The Strange Vision Of Monsieur Lafontaine
"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.”—Edgar Allan Poe
It was in that most extraordinary year of 1868 that I made the acquaintance of the enigmatic illusionist Monsieur François LaFontaine in Paris, following one of his most distinguished performances at the prestigious Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin. I had conveyed my deepest admiration for his brilliance and intellect, recognising him as a bona fide doyen in his field.
He appeared entirely aware of both my presence and my name, familiar as he was with my reputation as a writer of some repute. He graciously invited me to join him in the green-room thereafter, so that we might discuss a fascinating notion which he referred to simply as cognitive vision. Once within the room, we seated ourselves as he began to speak of this fascinating concept he was eager to share with me—at length, and in confidence—with an eloquence and nuance most admirable.
I remained attentive, having discerned the serious tenor behind the intensity of his gaze.
He wielded his words with such commanding force that I could not help, but acknowledge the inquisitive mind of an eclectic genius. I could not say precisely when I first became aware of his singular powers of perception and illusion, yet his influence was at once captivating and commendable. His discourse was, at times, both inspiring and laced with aperçus.
As I listened to Monsieur LaFontaine, I found myself reflecting upon thoughts I had entertained for countless years: the contemplation of foreseeing the future. Time and again, I had been disconcerted by a heightened sentient awareness, and an intrigue that had become at once implacable and irresistible. I had long resisted the once impetuous temptation to venture boldly into the uncertain endeavour of publicly exploring this notion of foresight.
The days marked by apprehension had given way to a persistent urge—to resolve my questions and to seek the conduit through which such a possibility might be realised. I was restless, driven by a fervent desire to give form to this concept, as a loyal proponent of the theory. Though but a neophyte in matters of temporal prediction and mutable reality, I had nonetheless been animated by the strange and seductive phenomenon of illusionism. That alone was sufficient to compel my pursuit of Monsieur LaFontaine, who, I believed, could possess the means to render such a vision tangible.
Thus, my every reservation and intention were directed towards the elusive vision of the future—and, perhaps, of my own fate. This nascent feeling took root in an obsessive desire to uncover the truth behind that singular experience, even as I listened to him. It was an esoteric truth, I believed, one that lies dormant within our conscience and is too often misunderstood or dismissed as a fallacy.
He confided in me that the chilling account he was about to reveal was not beyond the bounds of possibility—no incompossible fantasy—but a credible reality, if only the mind were permitted to unleash its full creative force, its sentient capacity and power of deep concentration. The mind, he warned, is frangible when exposed.
It was in his idiosyncrasy that I perceived, without doubt, the source of his prescient apperception. His cerebral prowess defied the Dionysian tendencies of conventional human thought, which he deemed paltry by comparison. His perspicacious command of the subject began to deepen my own growing fascination.
What follows, then, is an explicit account—a narrative faithfully recounted in the expressive words spoken verbatim by Monsieur LaFontaine himself, conveyed with an authenticity and insight that were beyond reproach. No other persons were present to witness or contest the astonishing experiment that culminated in his inexplicable disappearance—nor could anyone provide corroboration for so singular an occurrence.
His splendid narrative commenced in magnificent fashion, with an opening revelation that expounded upon his exceptional theory of cognitive vision. According to him, the brain's innate capacity to transmit dynamic thoughts—thoughts both invariable and efficacious—is intrinsically bound to the functions of cognate disciplines, such as psychology and phrenology.
Thus, he posited, the brain’s foundation exhibits a proclivity for a visionary state—unlocked through hypermnesia—which permits us to perceive a pre-existent and contradictory world. This world, he claimed, opens the gateway to an infinity of thought, leading the mind along a mental journey of supraliminal protension.
The empowerment of the mind is indelible when it willingly permeates the serious introspection of man’s psyche, and is not merely interpreted through the lens of the psychosomatic. Cognitive vision—as he termed it—was a phenomenon he endeavoured to explain, both in its purpose and in the assumptions underlying its manifestation. It comprised both principal and miscellaneous elements reflective of the interface of human psychology—elements that are at once existential and perceptible. Perception, creativity, attention and memory—these were the various faculties essential to attaining such meaningful enlightenment.
