They are coming…

They feed on fear.

All fears are welcome for them, from the sudden fright you experience when receiving an unexpected call to the deepest, atavistic and unmentionable fear, the ones which arise from one corner of our mind we have no control over.

Some have appealed to the term «subconscious» to describe that corner, to name that place where nightmares emerge, the anguish, the panic. In their words, fear is a survival mechanism, a reminder of our primitive mind, an alarm that intends to protect us from enemies and threats.

Fear, therefore, can be fought against.

Desensitization programs have been successful in patients who suffer different phobias. Learnt fears, which are said to originate in traumas, such an event in our psyche that activates that danger of proximity alarm each time the threat is near.

According to these terms, I suppose it could be said Petra´s dead caused me a trauma.

During the last thirty three years I have lived believing that everything was nothing else than a metaphorical use of language she used to refer to physical issues she didn´t understand and whose reality, however, she sensed.

It wasn´t difficult for me thinking about those tiny reiror, that travelled within beams in the wind and that we could breath, as photons; as if my friend, who had never attended any university, had created her own unscientific language to name some elements that we, scientific people, have certain words stablished on an international level to refer to them. Until I saw her face, disfigured because of terror, in a russian road.

We had decided to follow a senseless clue, in a place where a meteorite had fallen two years ago. But she asked me to stop before arriving to the event scene. Betrayed her calm voice and facial expression by the terror in her gaze, she explained she had a maximum of twelve hours left to live. She said we had a lot to do, a lot to plan, a lot to agree on before it happened.

When I left the place, the only thing I could remember was the way each time she tried exhaling a vicious coughing fit came up suddenly, and it covered her breasts with the blood from her lungs, devoured by reiror. So I left her to her own devices, as she asked me to do, and following her instructions is that I am here, writing to you, her heir.

Could it be said all that happened was as shocking to cause a trauma, counting almost fifty years and knowing what was happening around me? Or was the traumatic event the reason why I discovered that all my life I have had for fake the reality who surrounded me, a constant, permanent, threat? Is it maybe possible that all the precautions I didn´t make use of in those thirty years, knowing all the moments I had risked myself and that I avoided because of a mere game of luck, had woken in me a previously letargic alarm mechanism, after confirming the existence of these new enemies? Have I developed a phobia to Shadows, my subconscious exaggerating their potential danger? What are they made of? What are the reiror made of? Are they maybe remanent energy not discovered still? Other life forms that we, stubbornly focused in the carbonic, material and atomic base, do not contemplate as existing ones? Life forms from some of the dimensions, folded over ours, able to cross that barrier in a way I am not able to even start imagining?

The answer to these questions, it will be not me who discovers it. I will die before I can do it.

I will die tonight, October 22nd, in the ironic turn of just some hours of meeting you and be able to tell you all this in person, along with many other things Petra wanted you to know.

I trust this is The End for me, and not the beginning of a path of horrors. I trust that terrors, named along centuries as Hell, weren´t but a metaphor of the death Shadows throw you into, but I am not sure what to think about it. I hear scratching in the walls, as if something were dragging inside them.

How would I love being able to persuade myself that they are rats or some insect! But no. They are not. Mutters are added to the scratchs, whispers that sound as rustling, as laughs approaching mocking me.

How would I love to think they are rats, and wind, and unwell pipes! But no, they are not.

They are the Shadows. They are moving closer. They are stalking me.

They are coming.


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