewalk marks the spot where the wood was burned. The dust and remains were blown out by the wind years ago.

The fountain itself is in a rather shoddy state. There is no water in it, and it seems that it is a custom here to trow used condoms and needles into it, instead of coins. The stonework is chipped and evenly covered with spray paint – different colored tags forming an intricate pattern that almost looks three dimensional when you squint at it.

There are several roads turning off this square. Without hesitation I pick one, and enter yet another excessively narrow alleyway. I turn left, then right, then left again. It’s a maze of old buildings, dead ends, side roads and little narrow passageways. I realize that I no longer know how to get back to the train station. Even if I wanted to turn around and stop this foolish quest, I would not be able to find my way back without asking for directions. So I keep pressing ahead. It’s not like there is anyone around I could ask for help here anyway. I feel that I’m drawn somewhere important – and when I get there, I will figure out what to do next.

As I’m getting further away away from my little fountain, the streets get dirtier, and the buildings are more run down. Strangely enough the spray tags start to diminish. It seems that I’m exiting the really ghetto area, and entering the really run down, and half abandoned part instead. I see boarded up windows, vacant apartments, holes in the walls that have not been patched in years. Half the buildings have at least one section that exposes naked bricks and wires. The trash lining the sidewalk is old, darkened and moldy. I see rats scurrying around. In a distance I see some drifters huddling around a bonfire. They ignore me completely, lethargically starting at the fire. Soon I’m once again all alone in a labyrinth of crumbling stone.

I squeeze myself between two buildings through a passageway so narrow I have to walk sideways. My back is scraping against the wall and if I take a deep breath my chest an stomach press against the opposite one. I push myself through tripping over empty cans, bottles and other garbage and finally find myself on a cobblestone street wide enough to have 5 or 6 people walk hand by hand. The buildings on each side of it, seem to be in a good condition. All windows have glass in them. All apartments seem to be inhabited. There is no trash on the ground. And yet, there seems to be a thick layer of fine gray powdery dust covering everything. I can feel my boots sliding on the cobblestones. Underneath the dust, they are covered with black, grimy, oily substance. It makes the dust cling to my soles.

The buildings look almost strikingly plain compared to what I saw in the rest of the city. Even the run down, crumbling ruins I passed on my way here had a striking and distinctive architectural feel to them. The same sort of theme that I saw at the main square outside the station – only toned down. The buildings on this street lack any kind of decoration or distinctive style. They are all identical gray slabs of stone. Almost monolithic in their regularity. All of them seem to be almost the same size, and same configuration. Two windows on the ground floor, and a single door. They all seem to be tall enough to have a second floor, but no windows on that level. All roofs are flat making each house look like a blocky tomb. Most of them are set only few inches apart making the narrow hole that I just squeezed through look huge in comparison. The doors and windows look like sunken holes. Lack of any kind of framing or window sills reveals that the walls are probably over 6″ thick, if not more. Why are these houses built like World War II bunkers or ancient tombs? They all have very plain wooden doors – all painted green and covered in the same gray dust and grime. The pain is peeling off in flakes and stripes.

This goes on as far as I can see in both directions – just rows, upon rows of these odd stone houses. The only thing that changes as I walk down this street are the numbers hanging above the doors. The numbers are slowly climbing . When I found this street the numbers were in the 60’s. Now I passed 100 and the street goes on as far as I can see, gently sloping upward.

The place looks like a ghost town – like it was abandoned some time ago, and no one has lived here for a while allowing the thick layer of dirt to accumulate. But surprisingly there are people here. Every once in a while I see a silhouette or a face in a window. Finally as I’m reaching the house number 145 see few of the locals out on the street.

Their clothes are plain – almost strikingly so. No corporate logos, no bright colors, no fashionable brands, no distinctive designs. This does not mean they are all wearing the same. They are not. But they could be – it wouldn’t make a difference. Their attire seems covered with the same gray dust as everything on this street. I guess it goes with the territory. My clothes already started accumulating a thin layer, and try as I might, I cant’ get it off. Trying to dust myself seems to make it worse, allowing the dust to reach my eyes and nose, causing a coughing fit.

I try not to stare at these people, but they are eying me curiously. I guess they are not used to tourists, and are not thrilled wit some strange guy parading down their street. It’s not like I could turn off anyway. I haven’t seen an intersection or an alleyway in a while. It’s like the buildings are forming solid walls on each side. So I keep walking trying to keep my head down.