He remarked that, in embracing this vision, I would inevitably come to question the very principles we accept and practise daily—with persistence and deliberate effort. Knowledge, he stated is not born solely of instruction, but is gathered through facts, ideas, concepts and meanings which are both incipient and intrinsic to the psyche’s final evolution—an evolution unique to Homo sapiens. The hierarchy of this mental mechanism, he said is activated by stimuli—conscious or unconscious—that stir the mind to awaken.
'This is not the fruitless furtherance of some clever legerdemain,” he said. “There is a clock nearby—and if you would, monsieur, adjust your pocket watch accordingly'.
He confessed that he could not say precisely when this unique fixture within his brain had first begun to manifest as coherent thought. It had arisen, he explained, from within an intractable leviathan—an unseen force that slowly engulfed him, emerging in gradual stages, irregular in both interval and form, yet wholly irresistible in its involution.
Though he was no scientist—merely an illusionist by profession—he readily admitted his advocacy for this process. With its frequency and sudden unpredictability, he confessed, he had often doubted his own sanity, fearing his thoughts were symptomatic of a mind non compos mentis. Perhaps such an assertion might be dismissed as a non sequitur, yet he sought, with unwavering conviction, to persuade me of the powers of cognitive vision.
'Now', he said, 'if I may ask you to gaze upon the pendulum as it sways—a visual instrument, if you will—and allow your inchoate thoughts to drift into your cognition freely and without resistance. Permit your mind to be entranced, not bewildered, by the thoughts and words I now convey, as though you yourself were experiencing this experiment in full. Now that you are under, take a deep breath—and envision a nonpareil world, which lies presently latent, beginning to materialise before your eyes. Allow the vision to transcend the boundaries of your conscience and dissolve the division between your somatic and psychological faculties. Seek out this parallel universe, nestled in the very core of your mind. From there, it shall manifest into vivid reality, forsaking the invisible portal of surreality—perhaps forever. It will no longer remain an ambiguous preconception'.
The strange vision he described had, in earnest, manifested on an otherwise ordinary midday, as he engaged in this mental exercise in solitude. As a subjective illusionist, he continually challenged the limits of his percipient mind. Through deliberate meditation and sustained concentration, he found himself capable of transforming seemingly random thoughts into coherent, tangible actions.
He had pondered deeply the intersection between the existing and the potential—the realm of the immediate future and its vast, illimitable frontier—as he wandered through the corridors of speculative thought. Slowly, he found himself submerged in musings that, whilst fantastical, seemed wholly drawn from the well of his imagination. He began to drift into a hypothetical state of consciousness and questioned, not without some concern, whether his mind was being circumvented by the lure of an opium dream—or overtaken by an active hallucination.
The plausible definition of what he was then experiencing was both novel and revelatory, marked by a variable presence that had engulfed him in an unremitting trance—one which gradually absorbed the totality of his faculties. His active consciousness had begun to diverge deliberately from the focus of thoughts that were once ever-present and congruent.
The subtle sounds within his immediate surroundings began to dissolve into an absolute quietude that sequestered his attention, whilst his physical form grew motionless and rigid. He could no longer sense the frame of his corporeal being, for his mind had long since assumed full dominion over his instinctive movements.
His breathing slowed, modulated to the bare minimum required to sustain life. Even the rhythmic beat of his heart became scarcely perceptible. He did not hear the tick-tock of any clock or watch. He was, in that moment, utterly mesmerised—held captive by the overwhelming control of his commanding mind. Every sense he possessed had merged into a heightened awareness, acutely cognisant of this singular occurrence.
Moreover, he had lost all notion of his prior, concurrent reality. An abstract and unproven theory had now converged with an unfamiliar horizon, revealing a viable antinomy. The fear of death—or of losing his mind—no longer held any weight. His consciousness had transcended such concerns, his mind entirely freed from the burden of that particular pertinence.
