Huxley, a self proclaimed writer, called me one afternoon back in August. According to him, he wanted to let me in on a little secret of his that even his manager ignored: doctors had informed him recently that he only had three or four months left.

Tell me guys, how often have you been offered such an exclusive story in your whole lifetime? Now you know the reason why I had to take that plane and drive my black rental car over ten hours in a row to get to Amity Town. In fact, it is located relatively close to Salem, Massachusetts. Was that a sign of sorts? Probably not.

His home seemed to be a red Victorian house that he had repaired, importing lots of materials from the United Kingdom. As of today, I am still confused on its true origins. It could have been repaired as he claimed once, yet, something makes me now suspect that every single part was original indeed.

After stepping out of the car, the door opened automatically. I am guessing because my host was not there to greet me, and as I had learned later on, he had dismissed his seventh maid the day before. Fear not, my readers! That was nothing but his way to put my guts on trial. I have gone through this a couple of times already, so you do not need to worry about me.

Interestingly, he had been waiting for me at his comfortable living room while drinking some whiskey. “No, no, my friend. No dull whiskey is welcome here ever but scotch is for sure”, he quickly uttered as if he were reading my mind.

The striking clock behind me rang ten times right after his last statement. Just another of those weird coincidences taking place at his modest home.

No, it was not hard for him to accept his fate. He actually enjoyed it the most. Really, he planned to celebrate it by revealing another secret to his beloved audience. He wanted me to write his biography on his behalf because the so called author needed my objectivity to flood the whole book, starting from the prologue his fellow colleague had sent the day before.

“You’ll get a phone call in a few seconds”, he told me while waiting for my reaction.

I truly got a call then, so I asked, “Is this a joke? I know you’re dying but I didn’t travel all the way here to get pranked by a dead man.”

“Just make sure you don’t answer the call”, he continued. “Please, let it go straight to the voicemail.”

Since I was not in the mood to partake in his mind games, I simply ignored my cellphone. That does not mean I was willing to do his bidding at all. Who on earth would follow suit without guessing he was looking for some cheap entertainment just to burn time? He was a goner after all, right?

“Done. So what’s next, Huxley? Another prank of yours?”, I inquired of him with a deadpan face.

“Contrary to common sense, I’ve got plenty of time”, he explained, grinning eerily. “Being honest with you, my friend, I’ll get quite busy once I get rid of all of my current limitations.”

That sounded weird, my dear readers. Once he were six feet under the earth, he could not do anything. Therefore, he had no way to back up his terrifying claims ever!

“You see, I know that voice”, he abruptly confessed. “And whatever it tells you there, it’s really gonna happen. One hundred percent guaranteed. To tell the truth, I am the dying proof of it!”

“Ah, okay…”, I mumbled. “Is there anything else you wanna tell me? Otherwise, I suppose we should call it a day and meet like, err, before this weekend.”


“Yes, there’s something else you’re in dire need of knowing, my dear reporter”, Huxley commented. “You’ll wind up loving this scotch, just as I did. Oh and believe me when I tell you that everything’s connected. Your inexperienced mind won’t make any sense out of this mess, unless you start trusting me. I know that after a very few events, you’ll become a believer. Right, you’ll also become my biggest fan, just as my predecessor was my biggest inspiration. My sun, so to say.”

Suddenly, I started suspecting that somehow his illness got to be related to dementia. Perhaps he should start drinking some peach brandy instead.