the hallway is long. the hallway is tiled. the tiles are green-gray. you have seen these tiles before. you saw them in the photographs. you saw them under the candles and the blades and the prayer beads. this is the same hallway. you are inside the photograph now.
the hallway has three doors.
the door on the left is slightly open. warm light.
the door in the center is closed. no light.
the door on the right is red. you already know what that means.
the hallway continues past the three doors. it should not continue. but it does.
the hallway bends. you thought it was straight.
a corridor branches left. fluorescent hum.
filing cabinets line one wall. some are open.
you hear voices.
whispers behind a thin wall. someone is talking about you.
a bulletin board. notes pinned over notes pinned over notes.
an events calendar. every date is today.
the hallway opens into something that used to be a lobby.
a reading room. the books are watching back.
a grimoire sits open on a pedestal. the ink is still wet.
a list of names. 72. some are crossed out.
deeper still. the tiles change color.
a screen. the game is already running.
a clock. the hands move backward.
a signal. intermittent. coming from below.
the hallway is also a throat. you are being swallowed. the house converts readers into rooms.
a name scratched into the wall. helena.
another name. tom. the scratches are deeper.
a projector. it's been playing the same film for weeks.
an invitation. addressed to you. postmarked before you were born.
the deepest part of the hallway smells like geocities.
a homepage. from 2004. the visitor counter still works.
a blog. last updated: yesterday. impossible.
photos. you're in some of them.
you can also go back. you can always go back. the surface remembers you.
