An encounter with the past

Artie Krugman observed the black coupon with attention, holding it with two pale fingers of his left hand
what was that?

He didn't know why he purchased that box set... in fact he didn't remember he owned that box, until the day 6 of February of 2043, exactly one week after the sad decease of his mother, Sinclaira Krugman (née Zlotogwiazda), when Artie -after long years- visited again the house of his childhood and youth; the house of his parents, which he abandoned when he was 24.
The house that was now his property, since his parents died.

And at first he felt a strong reluctance to return to that place, but thanks to the officious insistence of a cousin (Marcellus W.), Krugman returned to clean the place, send -possibly- a good amount of old things to the trash, and eventually rent the property.
In part, his reluctance was due to a secret feeling of guilt that Artie kept in his chest, because he was away for so many years... he just met his mother again some few days before she'd die in the hospital. He didn't even attend the funeral of his father in 2031.

His mother still held a thin, acute and deeply rooted grudge against Artie because of this... he realized, beside her bed of agony he realized. 

An inextinguishable rancour, a rancour that descended alive with her to the tomb.... a rancour that will live forever.

The mother gave the cousin the keys of the house before her sad and announced demise; with frozen hand and dead eyes she gave the cousin those cold keys; dead eyes, like the eyes of one whose only hope is in the humid and dry sepulchre... in the entombed repose, in the nothing at-all; that ovoid sarcophagus where the cognitive state penetrates its eternal cessation, where the eyelash falls, where the fingernail still grows inert, crooked.

Once Artie Krugman received the keys from the hands of his cousin, and after some days of hesitation, he marched toward the house of his youth, a house that -unavoidably- would be haunted by ghosts from the past -as he soon realized, just minutes after trespassing that gray and metallic door.

~Ghosts from the past

   haunting our dream
   rancour
   rancour...

... Our dream never dies. Sometimes our rancour never dies, either... and there is, there is a strange admixture.

An admixture that the mind doesn't comprehend, but the subconscious does, and beholds it with horror.

§

Looking through the mess of old magazines, yellow photographs, forgotten toys and 1000 neverending useless things piled in the cellar, Artie Krugman stumbled upon a black and humid box set, which was almost completely hidden under empty plastic bags and "Interviú" magazines.

"Blue Öyster Cult: The Columbia Albums Collection"

Artie Krugman lifted the top of the box: a set of old and outdated compact discs appeared shining under the yellow light of the place.

Artie Krugman scattered all the discs on a white-ish table at the corner of the cellar.

Under the pile of phonographic recordings a coupon appeared... Krugman observed the black coupon with attention, holding it with two pale fingers of his left hand
what was that?

He didn't know why he purchased that box set... ... in fact he didn't remember he owned that box, until the day 6 of February of 2043; that day: 
on the back of the coupon, a notice was seen suddenly

"Thank you for buying Blue Öyster Cult's Columbia Albums Collection. Here are the steps to download four Blue Öyster Cult live concerts:

1. Go to www.bocdownloads.com
2. Have your code ready and follow the instructions on the above web page to get your download.
DOWNLOAD CODE:
8EE9WXLLJMH3G5Q
Good for one download. Offer is not refundable, transferable, or exchangeable and has no surrender value.

88691936342"

Artie Krugman tried to bring the moment and the place when and where he purchased that box, but it was useless, he couldn't remember to have bought it.

Slightly intrigued and disturbed, Krugman took the cup of tea lifting it with the palm of his right hand like a Japanese, the liquid was too hot and scorched his lips and palate, he swallowed in a rush while the liquid hell passed through his throat, as a tear overflowed from his eye.

In the afternoon of February, out there, in the life, the pigeons inflated their thoraxes in un-canorous ebullition.

After long hours in that cellar, and after 3 hours driving back to his flat in T***** Krugman arrived to the place where he lived at 11:oo PM.

Fortunately there was some lasagna to put in the microwave, which would take only 4 minutes to be correctly heated.
4 minutes and 6 seconds later Artie Krugman took a bottle of soft wine, the plate with lasagna, and the coupon, and sat down in front of his desk, turning on his ultra mini-computer ASUS X50Nseries CPU TURION TL56 OS Vista Basic GRAPHIC n VIDIA GeForce 7000M.
In that moment the snow fell curdled out on the lane, and no-one sang in the night.

Krugman typed www.bocdownloads.com

The website seemed to be abandoned, maybe since the decade of 2030, or before, and its general structure was completely outdated, possibly all the band members died although, incomprehensibly, some applications still seemed to work. It was an abandoned website, but still online.
The snow flakes turned into a white storm that covered the town like a white bedsheet when Arthur Krugman introduced the pin code in the web page and pushed "submit"

"submit?"

What did Arthur Krugman expect to find, when he pushed "submit"?

Did he expect to find something that no longer existed?
And in fact: what else but something that no longer exists is what we always want to find?

A reverberating and deafening noise emanated from the speakers of the computer when the download started being signalled in the progress bar, as the light turned to intense blue; a ruthless and monstrous reverberation, as the eyes of A. Krugman, exorbitant, bulbous, unspeakable, seemed to scream louder than the denaturalized outcry of his dilated vocal cords

I think that the storm out there, in the life, was already invisible when I heard the reverberation that was being downloaded by Arthur Krugman, or whoever.

A reverberation that was not music

but rancour, pure 

hate

in essence, and in presence.