The World’s Columbian Exposition of Horrors

      Chicago, 1893.

      

He ran across the hangar as if that was the last time he was ever going to be able to feel his legs. Everything was blurry and confusing. His eyes were covered by tears … he knew something was terribly wrong, he knew…

    

Lucian went down the long staircase which took him months to find. An exhaustive investigation financed by J.P. Morgan himself was getting to an end. He was both excited and terribly scared, if Morgan was right, whatever he was going to find down there was not going to be pretty.

    

“Clack” – he loaded his gun. After all, every time he went to work meant risking his life, he was aware of it, I dare to say that he was ready to die, he always was. There was not a single string of light that could guide him; everything he had was that terrible sound, a constant thud… 

    

“Tuck, Tuck, Tuck”

   

 “What the hell?” – He kept going down.

   

 Then he saw a human figure at the end of a narrow hall. The floor was covered by a thin layer of a dark liquid. “Hello… is anybody there?” “I am a pinkerton, do not dare to move, I am coming your way” – he shouted.

    

The human figure didn’t seem to care much, it was just…there.

   

 Lucian got closer and saw a man standing, guarding some kind of door.

    

“Hey, you, what the hell is this place?”

    

“Ugh… ugh…” – It growled.

   

“What?”

   

 Lucian aimed his gun at the humanoid’s head. “Turn around, or I will shoot you”.

   

 “Ugh… ugh…” – It growled.

    

The creature turned and faced the detective. He had never seen such a thing, that thing was pale as a glass of milk, his eyeballs were missing and he had two massive bloody holes at his forehead. Lucian didn’t hesitate, not even for one second… he fired two bullets that hit the very chest of the monster throwing it down to the floor.

    

Lucian went pass the corpse and opened the door at the end of the hall.

   

 A powerful bluish light left him blinded for a couple of seconds.

    

He dropped his gun.

    

Copper wires covered the ceiling making a tornado of industrial madness in front of him.

    

“Help, please” – mourned a fragile voice at the distance.

    

Lucian went running and what he saw changed his world forever.

    

There were six gigantic cages full of bodies; they all looked like that monster he just killed. Their eye balls had exploded, they were pale as a blanket and two shinny bloody nails were stuck into their skulls. This monstrous machine was hurting them; it was turning them into some kind of horrible undead creatures.

   

 The wires led to the surface, this machine was harvesting them…

    

The detective had to get out of that infernal place; he went up stairs and head straight to the convention. J.P Morgan had to hear about this. This was going to be a scandal.

    

He ran across the hangar as if that was the last time he was ever going to be able to feel his legs. Everything was blurry and confusing. His eyes were covered by tears … he knew something was terribly wrong, he knew…

   

 “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the World’s Columbian Exposition” – A man shouted to the crowd.

    

Lucian was lost amidst the excited multitude.  

    

“What was going to happen?” – He asked himself.

   

 “Let me introduce you to the future of science, to a spectacle that will leave you dazzled in excitement”.  

   

 The crowd started clapping.

   

 “Behold… the Alternate Current.”

    

Suddenly the exposition was covered by a beautiful yellow light. Over two thousand light bulbs were lit at that very moment. It was a wondrous experience.

    

Lucian stopped.

   

 He could hear the mourning of a thousand souls coming out from those light bulbs, he was disgusted and terrified.  Those monsters were lighting the whole place with the electricity that came out of their heads, an infinite cry of pain and death contained within a crystal bulb… who was capable of such a crime?, who was so fiendishly violent to make that massacre and show it to the world as an enormous achievement?

    

“And here is the man responsible for this miracle, ladies and gentlemen, scientists of the world… "

"Nikola Tesla!" 

The obscure adventure of Claire Flynn

Good evening, dear reader. It was not long, or at least I hope it wasn’t since the last time we had our little chat. Thank you for still being there, for still taking the time to find yourself in front of that screen of yours. I will never forget it; in fact, I want to share a little secret with you this time.

Pay close attention, what I am about to tell you is a very powerful but very short story about a remarkable girl who thought for one instant that she could escape from it. You know, after twenty nine confessions, I still find it very hard not to be crystal clear with you about what’s happening out there.

Let me try one more time.

