I'm not a particularly paranoid person, but you can't be too careful in today's world. Granted, I have probably seen every suspense and horror movie ever made and do, from time to time, suffer from an overactive and slightly morbid imagination. This, however, played no more than an ancillary role in my initial reaction upon meeting my new neighbor. I inhaled a popcorn kernel and nearly choked to death. But I am getting ahead of myself, another bad habit which has haunted me and will undoubtedly continue to do so.

My name is Dante Tiresius Delacour. It can be no great wonder, with a moniker so laden with literary and classical baggage, that I deal in rare and antique books. I acquire them for various clients at a healthy profit and enjoy the added bonus of owning them, albeit for only short periods of time. But they are mine for those brief interludes between seller and buyer and I often delay transfer of the tomes until I have had the pleasure to study them in private. These interludes of my commerce provide me a level of contentment that nourishes my soul.

While I may sound rather dry and dusty, I am not without a certain joi de vivre and enjoy the company of charming women, the excitement of sports and gambling, good liquor, stalwart friends, and as I noted earlier, movies that frighten and thrill.

The evening I first met my new neighbor, I was not in my literary mode, rather I was on my way to a dinner event hosted by friends who felt inclined, as so many married friends do, to draw me from the ranks of bachelorhood to the more wholesome fellowship of the betrothed and mated. I was to meet a female acquaintance of theirs, whom, I was told, was the perfect girl for me. She was leaving tomorrow, and, I was told again, I would be a fool to miss this opportunity for happiness.

Though unaware that I was not happy, I relented and agreed to attend. A further warning was issued to the effect that if I failed to show up I might well regret it for the rest of my life. This warning was considered sufficiently dire to assure my attendance and further strong-arming ceased. Finally, I was simply told that the ball was in my court. It was as I was leaving my townhouse, carrying the metaphorical ball and eating some freshly popped salted popcorn, that I heard a commotion coming from the front door of the adjoining home, unoccupied since the rather noisy Mediterranean couple moved out last month.

A tall figure was fumbling with the front door, trying to insert his key in the appropriate orifice and hindered by the lack of light. He cursed softly in a husky voice. I couldn't help but smile and felt immediately guilty for my schadenfreude. I decided to assist my new neighbor in his quest and approached.

" Try turning on the porch-light...it's over there to your right." I suggested.

"Thanks," the figure responded, simultaneously flicking on the light and turning to face me.

It was at this inopportune moment that I chose to launch another handful of popcorn into my gaping yaw. When the light came on, I found myself confronted, eye to eye, with a face that could well stop the heart of a older man. One third of a face actually, with a single piercing eye. The remainder of his visage was covered in an ivory-colored mask, featureless, and lacking both eye and mouth openings. It extended from just above his left eyebrow, arching around his skull and down along the right side of his nose in a crescent, ending halfway across his mouth and wrapping under his chin all the way to his throat.

The shock of the vision in front of me caused a sharp intake of breath which in turn lodged several kernels into my windpipe, doubling me over in a painful fit of coughing. The stranger seemed concerned and smacked my back forcefully several times until the offending maize became dislodged and the air once more filled my lungs. He helped me up and appeared to smile.

"I have that effect on people," he said, tapping his mask.

"I'm easily spooked, it's my own fault."

He reached out his hand and I shook it. "My name's Dante. I'm your neighbor."

"Well hello, Dante, people call me Doc. I'm not a real doctor, mind you, so don't ask for any prescriptions," he chuckled, "but I have the necessary arrogance to make the nickname stick." He opened his front door, "Can I offer you a drink. I have a delightful single malt that's meant to be shared."

I considered the offer. I had plenty of time till my dinner engagement and no desire to be early and forced to make small talk. The scotch sounded tempting and I still felt guilty for embarrassing Doc, so I agreed. We went into his house.

The dwelling was still mostly empty, with little furniture, mostly items left behind by the previous occupants. This wasn't surprising, after all, he had just moved in. I seated myself on a tattered couch and Doc went into the kitchen, returning with two large glasses of light amber scotch graced by a single ice cube. It was delicious.

I looked around, trying to see some object I knew to be his. My eyes stopped at the bookcase. It was empty except for three folio-sized, vellum-bound books. I stood and approached them. I removed one and opened it.

"This is Magiae Naturalis by De la Porta, 1589 I think, with all four volumes bound as one. This is a valuable book and in great shape. Twenty grand minimum...," I replaced it and looked at the other books. They were even older and more obscure. I stood slack-jawed, "These are incredible. This one is a complete illuminated manuscript, 1350 or earlier. It's got to be worth a small fortune. I deal in rare books, I know what I'm talking about."

"I know," he said dryly, "I saw your name on the mailbox when I rented. I googled you. Those books are for your benefit. I was hoping to get your opinion on them."

"They're magnificent," I responded as excited as a young boy meeting a sports hero. I continued examining the tomes and noticed a common factor, "Is it a coincidence or are you especially interested in grimoires and old books of magic?"

