The noises of the future

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on


1.Inarticulate sound, without rhythm or harmony and confused.
2.Confused jumble or jumbled mixture of sounds.


1.Epoch or time subsequent to the present.
2.Set of events that a person will experience.

An icy wind wakes him up in the middle of the night. He looks at the clock on the bedside table. It is 4:34 a.m. He shudders. Three years earlier he had received a call that changed his life forever. At that exact moment. Since then, he has woken up several times at that same fateful hour, at that same damned instant, but never before with the feeling of that night. He expels air through his mouth in a bitter sigh. A small cloud of mist forms, as when the temperature borders between negative and positive. The heating must have been turned off. But still… I could lower the temperature in the house by up to four degrees at night compared to the daytime temperature, but not to that extent. 

It is a cold with a taste of misfortune. 

It is cold with the smell of fear.

A shiver runs down his spine. Our body can sometimes anticipate what the eyes have not seen. Nerve endings on alert, ready to send a flight signal to the brain. There is a strange presence in the room. Or so he thinks. Maybe it’s simple suggestion. Still. He senses that it is not something that the usual five senses can perceive, because it is more a sensation that is born from within, a noise that gestated inside him. He considers closing his eyelids and covering his head with the blanket, as if not seeing were synonymous with the horrors disappearing, that they are not felt, that they do not have a very real existence and consistency. 

As if horrors had no body.

As if they were not made up of matter and energy.

Something whistles in his ear. Perhaps it is the result, once again, of that damned suggestion that has crept under his skin. He swallows saliva and it looks like a spiked ball of spittle as it makes its way down his throat. He decides to get up. He approaches the switch and sure enough, the light doesn’t come on. He doesn’t know what to do next. Leaving the bedroom seems like an adventure only available to tough guys like Dirty Harry, and he’s certainly not one of those guys. But if there is someone in the room, as he senses, he’d better make a run for it.

Then there is a knock on the headboard. He is sure he heard it. He runs out of the room. He stumbles in the hallway. He miraculously grabs the railing, just enough to keep from falling. He feels a bead of sweat start to run down his back, causing him to shiver uncontrollably because of the low temperature in the house.  And fear. Now the pounding can be heard elsewhere. He doesn’t dare to scream, but he notices a shriek rising in his throat, asking to make way. It seems that the noises sound in time with his running. They are the echo of his fear. They are a reverberation from beyond the grave that seems to have a message to communicate. At last he reaches the stairs. He has heard a voice, he is sure. 

Not one voice.

That voice. 

But he doesn’t want to believe it.

Does not allow itself to do so

Photo by Moises Besada on

Continue moving towards a non-existent shelter. It descends the stairs. He eats the steps two at a time. His eyes open like saucers. Now yes, now he can’t close them. His heart pumps blood in spurts, alerted by a brain that tells him to be prepared to flee. He reaches the entrance door. He thinks it would be best to take the car and get the hell out of there. He looks at the bowl in the hall, where they used to leave the keys. Where he usually leaves them now. And there they are.  He takes them in his right hand and with his left hand prepares to turn the doorknob. The car is at the door. Salvation is a little closer. The door does not open. Logical. He left it locked, as he does every night. He prepares to open the lock but can’t find the keys.

They are missing.

He could have sworn he left them on. 

He always does.

Hear that voice again. It’s like Miriam’s, but with a strange reverberation that gives you goose bumps. He covers his ears. It can’t be. It’s just a nightmare. Just another one. 

—Come with me.

Now he hears it clearly. As if the future was calling him. As if the future had come looking for him, ready to take him away. As if it were calling him to account. The time to stand before the judge.

She knew it. Now he is sure. She was aware that he cut the brake cables. That’s why she won’t leave him alone anymore. She’s come looking for him. He’s trapped in his own house. In his golden cage. In desperation he makes a futile attempt to open the door again. He even leans his right foot on the wall to make more strength when pulling. Terror drives us to do stupid things. He is not in an action movie. He’s not going to be able to push the door down. Especially not a high-security one like that. 

—I’ve come for you.

He is horrified. Fear paralyzes him for an instant. He looks at the windows. All barred. There is no escape. The noises return. Now it seems that the house has come to life. Then he thinks he has a moment of lucidity. He runs back up the stairs, whipped by a fear that dominates him from head to toe. The attic. He can escape through there. When he gets there, he feels short of breath from running. There it is. His salvation. A way out. An escape. And, then, he throws himself out of the window. He hits himself in a fateful way and breaks his neck. And there is no solution.

The autopsy will reveal that he had a brain tumor. As with transcranial magnetic stimulation, the tumor compresses an area that can cause hallucinations. 

But it is too late for him.




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