Claire Flynn is a very curious young lady who enjoys her mother’s company, she sees her mom as an example and that’s an obvious fact. Try for one instant to think about Claire not as a hero or as a genius but as a normal girl, in fact, imagine she is a very tiny particle of your own self.

Claire wakes up every morning of her life looking at the ceiling imagining every single little thing that happens above it, beyond the limits of that old three stories building, beyond the sky, beyond the very stars… she has this remarkable imagination, I mean, she is six years old.

What were you doing when you were six?

Well, she creates worlds of what her mother has called “the impossible” she was born with eyes of amazement and surprise. You may find my language a little bit evasive, forgive me, it is a code after all, do not forget it.

Claire has of course asked herself what makes her a girl… fair question, don’t you think? She wonders why she gets to play with those stupid blond dolls instead of being able to go and play with some hot wheels or knights in armor. This is but one of millions of unanswered question she had since that life changing day, the day she learned how to take a bath without her mom’s help.

She would stay still for hours just feeling the water all over her, feeling how it decreased its temperature systematically until her whole body started to shiver. The water was just the beginning, she cared for ceiling more than anything, because that was her ultimate canvas, it made her fill like a goddess of some sort, like a passionate artist out of control, like the best detective like, like the worst of them villains. Her unlimited galaxy waited every afternoon right above her head, between the water and the stars, there it waited, to crash and collide with her thoughts, it was… a perfect feeling.

But that morning– which I curse and blame – changed it all, forever…

She had had a long vacation and that was weird, she wasn’t used to be for such long periods of time at home, her idea was that some big change was coming, but to be honest with you, she had no clue.  That morning she approached the bathroom thrilled to her bones, ready to explore, ready to become, and so she did.

The ritual was to clean her body just the way mom taught her to and then to make the connection with the world within the world. She would look at the ceiling and forget about everything else. It was right then, right at the most inconvenient moment. 

The bathroom lights went off.

She was confused. What seconds ago was a clear white portal had turned into a bottomless black pit, unknown, different. Then she panicked.

I imagine you would think that she got scared by the horrible possibility that a ghost of some evil kind was sitting right in front of her, or perhaps you could theorize about a demon trying to posses the little girl’s body. You’re wrong.

She panicked because in that very instant she noticed that she didn’t and couldn’t remember the bathroom in which she had been taking baths since the age of two years old. She noticed that darkness had taken over both her perfect ideal world and the conventional world around her.

Something was terribly wrong.

She closed her eyes and prayed – if that could ever be called a prayer – to be able to remember. I guess you can feel the water dancing in the dark, touching your nude self, I can imagine the horror that she had to bare, feeling lost and caught in the middle of nowhere. Then she opened her eyes.

Nothing had changed, darkness was still there, mocking her, deceiving her poor senses and then the brightest idea of them all came to her mind. She realized that this blackout was a clear message. 

She could not live in both worlds; someone was trying to warn her… Once you get to the world of your own ideas you must leave reality behind you. “It is too dangerous” – she thought. Because living in her dream world meant that she would have to little by little erase the floor under her feet, the walls next to her arms and stay with nothing else but the ceiling above her mid. 

She had to make a choice.  

Knock, knock, knock – someone came to rescue her.

-Mom is that you? – she asked

Yes, sweetheart get ready, today is your first day of elementary school, remember?

The lights came back on.

She stood up, got ready and went to school.

Quite an adventure, don’t you think? There is just one thing that keeps me, you know, a little confused and worried. You don’t have to answer this one, but…

 What were you doing when you were six?

El florista

¿Hueles eso? Son crisantemos. Aroma dulce que se mezcla con el liviano perfume de las rosas blancas y de los tulipanes que guardo en el invernadero. Es un aroma verde, un aroma húmedo, pero con un poco de tierra, eso sí.

Este año ha sido una verdadera locura, ¿Quién lo hubiera imaginado? Doce años han pasado desde que terminó la Gran Guerra y aún así vivimos ahogados en el alcohol que es llevado por contrabando de ciudad a ciudad, todo esto es una desgracia.

La estructura circular de metal delgado no es otra cosa más que un soporte para la obra de arte que estoy a punto de realizar. Delicados hilos de rama verde fina siempre esconden el rudo color metálico del alambre; pequeñas florecillas rosadas le dan entrada a este arreglo que será dentro de unos minutos el acompañante perenne de un triste epitafio sin sentido.

