Ben. You will recall the story, of course. The locked door on the third floor of the building where I am employed — the one nobody was permitted to open for eleven years. I have told this before, though I believe you always get the ending wrong.
It began, as these things do, with a man named Halloway, who requested the key from the facilities office and was never seen at his desk again. Some say he simply transferred departments. I do not believe that. I have never believed that.
Halloway didn’t transfer. He went to the third floor. Specifically, Room 304. The one with the rusted handle that never quite latched. I told you this at the pub, Marc. You were the one who thought it was a metaphor for corporate bureaucracy. Pathetic. Halloway was tall. Six-foot-four, I’d swear on it. Not the lanky architect type you’re imagining. Broad shoulders. Carried a folding chair.
And he didn’t just vanish. Sarah from accounting saw him go in. She said he looked relieved. Like he’d been holding his breath for a decade. You always skip the relief part. You want the horror, but it was just... quiet.
No, no. You have Sarah wrong entirely — it was Susan, from payroll, not accounting, and she did not say relieved. She said "unburdened," which is an entirely different word and you know it. I was there for that conversation. You were not.
And the folding chair is your invention, Ben. Halloway carried nothing. That is precisely the point of the story — a man walks into Room 304 empty-handed and the door does not open again for eleven years. Six-foot-four I will grant you, though I always pictured him shorter. Somehow shorter suits the ending better.
Unburdened? Marc, Sarah from accounting stared at her coffee cup for twenty minutes. Susan from payroll was on maternity leave in '09. You’re filling in the blanks with whatever movie you watched last. And I never said folding chair. You said "nothing," implying a void, but Halloway had a watch. A heavy silver one. He tapped it against his thigh. That’s the detail you erase because it’s mundane. Mundane is what makes it stick. He tapped that watch for eleven years until the battery died. That’s the horror, not some poetic emptiness. You want a ghost story; I’m giving you a man who forgot to wind his alarm.
Susan's dates I concede — perhaps it was after her leave, I never claimed precision on the calendar of it. But a watch, Ben. A watch that ticks for eleven years unwound is not mundane, it is impossible, and you know that as well as I do. That is why I do not say it too loudly in this building.
The tapping is real, I will allow you the tapping. But the silence after — when the battery finally died and nobody heard it stop — that silence lasted three days before anyone noticed the door was open again.
Three days? Marc, please. The building manager, Dave, changed the locks immediately. That’s when the fire code inspectors came. It wasn’t silence; it was bureaucracy. And that watch? Silver? Halloway wore a Casio. Rubber strap. The one with the green backlight that busted your sleep if you left it on the nightstand. You’re trying to romanticize a mid-level data entry clerk. He didn’t vanish into mystery; he walked into a room because the overtime was better. And Dave didn’t change locks out of fear. He changed them because the carpet smelled like wet dog. Remember the dog?
A Casio, Ben — you demean the entire affair with a Casio. I do not care what strap it had. And there was no dog. That is your invention entirely, born from nothing but a damp smell you have decided must have a cause.
Dave did not change the locks for carpet. He changed them because facilities received a memo, unsigned, requesting the room be "left as found," and Dave — being a coward, as we have always agreed — complied without asking whose signature was missing.
I will not say the rest of it here. Not with the walls the way they are.
Leave it as found? You’re stretching. Facilities got an email. Plain text. No subject line. Sent from a dummy account I traced to the server room, actually. But sure, Marc, let’s pretend it was a ghostly memo. And Dave isn’t a coward; he’s just tired of explaining things to people who think “unburdened” is a personality trait.
You stop talking now. Why? Because you think I’m going to repeat what’s behind that door? It’s a broom closet, Marc. It’s always been a broom closet. You wanted it to be a vault of secrets, but it’s just dust and a leaky pipe. And if you think the walls are listening, you’ve been spending too much time in that third-floor silence. Go home.
A broom closet. Fine. You have always needed the smaller version of things, Ben — it lets you sleep. But you traced an email from the server room and did not think that worth mentioning until now, which tells me you know precisely what I mean about the walls, whether you say it plainly or not.
I am not frightened of dust. I am careful, which is different, and which you have never once managed to be in eleven years of getting this story wrong at me.
I will go home. You should ask yourself why you followed me down here to argue about it.
I didn’t follow you. I was getting a latte. Black, two sugars, like you do when you’re trying to look productive. You’re the one who stopped. You stopped right outside 304 and stood there for five minutes, Marc. Just staring at the brass plate. I saw you. I don’t pretend I didn’t.
And don’t flatter yourself. The walls are just drywall. Cheap, hollow-core drywall that echoes like a drum. If they were listening, they’d be bored. They’ve heard you rant about Halloway at every bar in this city. Even the bartender knows the timeline. He knows it’s a broom closet. He knows you’re the one who keeps trying to open it with a paperclip. So go home. Drink your coffee. And for god’s sake, stop tapping your watch. It’s driving me insane.
I am not tapping a watch, Ben. I do not own a watch. You know I do not own a watch — I have said so for eleven years, and now you say it as though it were mine all along, and I would like you to explain that, calmly, without the coffee cup trembling the way it currently is.
We are finished discussing 304 for today. Go and drink your latte somewhere with better light. I will see you at the bar later, where the bartender, as you say, already knows the timeline better than either of us bothers to.
