I get out of my car and approach Manu Ginobili’s house. I have arranged to meet him for an interview to discuss how the Spurs are faring without Tim Duncan. I am hopeful that his insight as a teammate of Tim’s for more than a decade will provide plenty of material for future video descriptions.
Reaching the front door, I am about to ring the doorbell when I notice that the door is slightly ajar. Taking this as an invitation to freely enter, I walk into the foyer, but for some reason, I don’t announce my presence yet. Peering around the wall into the living room, I see that it’s empty. So is the kitchen. Where’s Manu? Did he forget about our interview?
I feel a little strange walking around in a house where I am apparently not expected, but the silence of the large abode is so complete that I still don’t say anything to alert Manu to the arrival of a guest. Instead, I send him a quick text, then wait patiently for another few minutes, thinking Manu must have momentarily gotten caught up in something. He is usually very prompt with responses to my text messages.
Now bored and a little annoyed that I am wasting prime highlight-making time to chase after some rich NBA player who is too aloof to keep appointments, I walk up the stairs to see if I can find where Manu is holed up. The first few bedrooms I come across have their doors open and are empty; however, the one at the far end of the house has its door closed. I knock lightly and silently turn the doorknob, opening the door just a fraction of an inch to see if Manu is within.
What I see in that room is a sight that I will spend the rest of my life trying to forget.
Manu is indeed there, sitting at a writing desk which is positioned directly in front of a large, ornate, circular stained-glass window. He is writing notes feverishly in the pages of a very old-looking book. All around him are more books stored haphazardly on shelves that ring the room; it is Manu’s library. The room is dark save the multicolored splotches of light that make it through the window, and the light I am letting in from the hallway. Again, I am too aware of the silence to say anything that would interrupt Manu’s diligent work.
“I must be young again. I require a new body,” he mumbles under his breath, and his words are so faint in volume and their meaning so obscure that I wonder if I heard correctly. He apparently finishes his writing and stands up from his desk, raising his hands out from his sides as if preparing to receive something from the other side of the window.
Suddenly, the window morphs and changes character; the black bars holding the glass panels in place vanish, the glass itself melts and away, and the entire thing is replaced by a pulsating, crackling portal so red in color that it appears to be dripping, as if blood!
Entranced, I can do nothing but watch as some kind of other-dimensional being emerges from the portal. It is octopean in shape, with hundreds of waving tentacles. On its head are hundreds of independently blinking eyes. Its mouth is actually a series of mouths, each ringed with sharp spearlike teeth. Its appearance causes a gust of wind to blow through the room, knocking books from shelves and whipping the loose bits of paper that lie around.
Manu, who undoubtedly had summoned this most eldritch entity, continues to stand in place, clearly unafraid of whatever is to come. As I watch with sickened horror, the unthinkable happens: his body is devoured wholly by the beast! My mind spins as I hear the crunching of bones and squelching of internal organs, and for the first time, I ponder running away from this cursed house, simply to save my own life. But I must find out what Manu’s cryptic words had meant.
My question is soon answered. A body comes sprawling back through the portal and lands with a thump on the carpeted floor. The unholy creature, meanwhile, retreats back to whatever terrible place spawned it, and the glowing red portal is replaced with the original stained-glass window. The wind dies down as this new person slowly gets up off the floor. I see that it is an exact Manu Ginobili look-alike, but that is all I can see before it starts walking towards the very door at which I stand. I quickly back away and sprint silently down the hallway, down the stairs to the house’s entryway.
Not thirty seconds later, Manu walks down the stairs and greets me. “Sorry for being late. I lost track of time,” he says, and I nod politely, all the while wondering if I am speaking to the “real” Manu, or if in fact the “real” Manu has ever existed. I desperately want to cancel the interview, but cannot let on that I noticed anything amiss. We sit down in his living room and begin the interview, but all I can think about is what lies on the other side of that strange window, and if what lies beyond will be content to stay on that side of reality forever.