Leí en el periódico que hace unos días mataron a la señora Harris a sangre fría en su propia casa, y no estaba sola. Uno de esos contrabandistas estaba con ella. Las autoridades dicen que el responsable de ese terrible crimen fue Al Capone, el más violento y temido de los contrabandistas de este país, maldito italiano.

Es muy importante que los muertos tengan sus flores. Es primordial que sepan la verdad, que aunque ya no nos acompañan hay alguien que se toma la molestia de invertir tiempo y dinero en un bonito arreglo de flores. Es lo mínimo que podemos hacer por ellos, ¿no crees?

Giovanni De Santis es el nombre del pobre difunto para quien preparo la corona esta tarde, debo confesarte que este es uno de los mejores trabajos del mundo entero. Me hace sentir como una especie de guardián, de protector. Alguien humilde que pide permiso a la muerte misma para tener un último gesto de humanidad con aquel que descansa en paz ahora para siempre.  

 No hagas mucho desorden, puedes ir y ver las plantas, incluso podrías tomar algunas si quieres. Debo ir a entregar la corona pero prometo que no tardaré mucho en regresar.

El florista salió de la tienda cargando la pesada corona, la metió en la parte trasera de su modelo T1 de la Ford y arrancó en la dirección que su jefe le ordenó. Las calles de Chicago siempre están infestadas de vehículos y transeúntes ávidos de industrialización, de negocios, de progreso.

El edificio al que tenía que llevar las flores era uno de esos viejos de tres pisos que se ubicaban en Cicero, una parte particularmente violenta de la ciudad.

Michael tomó la corona y empezó a subirla aparatosamente por las escaleras.

Al llegar al tercer piso sacó el pequeño papelito que su jefe le dio.

“Apartamento 3-C”.

Toc, toc, toc – golpeó la puerta con firmeza.

Un hombre de contextura gruesa, alto y de ojos saltones abrió la puerta.

¿Qué carajo es esto? ¿Qué quieres? – preguntó el hombre con un tono desafiante.

¿Es usted Vicente Torrio? -  preguntó Michael

Claro que sí, y tú debes ser un maldito irlandés…

Entonces Michael sacó de su saco una pistola de nueve milímetros y disparó dos balas que perforaron y destrozaron las rodillas de Torrio. El italiano cayó al suelo gimiendo de dolor.

El florista empujó al mastodonte para que quedase boca arriba, metió la corona en el apartamento y cerró la puerta detrás de él.

Los gritos del italiano eran inconsolables, sus rodillas trituradas le impedían moverse de cualquier manera, además en ese estado de ebriedad ningún movimiento coordinado sería posible. Michael tomó un pequeño trapo que estaba sobre un sofá e terciopelo verde y lo introdujo en la boca de Vicente.

Por los crímenes cometidos en estos tiempos de locura has sido sentenciado a muerte. Hace tres noches entraste en la casa de la señora Harris, una de las informantes más importantes del verdadero jefe de Chicago y mataste a un buen amigo mío – Exclamó Michael como si se tratase de una homilía.

Entonces retiró el trapo de la boca de Vicente.

¡Maldita sea! Son las ordenes de Capone, yo sólo hice lo que el jefe me pidió, por favor, por favor, ¡no me mates!

Está bien, si me pides perdón, no te mataré.

Michael sacó un colt plateada y apoyo el cañon contra la frente de Vicente.

¡Perdón, perdón, maldita sea! – Gritó Vicente aferrándose a los últimos momentos de su vida.

Dime, ¿cuál es el nombre que está escrito en la corona?

Gio… Giovanni De Santis. 

  

¡BAM!

Los sesos de Vicente Torrio ahora cubrían la alfombra del viejo apartamento.  

Es muy importante que los muertos tengan sus flores. Es primordial que sepan la verdad, que aunque ya no nos acompañan hay alguien que se toma la molestia de invertir tiempo y dinero en un bonito arreglo de flores. Es lo mínimo que podemos hacer por ellos, ¿no crees?

La venganza de Bugsy Moran apenas estaba comenzando...

Un humilde homenaje a Terence Winter y su "Boardwalk Empire".

Silencio rojo

“A todos los complejos actos que forman parte de nuestra efímera existencia...”

