Walking the Paths

When I was a small child I was told a story about a man who was approached by a beautiful stranger. The stranger told the man that they would take him to paradise if he wanted to go, curious the man agreed and was led to a barn full of people just as confused as he was. Convinced it was a scam the man stormed off but before he left he looked back and glimpsed a portal into a beautiful perfect world and he ran back only to see the portal to paradise dissolve in a now empty room. This man was my grandfather. He told me this story before disappearing for the next two decades. My father says he spent the rest of his life searching for a way back, chasing a pipe dream, neglecting his family, and bankrupting himself in the process. It ruined him. But his story never left me. I spent my childhood obsessed with stories of Avalon and Hollow Earth adventures, anything that could explain the portal to this mysterious paradise. This caused a lot of friction between my dad and me, which only got worse after my mom died. 

My father had a lot of animosity toward anything related to my grandpa. Understandably. I was always told that my grandfather was a crazy old drunk who abandoned his family, so I was surprised when I was contacted by an executor of his last will and testament. The executor told me that he was in a medically induced coma and that he was going to be woken up one last time before being taken off life support. If I was there for this then I would inherit everything. 

I wasn’t expecting much but some sense of familial debt urged me to fly across the country and let the old man have some sense of closure. And the fact that I was a recent grad with no sense of direction probably helped. When I got there the hospital was clean and nicer than any of the ones in any of the zip codes had ever lived. The doctor was polite and warned me that there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up and to be prepared for that. Seeing him there withered down from what I remember I honestly didn’t expect him to wake up. When he did it was all I could do not to jump back. 

“Hito you came.” He said, his voice barely a whisper. 

I didn’t know what to say, “Yeah, didn't want to miss saying goodbye.”

He smiled, “I’m so close hito. I was close again to finding it.”

“The paradise world?”

He nodded slowly, “But I never could, I know I missed my chance, but you can. I used to believe it when I was a young man but in a moment of cynicism, I lost it all, seeing the proof was not true wonder. It is the wonder at the unknown that lets you pass through the gates. But you still believe I can see it in you.”

I shuffled nervously at that, I spent months in a mental hospital as a kid because I had a hard time knowing what was real. This was not something I wanted back in my life. 

“You don’t have to answer me, I just had to see you to know. Go through the notes at my house, it's all there waiting for you.”

“I will. I promise.” I was never a good liar, so I knew right then that I would have to actually do it. 

“How’s your father?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him for a few years.”

“Shame to hear it, but there are bigger things than family.”

I nodded and we spent the next half hour or so talking about my life since I had last seen him. He refused to tell me about his since it was “all in the notes”. 

I drove to the address the bank gave me after emptying out a safety deposit box full of notebooks and contact lists and started reviewing what I could when I got back. The house was massive, not at all what you would expect from an old drunk who died bankrupt and alone. The notes were largely disappointing, as someone who was obsessed with conspiracy there were a lot of similarities to the general sort of nonsense you could dig up online. What was interesting was the contact lists, he had a number of powerful benefactors who paid for everything. They bought him flights around the world, they spent millions to buy artifacts for him to examine, some of the stuff in the house was certainly illegal. I contacted the authorities so they could be repatriated, but I hid the contacts from them. In retrospect I don’t know why I did it, maybe I just figured pissing of some extremely powerful people was a bad idea, especially if my grandfather's guesses about who they are were correct, he traced a few to members of royal families, a few to g-men probably in unlisted ops, one or two tech moguls, and at least one high ranking cartel. 

A number of the artifacts had huge finders rewards associated with them, and overnight I was a homeowner with enough money to support myself for a year or two. I figured I would write a book and lounge around. But I kept noticing things, like the same cars showing up, or the same people. My neighbors probably thought I was crazy going from house to house asking if they recognized the cars or the people but when no one did I let everyone know that there were strangers lurking in the neighborhood. We formed a little neighborhood watch to keep track of them, and after weeks of people seeing them around plenty of photographic evidence I was sure. As someone diagnosed with Delusional Disorder I had to be sure, even with my meds I had to be sure. 

The next time they showed up I called the police but the police never came, instead one of the men from the car rang my doorbell. He was wearing a mask, not uncommon but still sinister-looking in his sharp clothes. His suit jacket was too big, it was concealing a handgun holster under the armpit. Clean cut, shiny shoes, neutral tone watch. He was a g-man for sure. 

When I approached the door he started talking, “I’m here to discuss your grandfather.”

‘Damn’ I thought to myself he must have seen the light flickering through the door's peephole when I walked up. 

I answered with all the calm I could muster, “Do you have a warrant?”

“I am not with the police.” Ok, not police but he sure as hell was a g-man if I ever saw one. 

“So then why are you carrying a gun?”

The man stiffened, it was clear he didn’t expect me to notice. 