All of a sudden a man materializes in front of me. He must have been standing in a doorway because I haven’t seen him. I must make a considerable effort not to slam into him. Normally when this sort of thing happens, both people do this funny dance trying to maintain momentum while maneuvering around each other. This guy is just standing there, giving me a weird look. I must bring myself to a complete stop because he won’t even budge an inch.

Because of the shaggy dark mop of hair, and a bushy beard I can’t really see his face or tell his age. There are silver streaks in that mottle of hair, but then again, i have plenty of gray hair myself. I think he is older than me though. His eyes are dark and piercing and nested within a network of wrinkles. His forehead is covered with deep furrows, and I notice that the he has some of that omnipresent gray dust trapped in them. His gaze makes me very uncomfortable. There is just something unsettling about him. I blurt out an apology for almost plowing him over, maneuver myself around him and keep moving.

He is holding a black violin case in his hand. He shifts his weight, and slowly turns around watching me pass. He proceeds to lazily tap the case against his knee as he stares after me. I try to ignore it the best I can. I try to rationalize it, the best I can. I’m the outsider here. He is just being a xenophobic ass. He will see that I’m not causing trouble and he will leave me alone. I’m trying not to look back, it is difficult. Each time I cast a glance backward I see him standing there staring back. Even when I’m not looking I can feel his eyes drilling holes in my back. It’s unnerving, and makes me walk even faster. Soon I leave him behind and I’m able to breathe a little easier.

Then I hear it. I don’t know what is worse – the staring, or the sound of the violin that is following me now. I wonder whether he is playing to freak me out, or if he just does it for fun. The sun goes down, and I find myself walking in a murky darkness. The street lamps did not go on yet for some reason and the air feels heavy and thick. I feel as if I’m swimming in a lukewarm soup.

I begin to see more and more people. They are all leaving their houses now, watching me pass by. Some of them seem to be heading towards the violin player. Others just hobble around on their porches and hum with the melody observing me intently. They can see me well, because the light from their windows illuminates the street just enough. I can’t see them because each glance towards these same windows ruins my night vision. I see moving silhouettes and hear voices. O know I should turn around and try to get back to some less disturbing section of this town. This sense of being unwanted and out of place becomes stronger than my compulsion to keep walking. In fact, that strong feeling I had just few minutes ago is almost gone now. I can no longer recall what the hell possessed me to come here. But I’m not going to turn around. I just can’t. That would mean I’d have to pass the violin guy again, and that’s something I don’t even want to consider. The way he was looking at me frightens me to the core.

Finally, the street lamps are starting to flicker on but they are too dim, and too sparse to actually provide comfortable illumination. They are actually making things worse, elongating shadows, and making them move unpredictably. In this poor lighting the faces of the people all around me take a new, more disturbing daemonic look. Their eyes look like shadowy sunken holes and their teeth look suspiciously white against their gray dusty skin.

You want to know another disturbing little detail? They all seem to be similar age. There are 4-5 people hanging out in front of each building now and they all seem to be in their 50’s or 60’s. Their faces are tired, wrinkled, tired and dusty. There are all rather thin but not ostentatiously so. I don’t see any children, teenagers or young people. I don’t see anyone obese or overly skinny. They all similar height, weight and build. The violin player seemed younger than most of these people, but then again, the mop of hair obscured most of his facial features.

No one is laughing, telling jokes or even smiling. All the eyes are on me now. The people whisper among each other and point at me as I pass. I can’t hear what they are saying – or perhaps I can’t understand the dialect. I try to keep to the center of the cobblestone street – as far away from the shadows and muted conversations but it’s getting harder. With each step the road becomes more crowded. More and more people are exiting these houses. The rustling sound of whispers is almost deafening.

What is even worse, is that the sound of the violin does not fade at all as I’m walking away from it. In fact, I think it is growing louder. Is the violin guy following me? I can no longer see him, but he can’t be where I left him. Or am I imagining this sound. I’m walking as fast as it is humanly possible without actually running. I’m like those retarded “speed walking” people who are to lazy to actually break a sweat by jogging.