Este pequeño relato debe ser contado de la manera más sencilla pues así lo merece. De hecho, me reservaré algunos detalles no tan importantes y te prometo haré mi mejor esfuerzo por dibujar con palabras todo lo que sé y todo lo que recuerdo de esa horrible tarde.

Comenzó en el espacio, o mejor dicho, en la casita verde que está más allá de la estación de bomberos. Específicamente, comenzó en la pequeña habitación del segundo piso, esa de paredes profundas y techo nefasto; esa de puerta cerrada, mesa tétrica y sillas protagonistas; esa de luz tenue y ventanas inexistentes.

Rebeca estaba sentada a la izquierda, su mirada – una que jamás podré olvidar – estaba llena de nostalgia. Era un poema en sí misma, la recuerdo bien porque sin decir una sílaba ella recitaba sus más oscuros secretos. Rebeca estaba triste, estaba… desesperada.  

A la derecha estaba sentada Anastasia, su expresión – una que jamás podré olvidar – era fría cual roca de invierno, su actitud, sus metas y sus sueños se escapaban de ese frágil cuerpo aún cuando ella no movía ni el más inocente de sus músculos. 

La puerta permanecía cerrada.

Se miraban fijamente a los ojos pero ninguna se atrevía a hablar.

La mesa que las separaba era rectangular y de caoba ahumada, el olor del barniz se elevaba con libertad hasta encontrarse con los delicados hilos de luz que proyectaba la antigua lámpara. Nunca creí que un objeto tan simple como una mesa pudiera separar a dos personas como aquella lo hizo. Era como si un océano con toda su fuerza hubiese estado luchando en contra de la unión de la dos jóvenes.

Anastasia temía por su vida. El breve instante que pasó en esa diminuta habitación de luz tenue, la hizo sentir limitada, su vida – pensaba ella – estaba en el mundo más allá de la terrible puerta, más allá de las cuatro paredes profundas y del techo nefasto, su vida, todos sus sueños, todo lo que siempre había añorado…

Rebeca no sabía cómo lidiar con la mirada gélida de la persona que estaba sentada justo en frente de ella. Su amor por Anastasia trascendía todas las convenciones que conozco y todas las que tú podrías llegar a imaginar. La pasión que despertaba el simple hecho de estar juntas en la misma habitación era indescriptible.

 

Sé que te diste cuenta del vestido azul de Rebeca, y sé que viste el tatuaje de fuego violeta que tiene en su pierna derecha pero necesito que te concentres, más arriba del tatuaje, un poco más abajo de la cintura. No, no hablo de cuán lista estaba ella para u tan añorado encuentro de amor. Hablo del arma que reposa sobre su muslo derecho, la pequeña luger ss alemana de metal color plomo. Rebeca estaba preparada para acabar con todo, el arma estaba cargada y, por supuesto, el seguro no estaba colocado.

Anastasia, por otro lado, había tenido el arma en su mano izquierda durante todo este tiempo, el amor que sentía por Rebeca no le impediría nada, ella también estaba preparada.

Aquella era una escena conmovedora, estoy seguro de que un hombre jamás llegará a entender el amor entre dos mujeres, muchísimo menos el amor que baila aún cuando se encuentra sentado, el amor que no es armonioso, que no conoce reglas, el amor que se pierde en el cuerpo de una simple mesa de madera…

Rebeca amaba con pasión.

Anastasia debía seguir su camino.

La pequeña habitación las destruía poco a poco.

Entonces sucedió…

Rebeca apuntó el arma al corazón que no le correspondía y Anastasia apuntó al cerebro que no veía lo obvio.

Se dijeron adiós sin decir una sola palabra y halaron el gatillo.

Un silencio rojo se apoderó de la habitación, ambas mujeres cayeron al suelo cubiertas de sangre y de memorias. Nadie pudo hacer algo por ellas, nadie se atrevió a exclamar una sola palabra y fue en ese momento, justo en ese preciso instante en el que un segundo estruendo llenó el espacio y mi vida.

Los aplausos retumbaban por la izquierda y por la derecha. Las luces se encendieron y la música comenzó a sonar...

Rebeca y Anastasia se levantaron y, tomadas de la mano, hicieron reverencia al público que conmovido expresaba su admiración por el acto que acababa de ver.

