Chapter 1 – The Rumor – "The Threshold" #3

Chapter 1: The Rumor

I have never liked admitting that I’m afraid, especially considering what I do for a living. I suppose an investigative journalist is expected to speak of facts with detachment, as if every document unearthed, every door opened, every secret torn from the dark depended solely on a steady hand and a good notebook. But this story, the one I am about to tell you—yes, you—began to rot long before my name appeared on the first page of the file. And since then, every day I have learned that truth has a metallic smell, like that of an old engine overheating… or dried blood.

I live in a forest that feels torn from a dream that isn’t mine. I could describe my house as modern, elegant, almost out of place among the trees that creak as if they want to confess something, but the truth is that I have never felt entirely in control of anything here. Not the place, not the silence, not even my own thoughts. There are days when I wake up with the feeling that I spoke to someone during the night, though I can’t remember a single word. Sometimes I swear the house breathes, as if it were holding my own story long before I write it myself. And, strangely enough, I’ve grown used to living with that doubt, the way one gets used to the hum of an old refrigerator: constant, irritating, but too familiar to question.

My 1982 Porsche 911 Turbo always rests in the same spot in the garage, like a sleeping animal I would rather not disturb. At first glance it’s just a classic car, a piece any collector would admire, but to me it’s something more: a kind of silent witness. There are nights when, for no clear reason, I approach it and run my hand over the cold metal, convinced it still vibrates slightly, as if it had just returned from somewhere I don’t remember going. Once, I could have sworn I heard it “agree,” as if it understood my doubts better than I did. You might be thinking I’m exaggerating, that a journalist should be the last person to give in to superstition, but believe me… I’ve learned that the most unsettling anomalies are the ones they don’t teach you about at university.

My work has taken me to worse places, to stories that seemed impossible until I had them in front of me, dripping truth like a corroded pipe. But none of that prepared me for what began to happen here, on my own ground. One day, while reviewing notes on a case I had been chasing for months—a disappearance that left more questions than tangible remains—I saw something through the window: a figure. At first I thought it was a reflection, perhaps my own distorted by the glass, but no. It was something… displaced, as if the space around it had made a mistake. A blink, and it was gone, but the wake it left behind, that residue of doubt, was enough to make my hands tremble for the first time in years.

I have tried to record these anomalies with the precision my profession demands. Dates, times, sensations, any small detail that might help me build a narrative line that makes sense. But the more I write, the more convinced I become that I am not documenting a case: I am documenting someone. Or something. And, as ridiculous as this may sound… I feel it is documenting me as well. Taking note of my habits, my fears, the times I glance at the rearview mirror for no apparent reason.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Not because I need company—though perhaps I do—but because I want you to bear witness to what comes next. I am not satisfied with discovering the truth; I need someone else to see it, to ensure it isn’t buried beneath my own hesitation. Because I know this has only just begun, and when the anomaly returns—because it will return—I want you to know exactly where you were when I told you about it.

And if at any point you get the impression that you’ve heard this story before… don’t worry. It happens to me too. More and more often. As if I weren’t the one writing it, but someone whispering it in my ear while I sleep.