“I’ll leave my jacket in the car.” He returned sans jacket with an empty holster now visible.

“Now can we discuss your grandfather?”

I sized him up, maybe it was because I did kickboxing for years, maybe it was because something about the guy made it seem like he couldn’t take a punch as well as he could shoot a gun, or maybe because I was a dipshit twenty-something-year-old but I was sure I could take him. I let him in and locked the door behind him after making him empty his pockets on the porches. A wallet, a phone, multiple IDs, and two loose sticks of gum. No wrapper or anything. 

I was so amped up on adrenaline I don’t remember much of the conversation. But I remember him opening with, “The people I represent appreciate your discretion, they want to make you an offer” and refusing to specify who he represented. But whoever they were, they knew who I was, they knew my times for every event I ran in college, they knew what I studied and why, even if I didn’t want to admit it, and they knew I was perfect for the job of carrying on my grandfather’s work. 

The deal was that I follow up with the last of his most promising leads, all expenses paid, report to them whatever I find and then I’m out and they set me up to live comfortably for the rest of my life. Or I could carry on here, try to finish a book before my reward money runs out, and never mention a word of this to another living soul. He made it very clear there were no other options. 

I left the next morning. Then for the next five years I threw myself into my grandfather's notes galavanting around the world, I trekked deep into Peruvian jungles, I spent months at both the south and the north pole, and I lived in Ireland going from rag tree to ring fort. I’d go more into it but that’s not what this letter is about, my first book is about these adventures (excluding any mention of mysterious benefactors) and it is going to be published soon so you can read it there if you want. I wanted answers as bad as anyone else but the closest I ever got was finding people like my grandfather, people who only saw glimpses of things. My mysterious benefactors were happy enough with that and made a new network of contacts out of them and shipped me back home. 

I returned unexpectedly as a minor celebrity, it turns out if you get your whole neighborhood to watch out for a group of mysterious strangers and then disappear after one of those strangers enters your house it’s the sort of thing the local news picks up. I was briefed on how to act and what to say, which was mostly just, “It’s confidential I can’t tell you.” but this did very little to appease the townsfolk. And just like that, I was a cryptid haunting this little town, people would stare at me at coffee shops and bars, one little kid came up and asked if I was the alien man people kept talking about. But life goes on, I was comfortable and for all the people who were afraid of me, there were more who had a sense of humor about it. There was always a distance between me and the rest of the town but I kinda liked it that way. Maybe it was the years I spent traveling but I liked a bit of distance between me and the rest of the world. I liked the idea of being able to get up and go anywhere.

My reputation as a hermit was well earned so when someone rang my doorbell yesterday I was understandably surprised. At my door was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, ethereal with features that seemed just on the edge of human. I let them in right away. 

They asked, “Do you know who I am?”

I answered, “No, but also yes. Did you know my grandfather?”

“No, not in the sense that I got to know him, but also yes in that I know what I saw in him. He had potential, but not enough. You know that he was not a good man.”

I nodded slowly. 

“It’s ok if you don’t want to say it, he had a great deal in shaping your life.”

I nodded again and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

They smiled like a little kid with a secret, “I know enough, but I’ll take your name if you’ll give it.”

“And if I give it, will I get yours in return?”

They laughed, “No, but I will give you the same thing I offered your grandfather.”

“I’ll take it,” and I gave them my name. 

“Is there anyone you want to say goodbye to?”

“A few people, can I write a letter explaining everything?”

“No one can explain everything, but you can explain what you like. Everything but where you are going.”

“And where am I going?”

After they left they said I had until the sun's zenith tomorrow and then they would return to walk me to the paths. By writing this I know I am violating the terms laid out by my mysterious benefactor, and by emailing it to all of you I know that I am in deep shit if I ever come back here but something tells me this time I’ll disappear for good. I want to apologize to my dad for everything, and I want to thank my people in this town. In case this letter blows up I’ll just use abbreviations to maintain privacy. I want to thank Mrs. M for being the first person to welcome me back to the town with a plate of overpriced charcuterie. I never really cared for it before, but since then it’s been one of my favorite foods. I’d like to thank C the barista who knew my order and always smiled and asked how my books were coming along, you’re going to do great things kid. And I’d like to thank the little kid who called me an alien man and always found me at the library to ask me questions about aliens and I’d like to apologize to his parents for getting him obsessed with Fermi’s Paradox. I’d like to thank the old man at my favorite book store for promising to stock my book once it’s out and giving me the best recommendations I’ve ever gotten anywhere in the world. And C, if you’re reading this know that I still think about you and sometimes I wish I had never left India. I really did love you but a part of me has always known that I was going to end up somewhere else eventually. And to everyone else on this email list or in this town, thank you for putting up with the spooky alien man.

 I’m going home to a place I’ve never been before.