La obra había terminado. 

Elias

There is not one word of relief that could ever be told to me for he is gone now and that is one absolute truth. This, in fact is not a short story nor a desperate chronicle but a confession that finds itself so close to my heart that it is almost sung by my humble words.

To be particularly honest with you, every time I thought of that man my body shivered without control as if his spirit took all over me… can you imagine that? That man changed the world forever with just one thought. That’s the kind of life everyone wishes for, isn’t that so? Well, I have got nothing left to say other than welcome and I assure you, once you finish exploring this memory, your life will be covered by his magic.

December 15^th 1966

The phone rang…

“Hello, yes?”  

“Hi, is this Mr. John Fawler?” – asked the man at the other side of the line.

“Yes, you’re talking to him, what´s up?” – I answered, trying to hide how tired I was.  

“John, I am calling from the D office, Mr. Elias is ready for the interview, and you can go and visit him today” 

I couldn’t believe what I heard; Mr. Elias himself granted me an interview. Well, I never cared much about my clothing and that was not going to change that day. I stood up, took a shower and grabbed both my little black leather covered notebook and my hat of luck – as if that was going to make any difference, right? – I was ready to face Anaheim’s disastrous traffic once more.

Time escapes from us…  

By the time I got there, a mob surrounded the building, they were worried, and they were shouting his name… I went pass them as If I was just another fan full of concerns about Mr. Elias´s health, but the truth is that those ten years of intensive studies gave me a piece of plastic, an identification that said “Journalist” and I had the right to get in.

I walked towards the information counter, the woman behind the desk was a giant, I bet not even the fiercest of men would dare to say anything rude to that lady. She was doing some kind of paper work. I tried to be as quiet as I could, after all she might have thought I was just another disrespectful loud fan who came to torment the ill.

“Hello, I am John Fawler” – I said.

She gave me look full of anger, her eyes were red as if she had slept even less than I did. She examined me very carefully without saying one single word…

“I am a journalist, you see? I am actually here to interview Mr. Elias”

Her sight changed completely. Tears filled her eyes and a soft smile was drawn upon her face. The giant had become a docile angel.

“Oh, my son… thank God you’re here. He is very sick; I don’t know how much time we’ve got left. Excuse me if I was rude to you, I have been here for two days”

“Don’t worry, Ma’am, I understand, I haven’t slept much either”  

“His room number is… 1932” – she said firmly.

I walked towards the room. I don’t think I can describe what I felt back then. Every step got me closer and closer to the man I admire the most in the world. Think about it for just one second… how would you feel? 

What would you think?

Two times I knocked.

I got no answer.

Then a blond nurse opened the door. She looked me in the eye and said “He is ready” and walked away.

“John?”

“Yes sir. It is me”  

“Johnny, it is a wonderful gift to have you here with me, come on in”

The room was painted in white, everything was lit by our Californian bright sun and still being in such a sad place like that became a colorful experience, I was there, Mr. Elias was there… what else could I ask?

“Mr. Elias, I am here for the interview” – I cleared my throat.

He was lying down, his body ached, I could tell…

“Fine, fine… I am going to ask you the first question of the evening…” – he said in a joyful manner.

“Oh, ok, fine by me” – I replied.

“Johnny, you have got to understand that in every job that must be done there is an element of fun, you find the fun and… snap! The job is game… please tell me, are you having fun so far?”

“Well, sir, yes of course… I am just a little bit nervous”

“Don’t be, just relax, you’ve got a friend in me…”

And then the interview started.  

“Mr. Elias, tell me, how did it all start?”

“Well, son, it all started back in Kansas… I helped people to put their bags on the train and they would be really nice to me, you see? They gave all kinds of tips, big bills, small bills. I remember that time when a lady asked me if I could draw something for her as she waited the train and so I did. That moment changed my life. She was absolutely amazed by my drawing skills. “Kid, you have got some talent there” she said to me… and well, I believed that. From that day on every night of every single week I looked to the skies at night and I wished upon a star as dreamers do.  And you know what, Johnny? All my dreams came true”

“I could tell, sir. I imagine that it wasn’t easy for a young man like you to get out of Kansas and head to sunny California”

“It was easy, I mean, all I had to do was pay for my ticket” – he laughed.