He was now beyond the portal of this world, immersed in total darkness at first, accompanied by a heavy ringing in his head. At intermittent intervals, he perceived the presence of peculiar entities—ones so truly indescribable and unclear that they defied explanation.
Monsieur LaFontaine heard nothing at first, until, with concentrated effort, he listened attentively to the faint voices, which spoke in a language that seemed incoherent. The ringing in his head grew louder and more intense, as he languished within this voluntary stupor. What seemed to be endless seconds and minutes soon stretched into hours, which enveloped him, leaving only the darkness to remain.
His capacity to discern the truth was unsettled and distracted by the mental process he had embarked upon, a process that had met with immediate success. Yet, the peril of his potential demise loomed, casting doubt upon his uncertain actions. Nevertheless, he continued the experiment, as his keen senses were heightened and activated by the incessant ringing sound.
It was only later, through the oppressive murk he had traversed that a sudden light radiated with such intensity it could not be ignored. He could not discern the origin of this light, for it scintillated with an otherworldly brightness. Gradually, the unrecognisable voices began to take shape, and the language became clear—one he understood with absolute clarity. These surreal moments passed, occupied with the weight of the consequences of his actions, which he could only contemplate in silent reserve.
He beheld the futuristic guise of a man addressing him, clad in unfamiliar and peculiar attire—such as he could scarcely comprehend. For the briefest of moments, he feared he was dead or that his brain had suffered some grave injury. The stranger continued to speak, until at last he seized his shoulder with a firm grip.
Suddenly, he awoke from his profound trance, drenched in sweat and trembling. What he next beheld would astonish and bewilder him in equal measure. At first, he saw a shadowy, amorphous figure of a man standing before him, his hand still upon his shoulder. His voice grew muffled, then vanished altogether as he dissolved swiftly into the very air of our world. Was he a phantom of the theatre, or a man from the distant future? Had Monsieur LaFontaine, with his very eyes, glimpsed a fleeting vision of what was yet to come?
He observed that the clock had advanced the hour; the theatre was no longer a theatre, but an abandoned museum, filled with wax figures and a few books upon the shelves—many torn from their covers and pages. From his vantage point, he spotted a crumpled newspaper bearing a date: the year was 1968. It was but a soupçon of the future, and a palpable indication of a remarkable manifestation—but this was not the only shocking revelation to confront him.
Nearby stood a calendar, remarkably intact, with the year 2168 engraved boldly across its upper front. Yet there was still more he would come to witness. Alas, time did not permit him to pore over the books upon the shelves, nor to explore the museum’s other strange relics. For a brief and singular moment, he had entered the future—and, it seemed, had triumphed over the tangled workings of the mind.
Verily, through his unequivocal confession, he revealed—not only the pleasures of those marvellous prospects he had beheld in the future—but the dreadful and ominous façade also that lay therein. He grew increasingly anxious to learn what existed beyond the interior of this forsaken museum. Thus, his rising curiosity compelled him to satisfy his inquisitiveness at once. When he stepped outside to gaze upon the world, he was appalled to witness the abject ruin and utter devastation before him, met with both dismay and stupefaction.
The sky was shrouded in darkness and pollution, bathed in a Plutonian hue of caliginosity, the clouds naught but unstable convulsions of vapour. He could not tell whether it was day or night, though he presumed it to be nightfall. No stars glimmered within the signifer sphere above. The land stretched out, barren and forsaken, littered with the wreckage of civilisation—dilapidated structures lay crumbling all around him. Despite the desolation, a strange compulsion drove him to explore further this enigmatic world of dystopia he had uncovered.
In due course, he advanced with caution towards one of the uninhabited edifices that yet remained partially intact. Upon entering, he encountered a vast and unwieldy object standing sentinel in the centre of the room. He could not discern what manner of contrivance it might be, nor to what purpose it was designed. It appeared to be an enormous automaton of some description, and he felt compelled to investigate it more closely.
