As I told (and will repeat below), more than ten years after the experience I lived, I created a group in the extinct Orkut (R.I.P.) where I kept in touch with people who went through something very similar to my story. What was most interesting was that the name and description of the community did not explain anything, precisely so as not to influence the accounts. When the group began to distort itself, I closed the community, not without first saving the content. I am searching for the compressed file on some HD or media. While I do not find it, I leave below the cases that I remember. Before you start reading, keep five points in mind:
i. I do not know if the reports are true. I can only talk about mine. He is.
ii. I will preserve the true names of those involved, for I am not authorized to tell their personal stories even after so many years.
iii. If you are one of the people in the above cases and you want me to withdraw or correct your report, let me know.
iv. If you have had a similar experience, please send me your report for inclusion here.
v. Third-party reports have been rewritten by me. I did not change anything, I just changed the form, scored and made some corrections, without hurting the story.
Note: I do not know if the name of the "place" is written Setealém, 7 Além or Cetealém. I just heard the name, I did not read it.
Report 01: A ticket to Setealém
1994. I was in the second year of college. I was nineteen and lamented the fact that I could only take classes at night time the next year. The first two years of college were obligatory in the morning, which made it difficult to search for jobs or internships. Until then, my experience had been a long time as the manager of a video-store, which was what Netflix was called at the time.
Even living away from college, I loved the path way back. The long stretches on foot arriving at the bus stop for then taking the Subway allowed me to observe how different people were in their outfits, gestures and lines. All this was a subsidy for new stories that I wrote on a daily basis. I also used the time to read.
Normally, I would walk there to catch a bus, any bus - the first one to pass - because they all took me to a point on the avenue where I would easily access the Subway. No matter the name, number, or color of the bus, they were all obliged to go to the end of the avenue and then follow their itineraries. That was good, because I did not spend more than two minutes on the spot.
That hot October afternoon, after an exhausting Mercadology class, I followed my usual path to a large, famous avenue a few minutes from the campus. I got to the point and I put a CD, I think it was of the Zumbi Nation, in the discman. The battery was coming to an end, and Chico Science's voice sounded demonic. A bus came and stopped. I got on and replaced the discman with a book.
On average, the journey took twenty-five to thirty minutes because of the traffic, and when I was lucky to find an empty seat, I read several pages. That day, not fifteen minutes passed, and I felt the woman next to me on the bench poking me. I stopped reading and looked at her. "You're not going to Setealém, are you?" - she asked. I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand what she had said. Was it Santarem? She insisted: - This bus goes to Setealém. You better get down.
I smiled at her. The name "Setealém" had become clear, but the advice made no sense. I looked around and everyone, absolutely everyone on the bus was watching me. Another woman, standing a little further, said, "Yeah, go... come down, lad." Next to her, a young man with a briefcase in his hand nodded and was more incisive. "Come down!" Before I asked what was happening, the bus ticket reviser - who was looking at me too, with a bundle of bills in his hand - shouted at the driver: "Stop the bus, someone is getting down!"
The bus stopped shortly. There was not exactly a bus stop, but I did not care. I got up quickly from the bench and headed for the open door. The people in the corridor pushed their way along with me.
I got out. I confess that at the time dozens of thoughts came to my mind. Was it a private bus? No. There was a bus ticket reviser, after all. Did they confuse me with anyone? Perhaps.
As soon as I stepped on the asphalt, the bus resumed the road, until, strangely, it turned right onto a slope of cobblestone. An unusual path.
That name "Setealém" never left my mind. Was it a neighborhood? A city? I asked my acquaintances and even looked at the Guide to Streets, a sort of Waze from the last century, where his index finger played the role of the cart. No one has ever recognized this name anywhere or even anywhere else in the world. I know that days later I dreamed of Setealém, and since then, at least once a month, I see myself in its strange streets in my sleep.
The community on Orkut
More than ten years later, I decided to use the then popular Orkut social network to find out more about Setealém. I created a community by that name, but I did not write exactly what the group was about. I wanted the name to bring answers. It was a way to see if my delirium made any sense.
After a few weeks of marasmus, people from the furthest points of the country began to join the community asking the meaning of the term Setealém. At the same time as they asked, they also reported on their incredible experiences which, in general, closely resembled mine.
With each new interaction, an interesting story emerged until, over time, the main goal of the community became distorted and eventually became a forum for generic stories of horror and fiction.
As moderator, I deleted the community, not before copying each of the stories about Setealém.
No comments:
Post a Comment