“It was easy, I mean, I was ready… I had discovered my skills and I had a dream so everything that I had to do was get on that train and start living. I needed to hold forever, where they all live unaware of what I’d give, of  what Id dare; I just needed to live one day out there.”  

“Amazing” – I whispered.

“Sir, what would you say is the most important thing towards building a path, I mean, you got to California and started working, how did you build that path?”

“Johnny, as I walked out of that train I faced many difficulties, the first and most complex of them all was to find a place to stay. I don’t know if there´s such a thing as a guide to build your path or to build your career, to be honest with you I realized that from the day we arrive on this planet and linking step into the sun, there’s is more see than can ever be seen or to do than can ever be done. Life is short, I just… did it.”

“Why hasn’t Mr. Elias stopped since then?”

“Come on! How could I? I mean, I don’t believe in fate, but once you find what you truly love you can’t stop, you can’t have enough. I’m dying here, son… and all I can think of is the next forty seven years of projects…  We are all connected to each other in a circle, in a hoop that never ends… Johnny, we need to sing with all the voices of the mountains, we need to paint with all the colors of the wind. You touch lives in so many different ways, how could I stop? It’ll be irresponsible for me to stop” – He answered while tears covered his weary eyes.   

My eyes were full of tears too but I didn’t want him to see it, I was both impressed and moved, I was happy and terribly sad… I had to keep on with the interview.

“Once you got to the world of creations and to the core of the business… were you intimidated by someone, anyone?

“I don’t think so, no. We were all the same right? I mean human beings in love with the art of entertainment. In fact, the thought that had been with me since that afternoon drawing at the train station was that I wanted more. John, don’t misjudge me, I saw those great men from our history and I knew that I want to be were those people are,  Up where they stay all day in the sunwanderin' free, I really wished  I could be part of that world.

“And so you do, sir”

“Oh, John… I wish there would be more time…”

“Me too, sir. Me too”  

“I have another  question before our time is up, sir”

“Fire away, son.”

“What do you think will the impact of your legacy in the years to come?” 

“My legacy… son, throughout the years I  have worked really hard to inspire generations of men and women who will be the next great creators of our world.  I have strong belief in possibilities, you see?. Let me explain myself. Let’s say you’re a great chef then you should now anyone can cook, right?”

“right” – I replied

“Well, that is what all is about… I had come to realize that not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. And it is my dearest hope to contribute with those hidden artists that hasn’t been born yet by giving the best of my ideas and my spirit through my very own creations”  

“Thank you very much for this, Mr. Elias, I will write this interview and publish it, it’ll be in the papers all around town in two days. I admire you, and I can tell you that I am one of those inspired men.” 

He sat at the edge of his bed, coughed and gave a hug.

That was it.

That night was the outmost sad night of my life.  

I went to my apartment, took a shower and sat.   I had to write down the interview -you cannot imagine how messy my notes were - That was without a doubt the most incredible interview I had ever made. I was inspired, I was…

The phone rang.

It was from the hospital.  

Mr. Walt Elias Disney died from lung cancer that 15^th of December of 1966.

To be particularly honest with you, every time I think of that man my body shivers without control as if his spirit takes all over me… can you imagine? That man changed the world forever with just one thought.

That’s the kind of life everyone wishes, don’t you think?

Well, I have got nothing left to say other than thank you for reading this memory and remember…

It all started with one little mouse.

Undernet

“Una vez que entras, formas parte de ella y no importa lo que hagas… nunca vas a poder salir.”

El siguiente texto no encuentra su objetivo en seducirte, atraerte,  ni mucho menos entretenerte. Esto es una firme advertencia, una cortés invitación a que, si nunca has escuchado hablar de la Undernet, dejes de leer en este preciso instante. Existen cosas mucho peores que el infierno pero esas cosas no están allá afuera en las calles, no, están en lo más profundo de la red, ahí donde no existe ley alguna, ahí donde tu vida se transforma en la más terrible de las pesadillas.

Recuerdo haber leído esas líneas hace un par de meses. Eran parte de un diario que encontré en el suelo de un club nocturno. El libro parecía haber sido deliberadamente destruido, curioso es, de hecho, que la tapa del mismo y muchas de sus hojas se encontraban corroídas por algún tipo de químico extraño. Es un golpe de suerte el que haya podido rescatar algo de él, pues, desde ese día me obsesioné con aquello que es oculto, con ese espacio no iluminado de la red, con ese tal infierno de infiernos.