As Monsieur LaFontaine drew nearer, he observed a peculiar device affixed to its frame—what appeared to be a green button, as though awaiting activation. Tentatively, he pressed it. To his astonishment, the strange machine began to operate of its own accord, moving as though indeed it were a true automaton. A great wheel, forged of solid steel bolts, began to turn, setting the mechanism in motion, spinning in circular revolutions by degrees.
He heard the grating sound of rust and the grinding of the wheel, as the bolts pressed harshly against its coarse surface. Indeed, it was a most magnificent specimen of formidable machinery. At its centre stood a great clock, marked with the year 2168. Evidently, it was a contrivance devised to record the history of time itself.
LaFontaine paused. The room fell into a hush, save for the distant creak of the theatre’s ageing rafters. I became acutely aware of the rhythm of my own breath—irregular, shallow, as though the very act of listening had begun to exact a quiet toll.
He had just spoken of the automaton—the huge wheel that ground through time, and the cold inscription of 2168 fixed in brass and steel. Yet it was not the narrative itself that disturbed me so much as the assuredness with which he recounted it—not as a dream, but as something once lived. I found myself suspended in the space between his words, marooned in a silence that seemed too deliberate to be benign.
My hands, resting upon my knees, had unconsciously clenched into fists. A strange sense took hold—something akin to being drawn into an undertow, as if his tale had begun to erode the natural flow of time about me. The flickering shadows upon the green-room wall appeared altered, as though they belonged to a place slightly adjacent to the world I knew.
'You believe me', LaFontaine said, his voice low and even—not inquisitive, but resolute.
I glanced up in alarm.
'I see it in your eyes', he continued. 'You are not simply listening—you are remembering'.
Unbeknownst to Monsieur LaFontaine, the clamorous noise had drawn the attention of a stranger. He heard the distinct sound of footsteps approaching and instinctively concealed himself behind a nearby pillar. From his vantage point, he glimpsed a solitary figure—an unusual being who, from a distance, bore the likeness of a man. The creature drew near and stood before the automaton.
At last, the stranger’s appearance came clearly into view. He was a grotesque mutation—a being half-man, half-monster. His massive head jutted unnaturally over his frame, and upon it Monsieur LaFontaine discerned a gaping incision, through which the matter of his brain was visible.
His flesh was afflicted with tumours and lesions, a hideous mass of abnormal tissue, not unlike a grotesque ronyon. The phenotypic consequences of his mutation were most evident, as too was the malformed nature of his ghastly genesis. Monsieur LaFontaine could not fathom how the alteration of the man’s genetic structure had led to such a monstrous deviation from the natural form.
He had just concluded his harrowing description of the grotesque being outside the museum—the monstrous hybrid figure, its flesh reduced by acid rain to a powdery ruin—when a draught stirred the tall curtain behind him. A faint tapping echoed from the windowpane, as though the night itself wished to intrude.
Although I knew I remained safely ensconced in a theatre chamber in Paris, the certainty of my surroundings had grown tenuous. Something in his voice—so calm, so measured—seemed to collapse the boundaries of the present. The clock above ticked with unsettling precision, but I no longer trusted it.
Compelled by a restless unease, I rose and moved quietly to the drapery at the back of the room. Drawing it aside, I uncovered a tarnished mirror fixed to the wall. My reflection looked back at me—wan, withdrawn, altered. My face seemed stretched and thin, as though reflection and reality had fallen slightly out of alignment.
LaFontaine did not turn, but spoke with a quiet gravity.
'It is not uncommon', he said, 'for those who listen to my account to feel as though they’ve stepped into it'.
I let the curtain fall gently.
'It is no longer a vision', he added. 'It is a contagion. And you, monsieur, have already inhaled it'.
This being, Monsieur LaFontaine could only fathom with a sense of ghastly apprehension. Although he suffered from a defect of sight, the creature had sensed his presence as he stood alone behind a pillar, and approached him with alarming urgency. Monsieur LaFontaine fled outside as swiftly as he could. Soon, the bloated clouds would begin to release acid rain upon the earth. He was extraordinarily fortunate to have sensed the arrival of the ominous tempest, and hurried back into the museum, staring out at the deleterious rainfall.
