The Man at the End of the Hall

It begins with the door across from yours.

You don't remember anyone moving in. But one night, walking to your apartment, you notice it’s slightly ajar.

Just slightly.

Inside, total darkness.

You pause, looking in as discreetly as possible.

And there’s a man standing at the very end of the hall inside.

Not near the door. Far back. Where the darkness folds.

Facing the wall.

Still.

You move on.

But every night after, the door is open just slightly more.

And the man is standing slightly closer.

Always facing away.

Perfectly still.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it. That maybe the depth of the apartment is playing tricks on you.

Until the night you find your own door ajar.

Just slightly.

Inside: darkness.

And at the far end of the hall, deep inside your apartment, is the man.

Facing the wall.

Still.

You don't move.

You don't breathe.

And slowly, you close the door again.

You sleep somewhere else that night.

But it doesn’t help.

Because the next day, it’s not your door that’s open.

It’s the door of the apartment next to yours.

Just slightly.

And you see him again.

Further away now, further back, down their hall, as though your closing the door reset him.

As though he’s looping through the building.

Getting closer.

One door at a time.

Every night, a new door.

Every night, closer to the front.

Until finally, you come home, and none of the doors are open.

Except yours.

Wide open.

No man inside.

Just darkness.

And you already know, without looking, that this time, he’s behind you.