HORROR DIARY: CreepyPasta

CreepyPasta #1: HE WHO WANDERS (Part 3)

***

How do you get used to the notion of being a passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans do not have to get used to that. We have that built-in protection layer, that safety cork in our brain membranes that separates the realization of being mortal from flooding down upon us. It allows us to breathe the air. It lets us exhibit this extraordinary, yet sacred carelessness. The mental block that denies the laws of life on a primitive emotional level even for the keenest scholars. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton is shown to us in every step we take, in every cup of Colombian coffee we casually sip, in every word of wisdom that we collect from books. Every second we bypass the sinister tick-tock and hear the name of the God being whispered into our ears. And yet we, humans, turn around and whistle "Shame Shame", deceiving our own self-cognizance. And that is the true blessing. Those who possess the name of the divine being are truly doomed. Knowledge is madness. Knowledge is inexistence. Knowledge of death is worse than death.

We sat in his dim hotel room until early morning, the two doomed souls. Our casual exchange of words only amplified the ticking of the clock. It was dawning, when I noticed my conversation partner nodding in his sleep. His left hand was still resting on the cane and his eyes were shuffling behind shut eyelids.

Borges was dreaming.

So must have I.

As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I hid behind the column and looked around the street. It was empty. Bleak light of street lamps drew strange crossbeams on pavements. Early October leaves were gyring in closed circles like witches around the fire.

I was looking for him.

He wasn't there.

For now.

***

Why can I not remember you, my childhood house?

Muscat orchards – they resonate inside like echoes of a guitar string heard from a deep alcove, but nothing particular comes to mind. I am trying to shift focus from one object to another, but memory is drifting somewhere far, as if lost in endless labyrinths.

What's wrong with me?

Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes, and you will know the answer, I hear in my brain. He is talking to me now. I can tell he is tired from the long walk. But what is pain and tiredness when you're crossing the finish line? Come, old man. Let me tell you the story of how I've been running away from you all my life. Come, Quietus Est.

As Borges warned me, "do not ever come close to him. Do not look him straight in the eyes. He will always be near. If he attempts to catch on, run. His watch will be ticking. Do not let him wind the watch. He will be on your footsteps. Where you go, he will go. Where you escape, he will wander."

And I wandered. And he wandered with me.

He came too close to me in my hotel room on the second day after my long night in Borges' quarters. The fool in me still thought that I could escape. Disappear. Move out of my Manchester Square studio flat and move somewhere else. Or check into a hotel. I did just that. I checked into a hotel. Fool. Funny. Fool.

I relive that evening every day of my life. It was dark, when I opened the door to my room. The room, as I clearly remember, was in the basement of some cheap hotel not too far from my flat. Room B6. As the door hinge squeaked, I took my first step into the darkness. Street level window was casting two thick yellow streaks of light on the carpet. I smelled dust and spider webs.

And that's when I sensed him. His gaze. Quiet one. He was in my room.

He sat on the edge of the bed with a rope in his hand. A thin white blanket was covering his head like a shroud around a statue.