He locked the door tightly, hoping the horrendous mutant would neither enter nor reach him. Yet the acid raindrops had already covered the creature’s grotesque skin—an abhorrent spectacle of unsightliness. Its flesh began to peel away, until it was rapidly reduced to exiguous particles of dust.
There was no wind, no sudden lightning. The only lingering evidence of the storm was the implacable darkness that had enveloped the entire landscape. The inscrutable vision Monsieur LaFontaine had just witnessed filled him with both terror and awe—thrilled by the unpredictable elements and the indeterminate sequences of the future he had glimpsed in that moment.
His stay was curtailed by his physical limitations and capacity when he returned to this world anew. On the following night, he attempted the intricate experiment once more—this time with thoroughness, determined to replicate the sequence of events from his previous experience, aided by a measure of mnemonics. He knew, and was fully cognisant, of the brain's capacity to achieve such contingency and realise this goal.
Once again, he exerted his mind through a balanced method of exploration and concentrated effort. Though Monsieur LaFontaine was the most esteemed illusionist in Paris, he did not presume to know the extent of his own imposing and ill-defined limits or adaptability.
He had travelled widely, performed extensively, and acquired much knowledge, yet this phenomenon of cognitive vision was increasingly engrossing his perception each day. Monsieur LaFontaine had seen many placards bearing his name, engraved in elegant lettering, but none would ever match the one he had glimpsed when he awoke afresh, surrounded by the unfamiliar ambience of the future.
How could he ever erase from memory that incredible and revelatory vision he had beheld with such perceptive eyes? It is impossible to convey in full the experience of what he saw, tinged as it was with a sense of scepticism. Thus, he continued with the essential part of his narrative, without needless digression.
That night, his intention and aspiration were to advance with the experiment and further comprehend the corroboration that might ultimately be deduced. After deep thought and meditation, he once again reached the portal to the future, which opened itself to his malleable vision. Through the darkness, he discerned the scintilla of coruscating light, as hazy figures began to form through the entoptic veil of his pupils.
Soon, they became clearer—figures he could observe and speculate upon—as he found himself standing in the streets of Paris. The language spoken by the individuals was the demotic idiom of that society. He saw members of the bourgeoisie walking along the boulevard, adorned in peculiar garments and footwear entirely foreign and antithetical to his own time.
What most arrested his attention was the revealing nature of their attire. The vehicles that passed by were no longer sluggish carriages, but rapid bolts of energy. All around him were innumerable mechanical contrivances and devices beyond his comprehension.
The year was 2068, as he discovered from a recent newspaper he picked up to read. The placard Monsieur LaFontaine espied on one of the tall nearby edifices read: Come and see the wonders of art and magic of Monsieur Pierre LaFontaine on display, at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin.
Immediately, he made his way to the theatre, dressed in his Victorian attire—yet it aroused no suspicion among the passers-by. They could not see him, for he was invisible in his presence. He would soon discover that Pierre LaFontaine was, in fact, his descendant from the future. Yes, he was directly related to him.
Monsieur LaFontaine felt a frisson of shock at the revelation, his mind wholly absorbed in sheer disbelief. He longed to communicate with him, but he could not. What was even more chilling—and compelling—was the realisation that he himself had been the mysterious visitor who had once appeared before Pierre.
Inside the theatre, Pierre LaFontaine was rehearsing as the theatre clock struck the hour.
What astonished Monsieur LaFontaine most was the discovery that his descendant, too, had been attempting to communicate through similar experiments—only in reverse, from the future to the past. The coincidence was a striking and fascinating stimulus that he could not easily forget. Everything he had attempted in this profound and experimental experience had culminated in complete and undeniable success. Yet once more, the duration had waned, as his body could no longer endure the powerful drama unfolding with such depth and force—demanding of him a monumental effort.
After the hypnosis had concluded, I addressed Monsieur LaFontaine as I gradually emerged from my Morphean trance of mollification and opened my eyes. 'I must ask you one thing—when and where lies the point of no return that encroaches, Monsieur LaFontaine? Your unbelievable words have compelled me to seek the truth, and they have ignited a pressing intrigue within me. This captivating fascination dispels the irrefragable sensation I have experienced from the very beginning—aroused by your prophetic resolution and measured deportment'.
