A Touch of Evil

Hello there!

Well I am guessing if you are here, you probably know me. Or not, I don't judge. But if you are here, let me tell you a story, one which starts with a question. Don't answer me now, listen to the story first & then answer me.

Once upon a time a man asked  someone “What is real?”

Now, imagine a room. Maybe it's a square room. Square with whitewashed walls, barren & pristine. A room with white walls lit up by fluorescent lighting. There is but one door to enter the room, a grey nondescript metal door. At the far end of the room are two windows, you can see tiny slivers of sunlight streaming in through the windows. But you can't peek out of them, you can't reach out for the windows have iron bars on them. Welded in place to let nothing, nothing escape.

At the centre of the room is a chair, a plain wooden chair. The legs of the chair are scuffed from years of use. A man sits on the chair, you do not see his face but you can smell him. Old Spice with a hint of cinnamon, odd yet unmistakable. He wears expensive suits, at least they used to be. Now they bear signs of wear & tear. His shoes too, Oxfords, now scuffed at many places. However he maintains an air of dignity, even with his attire. The shoes are neatly polished and waxed. The suit, pressed and possibly dry-cleaned. Old Spice with a hint of cinnamon, indeed.

Yet you don't see his face for it is hidden in the shadow of his bowler hat. An oddity in this image of near perfection, the bowler hat is misshapen, slightly large than it should be, with a neon orange sash running through it. But somehow you can't help, but look at it, as you try to see the man's face, to no avail.

The buzz of the fluorescent light breaks your reverie. You realise you are standing beside the metal door and there's another chair in front of the man. You don't remember seeing it earlier but yet you are not so sure. The man beckons you with a neatly manicured finger and points to the chair in front of him. He doesn't speak but you hear a voice in your head. “Sit”, it says. You obey, reluctant yet eager to please the man who smells like the Old Spice with a hint of cinnamon.

The man takes off his hat and you are now interested to see how he looks. Oddly enough though, you don't quite remember his face. His face is like that one recurring dream you have, the one which is so vivid in its structure yet so fuzzy on details. He speaks to you in a foreign tongue but you seem to understand all that he says even as your mind tells you you don't.

Some movement, out of the corner of your eyes, you disregard it but you want to look. The man is still talking to you, you nod and agree but you aren't sure what he's saying. There. That movement again. Like a flutter of wings or the sound of people tiptoeing across a room. The window. That's the obvious choice, something is outside the window. But should you turn to see what it is? The movement happened again, louder this time. You are not sure why the man isn't noticing it now, a coffee pot shattering is a pretty loud noise to be honest.

You look at the other man in the room, he's sitting quietly behind the man who smells of Old Spice with a hint of cinnamon. He's dressed in white like always, white overalls over a white t-shirt and white shoes. The white of his attire is too bright for your eyes so you look away, look toward his face. He has a kind face, like a newborn baby or your favourite grandma. He never looks at you or maybe he does, you are not quite sure. The fluttering and the tiptoeing grows louder. The man still continues to speak in the foreign tongue but now you can hear other voices too. Male, female, adult, children. A cacophony of sounds which seem to echo in your head after the man speaks, it's like music but without a tune. The man in white is still not speaking, maybe he can help. Maybe he hears what you are hearing.

Then the window in front of you opens up, the moonlight streaming in through the window lights the place up. The fluttering and the tiptoeing slowly dies out. The room is quiet again, only the man in the suit who smells like Old Spice with a hint of cinnamon remains. He stands near the door and looks at you. You are no longer in the room, you are beyond the window, looking in through the bars. The man in white who never speaks walks to the window you are at. He looks at you, finally, after so long. But a shiver runs down your spine. For he doesn't have eyes, just darkness which is amplified by the pulsing red brightness where his eyes should be. He reaches out with a perfectly manicured hand to close the window while you take a step back.

The metal door is now in front of you while you take a seat in the plain wooden chair, scuffed by years of use. Your suit, old but well maintained, is complimented by your perfectly waxed and polished shoe, even though its scuff marks indicate years of use. You feel chilly around your ears, so you pull a hat out of your satchel.

Now. Tell me. Do you have an answer for me? Can you now answer the man's question “Who are you?”

If you don't know, maybe ask the quiet person standing behind you.