Hallway of Horrors
Ansel didn't know how long he sat on the cold apartment floor. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Time was losing shape in this place.
The silence wasn't ordinary. It pressed on his chest like wet sand. No hum of electricity. No ticking clock. Just the dull ring in his ears and the weight of everything the dark was hiding. His flashlight still worked, the beam sharp and white, but it didn't help. Not here.
Light didn't push the darkness back anymore.
It just made it angry.
When he finally stood, his legs trembled. He hadn't realized how cold the floor had become, how stiff his fingers were from gripping the flashlight. He swept it slowly across the hallway outside his door.
That's when he noticed it.
The hallway wasn't the same.
A door had appeared on the left-hand side—he was sure it hadn't been there before. Half-open. No number on it. No frame, really—just a gap in the wall that hadn't existed an hour ago. And from it wafted a new smell. Sour. Metallic. Ripe, like old blood and spoiled meat.
He should've ignored it. Should've closed the door to his apartment, wrapped himself in a blanket, and waited for the sun to rise—if the sun even rose anymore.
But the building wouldn't let him.
With every breath, something tugged at his chest. Not a feeling. A force. Like a hook buried in his ribs, reeling him in. Like the hallway had decided it wanted him and was calling him forward without words.
He stepped out barefoot.
The linoleum floor was colder than before, almost damp. The wallpaper—yellowed and peeling—seemed to ripple in the corner of his eye, but never when he looked directly at it. Every step he took forward was accompanied by a soft groan from the walls, as though they resented his presence. Or worse—welcomed it.
He reached the door.
The shadows inside it weren't like the ones in the hallway. They were thicker. Denser. They didn't feel like an absence of light—they felt alive, like something was waiting behind them, watching with eyes that didn't need to see.
He pushed the door open.
Inside was another corridor.
It shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have fit inside the building. It stretched forward endlessly, deeper than any floorplan would allow. The air inside was still and thick. A hallway like a wound carved into the world, lined with mirrors on both sides.
But not ordinary mirrors.
Old, stained, rust-framed things. Warped like carnival glass. Some cracked. Some slick with condensation or something thicker. They looked like they'd been pulled from the basements of condemned funhouses or drowned hotels.
And none of them showed the right reflection.
In the first mirror, Ansel had no eyes.
In the second, he was grinning too wide, lips pulled unnaturally toward his temples, teeth far too many for one mouth.
In the third… something stood behind him.
He turned around fast, flashlight up, breath caught in his throat.
Nothing.
He looked back—and the reflection had changed.
Now the figure behind him in the mirror wasn't just standing—it was pressed against the glass. Hands slapping from the inside, face contorted in a soundless scream. Its mouth opened wider than any jaw should, eyes black pits that bled into the silver surface of the mirror.
Ansel backed away, his skin crawling like it didn't want to be on him anymore.
The hallway pulsed.
The fourth mirror didn't reflect him at all. Just black. Then, slowly, something emerged from the void—a grin. Rows of teeth. Hundreds of them, perfectly aligned. Suspended in nothingness. Waiting.
The grin began to open.
Ansel turned and ran.
But the hallway didn't want him to leave. With every step forward, the air thickened like syrup. He pushed through it, legs heavy, heart hammering. On either side, the mirrors twitched. Faces pressed against the glass. Some watched. Some wept. Some opened their mouths in silent laughter.
He didn't know which was worse.
His breath came ragged. His flashlight flickered.
Then—finally—he saw it.
Another door.
At the end of the impossible corridor, a door unlike the rest. Not numbered. Marked.
One word, carved deep into the wood:
FORGOTTEN.
He hesitated.
The doorknob pulsed. Throbbed.
Like a heart.
Behind him, the mirrors began to crack. Not from pressure. From inside. The glass shivered and groaned, fractures spidering out like veins.
He didn't wait.
He yanked the door open—and stepped through.
And just like that, he was back in his apartment