He replied, as he looked into my eyes—first contemplative, then equanimous: 'Truly, I do not know, monsieur, for it is presently inextricable. But there is one thing I can verify: what I saw was a vision attainable, not axiomatic. Many may interpret my vision as eccentric, an ultracrepidarian invention, and harbour a certain recrudescence of doubt. You see, the concept of life is intrinsically linked with death, and the trammels of gloom haunt the Puritan minds of our modern society, as an endemic part of humanity.'
'There must be a singular truth to all of this,' I stated.
His answer was, 'The probative pith of this truth is found within the peremptory belief that binds us to our reality. Whether religion dictates the thoughts of mankind, it is not for me to pass judgement gratuitously or remonstrate against with senseless hauteur. If we allow this introductive vision of seeing and predicting the future to expand and perpetuate among the throng of naysayers who are sophronised, this concept will not fade into our oblivious memory and become incomprehensible forever. It would be better to acknowledge that the point of no return reveals itself when and where, within the vision, we notice its capacity and reality.'
How do we define that reality?' I enquired.
'The narrative I have given you is the abnormal reality I experienced momentarily in my intense vision. Once more, I reiterate, this is no discretionary ruse. In this experience, I must confess, the boundary between the present and the future I witnessed has filled me with both fantastic excitement and horror. Consequently, my death will be considered an odd occurrence, and my body consigned to an empty tomb or urn. But you, who have heard my account, will know otherwise.'
'What you have related to me is extraordinary, if true.'
'I fear my time in this existing world has come to an end, but I shall return one day to visit you. Just as the mysterious man of the future appeared to me, so shall I return to you. When the clock strikes the hour of my return, a blurry and shadowy figure will manifest before you.'
'How shall I know, Monsieur LaFontaine?'
'First, you will hear the sound of the wind; then my voice, on a recording, will be clearly transmitted. You will know it is I who am calling you at that moment. Your pocket watch will stop for a few seconds, and you will neither hear the sound of the watch nor see the hands move. Do not be frightened, for there is nothing wrong with your pocket watch, nor are you going mad. I shall not haunt you; instead, I shall serve as proof that cognitive vision is real. Afterwards, the hands of your pocket watch will turn backwards until it comes to a complete halt.'
Monsieur LaFontaine paused for a moment, as if troubled with the memory itself. His hand, pale and tremulous, reached instinctively for a glass of wine, though he did not drink. I sat motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, lest the spell of his words be broken.
'There was one moment,” he continued, his voice subdued and distant, 'When I found myself wandering a corridor bathed in an eerie crimson glow. The walls seemed to pulse, alive with some unseen force. They were lined not with portraits or mirrors, but with panes of glass that reflected not my form, but others—spectres of men and women I did not recognise, yet whose eyes met mine with an unsettling intimacy. One wept, silently, as if mourning something long lost. Another smiled cruelly, beckoning me forward'.
He looked down at his hands, as though recalling some tactile sensation. 'The air in that place was warm, heavy with the scent of sandalwood and scorched paper. I felt the floor beneath me tilt, subtly, and with each step I took, the corridor elongated, stretching into impossible distance. I do not know how long I wandered there—minutes, hours? Perhaps longer. Time monsieur is endless, but yet, to us it seems rushed.
I said nothing, but a sudden chill passed through me, despite the warmth of the parlour. His voice, so precise and deliberate, carried the weight of memory too vivid to be fiction.
The room fell into a hush as Monsieur LaFontaine stood motionless, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. I watched him closely, the words still echoing in my mind, reverberating through the quiet like distant thunder. The air felt heavy, as though something unseen were pressing upon it, weighing it down.
‘Did you hear the silence, monsieur?’ He asked, breaking the stillness.