Siempre he pensado que con la llegada de la era digital, muchas personas han menospreciado la labor y el intelecto de los periodistas, lo digo, claro, porque soy uno, y uno bien crítico. La red le da la oportunidad a ciudadanos comunes sin entrenamiento en las formas de la comunicación, de expresar, informar e incluso entretener haciendo uso de contenidos de todo tipo y publicándolos en la misma. He recibido insultos, críticas e incluso he sido tildado de tecnócrata por creer que el periodista nace, no se hace.

Es mi fiel creencia la que me lleva a sentir que hay algo dentro de los periodistas de carrera que los impulsa a seguir paso a paso, investigando y llegando a sitios a los que nadie más puede llegar. Literalmente creo estar al borde de un descubrimiento importante.

Aquella noche, recuerdo, era una tarde lluviosa de septiembre. ¿Qué mejor forma de pasar un viernes por la noche que investigando un misterio sin igual? La Undernet me llama, me canta, me grita, ella necesita que yo la encuentre.  

La sala de mi apartamento es sobria, la cocina, un tanto aburrida, pero, el balcón, el balcón es un espacio único en el universo, las suaves cortinas de seda bailan al compás del viento que misterioso se siente al hacer presencia por los espacios de mi humilde morada; La puerta de madera con seguro doble reforzado de acero me hace sentir seguro, pero eso es una mera ilusión… ¿No es así?

“Nunca debes seguir los caminos del “.Tor” mucho menos los del “.Onion”  - “

“Wasp” es el nombre del hacker que me dijo exactamente todo lo que tengo que hacer, espero conocerlo algún día, él o ella es brillante, de eso no tengo ni una pequeña duda.

Sí, cambié mi proxy.

Sí, seguí los protocolos codificados que me permitieron acceder a un router  ajeno de manera remota.

Sí, destruí todas las piezas de información personal que estaban en los más profundo de mi laptop, y aún así… ellos saben, ellos están cerca.

Estoy adentro, esto es real.

Los sitios que he encontrado son nefastos. Llevo varias semanas sin poder conciliar el sueño. La venta de armas, la prostitución infantil, las estafas… el mundo es mucho más oscuro, mucho peor de lo que jamás imaginé.

Me encuentro, en este momento sentado en mi balcón, son las dos y treinta de la mañana. Hay un hombre en la calle, tiene un zipo en la mano, parece estar encendiendo un cigarrillo, él sabe quién soy, él sabe que yo entré…

Ha pasado una hora, el suelo de madera de mi apartamento suena mucho más que e costumbre. ¿Será que estoy paranoico o que nunca me había detenido a escuchar los leves sonidos de la madera que cruje? Juro que nunca más entraré en ese maldito servidor de venta de órganos, no quise llamar la atención de nadie. No soy un policía, soy un periodista, un periodista.

Ya casi amanece.

Oigo un sonido, proviene de mi computadora. Sí, tengo un mensaje de… Wasp, dice: “Cuidado, van por ti”

No sé qué hacer, lector, lector mío, quien quiera que seas, una vez leas esto sabrás el motivo de mi desaparición, de mi… de mi muerte. Por favor, avísales, diles que pase lo que pase no entren en ella. 

Alguien está en la puerta, la golpean con fuerza. Adiós.

“¿Qué demonios?” – pensó Leonardo al leer la penúltima página de aquel extraño diario.

Las similitudes eran atroces, un periodista exactamente igual de terco que él había escrito estas líneas en su diario y ahora, por alguna extraña razón, Leonardo estaba sentado frente a su computadora leyendo… la duda y el terror se apoderaron de él.

Ya era demasiado tarde, Leonardo, justo como aquel pobre diablo, había modificado ambos su proxy y su dirección IP, ya había navegado la Undernet  y estaba a punto de seguir excavando pero, ¿qué decía la última página del terrible diario?

Volteó la página.  

“El hombre entró con furia en mi apartamento, fue directamente a donde yo estaba, como si hubiese estado antes en el sitio, como si la maldita configuración del internet le diera todos los secretos de mi hábitat y de mi ser. 

