Don't look back (even you, Bob Dylan!)

Been thinking a lot about the A Bao A Qu, the first creature described in Jorge Luis Borges' The Book of Imaginary Beings.

What varmints stand your hair on end?

Borges chronicles the fable of a sort of listless blob, which camps out at the base of the Tower of Victory in Chitor. One can not see the creature when first ascending the massive spiral staircase that wraps around the tower, but the A Bao A Qu senses all humans, conscious as it is "to the virtues possessed by human souls." 

With each step of the visitor, the A Bao A Qu grows more defined and the passage of the climber literally breathes life into the once dormant creature:

"When a person climbs the stairs, the A Bao A Qu follows almost on the person's heels, climbing up after him, clinging to the edge of the curved treads worn down by the feet of generations of pilgrims."

I shrink at the thought of a staircase stalker. Borges' entry reminds me of growing up with a dark basement where the concrete laundry room could never be seen in full view—a room of corners, shadows, dripping pipes—and the oil furnace would kick on like backfire from an old pick-up truck. I avoided an entire third of my childhood house because of fables like this, and I'm sure I'm not the only one.

You know that feeling: both hands gripping the laundry basket, light from the top of the staircase burning down on you, cutting sharp wedges out of the darkness. You try to peer into that void space—if you've got any guts—but you still can't see anything, at least not by way of eyes. The imagination is a whole different story.

I'd be okay the first two or three steps. The sprinting would inevitably follow and the remainder of my journey would be spent trying to hold onto the laundry basket while resisting the force of gravity that wanted to see my teeth eat the stairs. 

To tell you the truth, I haven't gotten any better at conquering that fear—only better at hiding it.

Borges never tells us outright whether the A Bao A Qu really seeks the blood of its visitors, but my ominous stair-climbing history tells me, first and foremost, run.