I blinked, my brow furrowing as I considered his question. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The silence,’ he repeated, his voice lower now, barely above a whisper. ‘It... felt as if the world itself had ceased. It was not the kind of silence one might find in a peaceful room; no, it was as though time itself had stopped. As though the air no longer moved.’
LaFontaine's eyes darkened. His lips parted, but no sound emerged for a moment. The silence stretched again, thickening between us. I watched his hand twitch, as if he was about to reach for something that wasn’t there.
‘I know it well,’ he murmured at last, almost to himself. ‘It comes to me in the moments when the vision is strongest, when I am on the verge of seeing it again—the thing that watches, that waits. It is always there, and when it draws near, I cannot help but feel the world itself grow cold'.
I leaned forward, my curiosity piqued. 'But the vision, monsieur, you’ve spoken of it before. How is it possible that it can hold such power over time itself?'
His gaze flickered briefly to the window, the dim light from outside casting long shadows across his face. ‘I wish I could explain. But the nature of what I saw... it defies explanation. It is not merely a thing of a facile nature, you understand. It is something far older, older than any memory, older than the known earth beneath us’.
I felt the chill again, the one that crept slowly up my spine, and it was as though I could feel the weight of those ancient words pressing down upon me.
‘You will find,’ LaFontaine continued, ‘that when such a thing enters your life, it changes everything. Time bends, the mind frays, and one is left wondering if what one has seen was ever truly real, or if it was merely an illusion of the senses’.
‘And yet, monsieur, you claim it was real’.
His eyes locked onto mine. ‘I cannot deny it. Even now, I know the vision will come again, and when it does, it will draw nearer than before.’ He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘And I fear that when it comes, I will not be able to turn away. I will not be able to escape’.
The words lingered between us like an unanswered question, heavy and ominous. The room, once filled with the soft hum of night, now seemed to pulse with something else. Something darker.
‘And what of the hour, monsieur?’ I asked, barely able to keep my voice steady. ‘The hour you spoke of before? The one when you saw the vision most clearly?’
‘La, the hour,’ he repeated, as if the mention of it brought the vision into sharper focus. ‘It is always the same time, you see. It never varies, no matter where I am, no matter how far I go. That hour—when the light wanes and the shadows lengthen—is when it appears, and when the vision takes its most predictable form’.
He looked down, as if recalling something. ‘It is not always clear, no. Sometimes it takes on the form of a man, and other times a shape of time itself. But it is always there. Waiting for that moment when the boundary between what is real and what is imagined blurs. The vision, you see, is not just a mere coincidence. It is a prelude to something beyond human comprehension’.
I took a slow breath, the weight of his words pressing on my chest. ‘And do you think the vision will appear again?’
LaFontaine’s face darkened, the shadows in the room seeming to deepen as if to reflect his thoughts. ‘I know it will. It always does, monsieur’.
I was left in silence once more, the words hanging between us, as heavy and oppressive as the night itself.
It was time for his final act of an irrevocable illusion, but this was no bizarre trick or human deception employed afterwards. It was no conjectural ploy, nor merely an illusion of his successful performances demonstrated. Once more, he told me to close my eyes and think about the mysterious man of the future in quiescence.
Thus, I did as he had asked—when I opened my eyes, I perceived a protean intonation, as his deep voice began to fade. I saw then that his body was disappearing. He vanished into the air, and the futuristic man emerged, dressed in the peculiar clothing Monsieur LaFontaine had described before. It was a transient stay, and I walked towards him to touch him, as he looked at me standing. He too vanished into the thin air, with no vestige left behind.
Subsequently, I heard the vibratory sound of the clock. Gone was the great illusionist Monsieur François LaFontaine. His final act of brilliance, witnessed by no one except me. For years, I have attempted to understand what had occurred with Monsieur LaFontaine, as I walk vagariously. Hitherto, I cannot explicate this anomalous occurrence through mere words of definition.
I am extremely sanguine, and one day I shall discover the durable mode to predict the future, or even remain there forever in this incredible state of existence, through my persistent thoughts. I shall not abdicate that thrilling possibility or prospection. Ipse facto, the future awaits us.
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