Me golpeó con fuerza, traía un objeto de metal consigo, su meta era abrirme vivo y tal vez conseguir algunos órganos que no hayan sido tocados por el mal hábito que tengo de fumar dos cajas de cigarrillos al día.

Fue entonces cuando decidí rogar por mi vida, le dije al gigante que yo podía ayudarlos a conseguir mejor mercancía, les prometí que los llevaría a otro periodista, a otro maldito curioso para que lo descuartizaran y vendieran su humanidad, después de todo, soy parte de esto… Lo siento, lo siento mucho, de verdad.”

Leonardo se levantó de la silla y se alejó poco a poco de la pantalla de su MacBook Pro. Las piernas le temblaban, sus manos estaban frías, su rostro pálido…

Un estruendo recorrió todos los rincones de su apartamento.

La Undernet  lo encontró.  

Dedicado a Gabriela Benazar Acosta y a Juan Pedro Cámara Pérez.

Mrs. Carlie, The Strange Tale of

Night two thousand and twenty six. She is not here.

Every single night of my life, as usual, I go for my routine stroll… I end up at the pool area; I stop and take a very careful look all around the place. Every single night I walk and personally check every chair and every corner but I can’t find her. Every single night I crouch and crawl to the pool side and I look right into the water, there, just beyond my reflection, there where light is broken by the water ; there where all my hopes dream and rest, right there where it all happened.

The first night, or, to be more precise what I call the first night of my life, I was of course working, guarding those brand new Marriott villas. My job was not complicated; all I had to do was walk around with my little flashlight scaring cats and crows that liked garbage bags too much. 

I am a lonely man, you see? No family, only a few friends and of course Popper, my trustee companion, my dog. To be honest with you, that job suited me perfectly, I watched and cared for our customer’s dreams, I protected them from reality. Those vacations villas were an oasis amidst a crazy world of regrets and harmful thoughts, I liked my job… I was, lost.

That night changed everything  

I was walking toward the pool area; I believe you can already imagine how alive that place was at day, kids running and music playing, everyone enjoyed it so much, I, on the other hand, liked to see it at night, when everything became whispers and nothing more, shades of what had been… Water is life and there it stood, as always, tranquil, waiting for another day of fun.

As I approached the chairs at the far left side of the pool I noticed a presence, but this time it wasn’t neither a cat nor a crow, it was young woman.  There she sat, alone, looking right towards the old light house, I noticed her because every fifteen seconds her whole body would be completely covered by that soft yellow light. She was naked.

At first I doubted whether I had to come close to her and ask if she needed anything or just leave, but the truth is I couldn’t dare to move one muscle of my body, I was shocked, I was paralyzed and she… she was absolutely out of this world, her sight didn’t even bother to notice my humble presence, her ears didn’t want to hear a mere particle of the noise I made with every step.

Who was that girl?

Then it happened, she stood up, turned around and came walking slowly towards me. That, I confess, was one of the most beautiful moments I have ever lived. She came, step by step being lit by the lighthouse’s light; 

I saw frames coming to life, twenty four frames of pure impossibility.

I guess you might think, dear reader, that I actually engaged in a conversation or maybe that I asked her something, but I did not. She stood two feet away from me, enough distance to make me feel completely shy and absolutely disarmed.

“Hello, my name is Carlie” –  She said

Her eyes searched my soul in that very instant, she could see all my secrets, the absolute nature of my wildest dreams; with that look Mrs. Carlie found all the particles that make me human and understood them;  with that look she saw my heartbeats and heard my thoughts. Those yellow eyes were not normal, that is the kind of yellow you would want to get lost into.

She took one more step forward and then our bodies melted together having just that old light as witness.

Her lips found mine in a moment of total innocence and then… it happened.

The universe stopped.

My eyes were full of tears, as I said before; those were twenty four frames of absolute impossibility that turned into my dearest memory.

She was gone.

Night two thousand and twenty seven. She is not here.

Every single night of my life, as usual, I go for my routine stroll… I end up at the pool area; I stop and take a very careful look all around the place. Every single night I walk and personally check every chair and every corner but I can’t find her. Every single night I crouch and crawl to the pool side and I look right into the water, there, just beyond my reflection, there where light is broken by the water;  there where all my hopes dream and rest, right there where it all happened, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can find her and tell her the very words she deserves. 

"Thank you".