This is a strange story that I keep in my memory. In a book whose name I no longer recall, a book about unexplained phenomena recorded around the world, I read one day about a strange case. I will tell it here as I remember it.
FORTEAN JOURNALISM
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Once upon a time there was a certain Mr. Scholtz. Mr. Scholtz worked in a textile factory. When this happened, he was about 50 years old.
He had worked in that factory all his life. Anyone would say, and they did say, that Mr. Scholtz had a very monotonous life.
Single, he lived in a small house next to the factory. The routine didn't bother him. Every afternoon, he had an hour off.
On those occasions,
Mr. Sholtz would go home, eat a sandwich, drink a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and religiously go to a modest study, take an old book from a small shelf, sit in his comfortable armchair— a quality piece of furniture, one of the few luxuries he owned — and... open the book.
Mr. Scholtz had a part-time housekeeper who did the housework twice a week, and to her, Mr. Scholtz had given a single recomendation:
- "Madam, never! Never! Touch that armchair, never move my armchair even a millimeter, neither by cleaning nor by not cleaning. Never move that armchair, better yet, don't even touch it, and never, never open the door to this office when I am here, never, under any circumstances, enter here while I am here."
What no one suspected was that there was something paranormal about that reading habit cultivated for decades. In the same armchair, the same book.
During his approximately 45 minutes of rest in that office, Scholtz, opening the book, due to a phenomenon he could never understand, did't really read: he transcended reality, the world, the physical dimension, the limitation of time.
The man physically, disappeared, sucked into the book in flesh, bones and blood. Where did Mr. Scholts go? No one never did know
But he would return, precisely, one minute before the factory's call siren sounded. He would return, regurgitated, by the book, in its entirety, seated in his armchair. He would get up, pick up the book that had fallen on the floor, close it, and put the volume back in the same place.
One afternoon, the siren sounded, but Sholtz didn't appear in the factory shed. It took them a while to notice his absence, but when he didn't appear, his colleagues finally realized and began to search. They called his name everywhere. In vain. No one had seen him after the break.
Someone remembered that he lived near the factory, and some workers went there, worried. At the door of the house, they were greeted by the maid.
- "Mr. Sholtz?
- He's in the office, I think..."
She pointed, to them, the closed door. Without hesitation, the production supervisor, who was there, put his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and entered the room. There was no one there. The empty armchair, the strange old book lying open on the floor, showed an illustration of a paradisiacal place.
The maid, fearful but unable to contain her curiosity, put her head in the doorway of the office and, seeing the scene, let out a hoarse cry.
- My God!
- What is it, woman?
She stammered words, visibly frightened.
- Speak, woman! It's an office, it's just an office. Where is Scholtz?
Finally, with silent tears sliding down her face, she said:
- I... I moved...
- Ypu moved... what, woman?
- I... I moved the armchair, it was just a bump, I swear, I put it back in place, I think, I moved the armchair!
Diligent police investigations were conducted for days, newspaper reports were published, posters with the man's photo were plastered on city lampposts... All in vain.
Time goes on. The incident faded into oblivion. There was no news. Years passed. The furniture was auctioned off, the books donated, the house sold and demolished.
Mr. Scholtz was never seen again. The world forgot Mr. Sholtz by I always will remember this history.
But what could explain this strange phenomenon? Here we turn to the idea of dimensional portals. Even without knowing the concept, Mr. Sholtz may have encountered one.
In that unexpected place, in that modest office, there was a small and well-defined anomalous area of transcendence.
Reading put him in a conducive mental state, and so, every day, at the same time, in the same place, Sholtz was transported to a place and a situation far removed from the monotony of his always identical days, far from the repetitive activities of the factory.
Thus, through the convergence of metaphysical factors, the extraordinary happened, and the only certainty Sholtz possessed, perhaps by some fortuitous incident, yes, he knew: that armchair could never have its exact location altered, under penalty of forever closing the door that allowed him access to another world, another life, and perhaps another Sholtz, happier than he could ever be in the reality of his days on Earth.
This is a case of Fantastic Reality.
by Lygia Cabus
may, 2026