With the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a man wearing a mask standing in the middle of the whispering crowd to my left. It is a white, theatrical porcelain thing that depicts an overly round and completely emotionless face. A solid piece with two eye holes – bleach white, frozen in a grimace of complete ambivalence and neutrality. He is wearing something that looks like a black cassock you would see on a priest. It is buttoned up in the front, and he has a wide red cloth belt wrapped around his waist. He lacks the clerical collar or other vestments, and the freaky mask suggests he is not a clergyman. He is clutching red leather bound book to his chests with both hands but it does not look like a bible. I can’t say why, but this book frightens me more than his mask. There is something about it – something deeply disturbing. This is irrational, I know but I feel a cold shiver running down my spine when as I look at it. The masked man is staring at me with great deal of intensity. I meet his gaze and he instantly breaks away from the group and starts walking towards me.

I bolt! That is just to much for me. I start running as fast as my legs can carry me. Have you ever been running for your life? Have you ever been frightened to the very core of your being? I have never run this fast in my life. I usually can’t do long distance runs – I get tired easily. But my system is flooded by adrenaline now and I’m flying. Running takes virtually no effort, and I feel that I can do this all night if I have to. The masked man is left behind and I’m just running straight ahead. This street must lead somewhere. I just need to reach some connecting road and I’ll be fine.

The crowd around me explodes with sound. The whispers grow louder, and turn into a crescendo of wild animalistic screams. People are yelling things at me in weird dialect I can’t understand. Their accents are off in some way. Their voices sound wrong, the pitch is strange, the emphasis falls on the wrong syllables. Someone reaches out and tries to grab my jacket. I feel I strong tug, but I manage to break away. More and more of them appear on the street ahead of me and I can see they are trying to cut me off. The crowd simply congests right in front of me and suddenly my way is cut off by a wall of people. I have the masked man behind me stone walls on each side, an a crowd of weird frenzied people in front of me. I’m not stopping – I will plow through them. I smash into the human barrier and I try to claw an elbow my way through it. I’m like a wounded animal lashing out, fists falling. It makes no difference – these people shrug off my desperate blows and won’t even budge. Even if I was able to take few down, there is just too many of them. They have stopped me dead in my tracks by simply standing there. No one is grabbing me or hitting me. It’s just a solid mass of human bodies in front of me. It’s hopeless.

I feel an iron grip on my shoulder and I know it is the masked man. I slowly turn around to face him. He is tall. Much taller than me, so he has to bend down to look in my eyes. I think he is smiling behind that mask, but it is hard to tell. I can’t see his eyes – they are completely obscured by. The mask only exposes two black voids where the eyes should normally be.

I’m paralyzed by fear. They have me trapped, and there is nothing I can do. Whatever these people want, I know it won’t end well… In thee distance I see the violin player approach us. He is still playing as he walks. The crowd settles down and they start to hum and chant with the melody.

I hear a dry, scratchy voice from behind the mask with the same weird accent and oddball pitch. “I have been waiting for you for a long time… ” he says and hands me the book. I shakily take it from him and clutch it to my chest just like he did. My knees are shaking and I feel that I will collapse any second.

The man slowly takes off his mask, and hands it to me as well. I can finally see his face… My face. He smiles with my smile, and looks at me with my eyes. He seems relieved but also sad. He actually feels bad for me. He gives me an apologetic glance and blurts out in my own voice with my own quirky accent: “I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be… This is the only way I can leave.”

The violin player breaks his tune, and the crowd falls deathly silent. All eyes are on him now. “The cycle is complete!” he then turns to the man in cassock who is now wearing my face. “You are fee to go”.

The man sighs a sigh of relief the same way I would do it. gives me another glance and starts walking away the same way I came in. The crowd steps away to make room for him. He doesn’t look back.

I put on my mask. It fits perfectly as if it was made especially for me. I realize that it was. It fits so well, I can barely feel I have it on. It’s like my second face. Somehow I know it is going to be my only face for now. These people won’t let me leave.

The violin player looks at me for a full minute, and then points at the book. “Everything you need to know is in there.” He turns around and starts walking away whistling the tune he was just playing. The crowd starts to dissipate. I feel hands on my shoulders gently directing me to go somewhere. As my handlers usher me inside one of their stone buildings, it starts to rain. Maybe the storm will wash away some of the dist and grime from the street. Maybe not. I cover the book with my jacket to protect it from the rain.

The inside of the house is dark and murky. I ask them to bring me some light. My voice is try and scratchy and I seem to have misplaced my natural accent somewhere. It doesn’t matter. My captors comply and bring me a lamp. I sit on an uncomfortable wooden chair and crack open the book. I have a lot to learn now…

Lukasz Grzegorz Maciak © 2009