"Very observant. I do, in fact, specialize in mystical books."

I laughed and returned to my seat on the couch. "What are the odds that two people interested in rare books would end up being neighbors. It's hard enough finding two people who even read books anymore."

"I imagine the odds are astronomical," he said sipping his drink through a straw slipped under his mask, "just one of life's mysteries."

I watched him drinking and my curiosity got the better of me. "I know this is rude and I fully understand if you don't choose to answer...," I paused, looking for a response. When none was forthcoming, I continued, "but what happened to your face?"

Doc sat silently for a while, then leaned forward. "I fell in love with the wrong woman. It was beyond my control. It was hopeless." He smiled and pointed at the bookcase, " Those books are   hers. She doesn't even know I've taken them."

"I don't understand." I said honestly.

"I imagine you don't. It was beyond my understanding at first as well. When I finally understood and believed, it was too late."

"Understood what?" I persisted.

"That she was a witch...figuratively and literally. I loved her so deeply because I was enchanted, cursed...a puppet on a string."

I suppose most people would have gently excused themselves at this point or, in the very least, changed the subject. Many people may claim to believe in witches, but when push comes to shove, very, very few do. I am not one of those few, but my curiosity kicked into high gear. "So what happened?" I asked, leaning forward.

"She had sought me out and ingratiated herself with my colleagues and acquaintances long before she ever approached me. I had contacts she wanted, access to materials she craved. When I first met her, she made no great impression on me until I acquiesced and accepted a drink from her hand. What it contained, I do not know, but suddenly I saw her through different eyes and my only desire was to grant her anything within my power.

"The attraction lessened when she was not in my presence, but no sooner did I again lay eyes upon her than all of my will was lost. I took to writing myself letters during those periods when I was in control of myself, letters that meant nothing to me when we were together, but remained my anchor to sanity when we were apart. I determined to free myself from her control using the same dark arts with which she had ensnared me. I acquired every book written on the subject since language had been born. God bless the internet."

"Is that why you rented here? Did you want me to get a particular book for you?" I interrupted.

"No, not at all. I am free from her now, after nearly twenty-five years of servitude. I succeeded in my quest. It was in a book handwritten by a self-proclaimed practitioner of the dark arts in the thirteenth century. A grimoire of spells and enchantments, dreadful rituals I will not expound upon out of shame. It was in this book her control of me was described to the most infinitesimal detail...and with that description came a cure...a horrible cure...a cruel cure."

His eye went dark, as if recalling a distant tragedy. He absent-mindedly caressed his mask with the tips of his fingers, then continued his tale, "The path to my salvation required a sacrifice, the destruction of half my face to rid that half of my being she had conquered with her vile infection. I followed the ceremony described in the book as though it were the word of God. I memorized the incantation so often I could say it in my sleep, then I had this mask made of a glass that contained the rarest and most curious ingredients. It cooled to this bony color and fit my face perfectly.

"When the night of the ceremony finally arrived, I stood bathed in the light of a full moon. I re-heated the glass until the mask glowed deep orange and faced the setting moon, incanted the ancient prayer and thrust the nearly molten mask upon my face. I do not remember much past that point and fell senseless to the floor. When I awoke, the mask was fused to my flesh, but I was finally free from her evil grip. And that is what happened to my face."

Had a fly been buzzing around my face at the moment he finished, it would have found an expansive home in my gaping mouth. I stared at Doc. He appeared sane, so I credited his tale to mere delusion. We have, many of us, been entrapped by love or lust despite nagging doubts or obvious alarms we ignore. We have come face to face with people to whom we cannot say no, for whom we are willing to do anything, even in opposition to our best interests. Perhaps it serves our sense of self-worth to attribute our innate weaknesses to some supernatural force beyond our control. This feeling, however, is still a million miles from self-mutilation as a solution to troubles of the heart.

I became, if not nervous, then at least imbued with a new sense of caution in my neighbor's presence. I had known this man for less than a hour and he had told me a tale that could not be more personal, nor more distressing. I felt it was time to politely make my exit and go to the dinner that awaited me back in the realm of normalcy. I looked up at Doc, sitting silently in the armchair opposite the couch in reflective silence.

"That's quite a story, Doc. I'd love to hear more, but I'm running late for dinner with my friends. Why don't we catch up later...I'll show you around the neighborhood." I began to rise.

I believe he smiled as he gently shook his head from side to side and reached into the space between his armchair cushions. He pulled out a gun and leveled it calmly in my direction.

"I'm afraid you'll be missing dinner," he said in a low voice.

Bells and whistles went off in my head. A burst of adrenalin shot through my body, raising my heart-rate until it felt like someone was tap-dancing in my chest. Beads of sweat burst from my forehead like mushrooms after a hard rain.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he re-assured me, "I would just like your company for a short time longer...then I will let you go."

