HORROR DIARY: CreepyPasta

CreepyPasta #1: HE WHO WANDERS (Part 2)

***

"Fernandez Augustin..."

"I know your name, young man. Navaro is your last name, isn't it?"

"Yes... yes sir... Senor Borges..."

"You are wondering how I know you. I understand. Perhaps it would be more prudent for you and me to speak privately. After the conference? I invite you to have coffee with me. You like Colombian coffee, Mr. Navaro?"

"Yes... yes Senor... Mr. Borges..."

"I shall see you precisely at 6 o'clock at the address that my assistant will provide."

His blind eyes were still affixed at the top far corner of the hallway, far above all the congested sharp-penciled press and arduous followers of his divine writing. Far from the mundane poses of flash photographers and zany critics, oblivious to his mockery.

I gulped my first intake of breath and found nothing better than to dumbly nod. The attention was now all on me. I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow.

How does Borges know you? Are you friends? You were raised in Cordova, are you his illegitimate son?

Questions. I had no idea. Not back then.

Answers came later.

***

Memory is a tricky animal. As I look at the valley and inflate my lungs with familiar smells, I cannot think of anything specific. I remember absolutely nothing about the house where I grew up except that it was the house where I grew up. Orchards, white chapel, old town – nothing but a strange tingling sensation somewhere down there, below the chest cage.

I close my eyes and let the old sun twirl around with tinted specks of mosaic light. I am trying to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to mind. Why can't I recall any of this? I am not that old. I am not old at all. Not nearly as old as him. The one who wanders.

I look at him again, hobbling up the path. He pauses. He leans on his wobbly cane and catches his breath. I can see him checking the remaining distance. Ten more minutes? If I only knew what's going on through his mind right now. "I am so close, closer than ever", he thinks. Come and take me, old man. If you can.

I almost see his facial expression under the heavily pronounced frontal lobe. It's a grin. It's an expression that says, "We shall see."

***

Once I read an interview in "The Morning Times". In it, Borges was portrayed as extremely humble and minimalistic. His house was depicted as a perfectly organized space with easy access to everything. Books on the shelves (judging from the admiration of the columnist, there were lots of them) were organized by theme and by title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias were grouped together on the same rack so Borges could find them easily.

In another article, dated 1966, I read that when he travels, and those travels were quite extensive, he carries a whole rack of books along, some of which he may not even read on his journey.

I saw that rack in his hotel room. I stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the door swing wide open, and there he was coming through the doorway of his own room with a leisurely swinging cane.

"Ahh Senor Navaro, how kind of you to visit an old man!"

I rapidly walked towards him and produced some gibberish like "pleasure is all but mine". He half-smiled and pointed his hand to the chair.