"Fine," I said in my best make-believe calm voice, "but could you stop pointing that gun at me, please."

"Of course," he said re-positioning the gun in his lap. He stared at me. "I'm doing this for your own good, you know."

"And I'm grateful for your concern," I said in a placating monotone.

He became angry. "Don't patronize me! I know you think I'm crazy. You are far more stupid than I remember."

I confess that in my confusion, I became a bit angry myself. I'm not stupid. How did he expect me to react? I had no idea what he wanted and his story did stretch credibility to its limit and a good deal beyond.

He chuckled, "Hurt your feelings, did I?"

My anger became more palpable. "Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to sit there another hour. That's it, nothing more. Then you can go home and continue with your life."

"But why? For what purpose?"

"I don't think I should tell you, it might not be wise."

Common sense would dictate, that in my present position,  I simply sit there, pretend things were fine and stare at the walls for sixty minutes. I did so for quite a while, but common sense and I have never been close friends. About forty or so minutes into my wait, I just couldn't remain silent.

"This is absurd! Why are you doing this? I've thought hard and can't think of a single reason for what you are doing. Tell me. Tell me why."

He didn't respond immediately. He stared at the floor and began to speak. "Twenty-five years of my life wasted. Twenty-five years that could have been spent do things I wanted to do. Now I'm a freak, someone who scares children...a nightmare. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

"What's this got to do with me?"

"I can't tell you."

I threw my arms up in frustration. "Cut me a break here. I'm going nuts trying to figure out what this has to do with me. It's gonna make me crazy. Is this some perverse prank? Did someone put you up to this for God knows what reason? Tell me something...anything."

"I was afraid you'd react this way," he smiled, "on the other hand I was pretty sure this is exactly how you'd react. I shouldn't do this...I really shouldn't tell you, but what the hell, you're not going to believe me anyway."

"Believe what, Doc?"

He sat up straight. "Look at me." It was more a command than a request, so I looked at him. "Do I seem familiar to you?" he asked.

I looked at him closely for the first time. Until now I had made a point of only glancing at him, it seemed the polite thing to do given his disfigurement, but now I looked  hard. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was probably the power of suggestion, tell someone he knows you and say it with conviction and pretty soon he believes it. Doc's mind-game had taken its toll. I needed to know where this was going. I had to know. "Just tell me."

He smiled again. "Isn't it obvious. I'm you."

There it was, his end-game, guaranteed to screw with my brain. Whatever kind of sick joke this was, I have to admit it was effective. My brain was doing barrel-rolls. It was not so much that I considered the possibility, however implausible, that what he said was true, rather why in his delusional scenario Doc felt it necessary to hold himself hostage for the length of a made for TV movie. That and of course how in his mind he got here in the first place. That particular answer he provided without any goading on my part.

"After I freed myself I had time to reflect on how my life had changed and it made me angry. It seemed unfair that what I had become was all I could ever be. Then it hit me. The book! There might be a way to reverse my disfigurement, so I read it in its entirety. While the specific spell I was looking for did not exist, I found an enchantment which could take me into the past. So I wove that spell and...well here I...you... are."

That seemed reasonable enough in a totally unscientific, insane, Harry Potter sort of way, so I pressed on. "Okay, time travel totally discounting science and thereby avoiding all those pesky paradoxes, great, but that still doesn't explain your little short-term kidnapping."

"Its simple really," Doc said, "I don't want you to go to dinner."

"Excuse me?"

"The dinner, the one at your friends house...I'm stopping you from attending."

"Why?"

"God, I can't believe I was ever as dim as you are now. The reason I don't want you to attend is because that's where you meet her. That's where she determines to enchant you. That's the beginning of all my...your misery."

I was stunned. "That's it? That's all this is for...to miss a dinner date?"

"Yup, that's it and...," Doc glanced at his watch, "I'm just about done here," he laughed, "your ordeal is over. You can leave now," he put the gun back between the cushions of his chair, "though I recommend that if you're looking for a soul-mate you do so on your own," another chuckle, "Personally, I would consider remaining a bachelor."

"What about you?"

"Good question. I suppose I no longer exist except in your mind."

This response disturbed me because it struck a nerve that was already tingling since Doc first claimed to be me. Was this all a delusion? Was I hallucinating? I got off the couch to wash my face. Doc did not object. When I returned, the house was empty except for the three books on the shelf. Were they mine? Had I always owned them?

My paranoia continued for several days. According to the rental office, no one had ever rented the townhouse in which I was held prisoner. If Doc's ridiculous story was true, this was a good thing since it meant the scarred and cursed man who came to see me no longer existed and my future was a blank slate. Despite logic, despite common sense, this was the truth I chose to embrace. The possibility of my own insanity was far too depressing.

I have ceased going on blind dates, better safe than sorry. As for my future, I'm considering returning to school to pursue my doctorate. Some people may say I'm trying much too hard to justify my delusion, but my feeling is that you can't be too careful in today's world.