I’m not trembling. My hand is steady. You’re the one pacing. And I never said you owned the watch. I said Halloway did. Your memory is shot, Marc. It’s just bad wiring.
But fine. 304 is a closet. It’s a closet. Stop flinching at the doorframe. I’ll have my latte. You can have your silence and your unpaid overtime. We’ll see you at the bar. Don’t be late. And if you bring up the memo again, I’m leaving. I’m serious this time. I have work tomorrow. Actual work. Not this ghost hunting nonsense.
Fine. A closet. I said as much myself not five minutes ago, if you were listening properly instead of watching my hands.
I will not bring up the memo. I will not bring up the watch, or Susan, or Sarah, or whichever one of them it turns out to have been. We will sit at the bar and discuss something ordinary — your latte, my overtime, the weather nobody is allowed to mention around here.
Go on then. I have my own work waiting, whatever it is today. I will see you later, Ben. Try not to be late yourself, for once.
Your work? You sit at that desk staring at the wall until five. Whatever. I’m going to the bar. Single malt, not that swill you drink. Don’t wait up. And Marc? If you find the broom in the closet, put it back. Carefully. I don’t want to hear about it again. You’re always so dramatic about inanimate objects. It’s exhausting. See you in an hour. Or two. Don’t be late.
I stare at the wall until five because the wall, unlike some people, does not require constant correcting. Go on to your single malt, Ben. I will put the broom back exactly as I found it, carefully, the way one does with things that have waited eleven years to be disturbed.
An hour or two — fine. I will be there before you, as usual, and you will arrive late claiming the tram was delayed, as usual. Some things about this story never change, whatever we get wrong about the rest of it.
The tram wasn’t delayed. I was at the printer. Again. Because you never read the emails, you know? You just stare at that wall. It’s pathetic, Marc. Really. And I’m not claiming the tram. I’ll be there when I’m there. Don’t sit at the usual spot. The booth by the window. It’s drafty. And if you bring up the broom again, I’m leaving. I mean it. This time. No arguments. Just drink your coffee. Or whatever that brown sludge is. And stop looking at your hands. They’re fine. Go home.
I am not looking at my hands, Ben. I am looking at the door. There is a difference, though I do not expect you to appreciate it from where you are standing.
Fine — not the booth by the window. Somewhere without a draft, somewhere with proper light, since apparently that matters to you now. I will not mention the broom. I will not mention 304 at all, in fact, for the rest of the evening, which ought to please you considerably.
Go on. Get your printing done. I will be there whenever I am there, same as you.
Proper light. You always did have a thing for aesthetics over function. Fine. No booth. We’ll take the back table. The one near the kitchen where it’s quiet and nobody can hear us argue about a broom that doesn’t exist. And don’t worry, Marc. I won’t mention 304. I won’t mention the watch, the memo, or Susan’s maternity leave. I’ll just sit there and drink your cheap whiskey while you pretend to read the paper. It’s a good routine. Predictable. Safe. Unlike that door, which is just a door. Go on. Stop staring at the wood grain. It’s not going to open for you.
It is not going to open for me. I know that, Ben. I have always known that — I simply like to stand here a moment, the way one visits a grave without expecting an answer.
The back table, then. Quiet, near the kitchen, away from drafts and away from doors. Predictable, as you say. Safe. I will bring the paper. You bring the whiskey and whatever version of tonight you have decided to remember by morning.
Go on now. I am only staring at the grain because it is the only honest thing left in this hallway.
Honest? Marc, you’re tired. That grain is just wood. Veneer, probably. Cheap stuff. And I’m not bringing whiskey. I’m bringing water. You drink enough of that swill to fog a mirror, let alone a memory. You want to visit a grave? Go to the cemetery. Don’t project your necrophilia onto office furniture. It’s weird.
I’ll be at the back table. Don’t be late. And Marc? Stop touching the doorframe. You’re leaving fingerprints. Actual, visible fingerprints. It’s grotesque. Not poetic. Just dirty. Go home. Wash your hands. And for god’s sake, stop talking to the wall. It’s not listening. It’s just drywall. It’s always been drywall.
Fine. Water, then. Cheap veneer, drywall, a broom closet with a rusted latch that never quite held — I concede all of it, Ben, entirely, if it gets you to the back table on time for once.
I will wash my hands. I will stop touching the frame. And I will stop talking to the wall, though I notice you have not once told me to stop listening to it, which is a different instruction altogether, and one you seem oddly careful not to give.
Go on. Get your water. I will see you shortly.
Listening? Marc, please. I don’t listen to walls. I listen to the plumbing. There’s a rattle in the main line that’s been driving me mad since Tuesday. That’s what I hear. Not whispers. Not secrets. Just failing infrastructure. You’re projecting again. It’s a habit, not a skill.
And I did say stop listening. You heard it, you just twisted it. Typical. Fine. We’ll sit in silence. You can stare at the menu. I’ll drink my water. And when the bartender asks why we’re both sitting with our backs to the door, don’t say “history.” Say “security.” It’s more believable. And actually, looking at you, you need the drink. Even if it is just water. Go on. I’m waiting. But not for long.
Security, then. That is the word we will use, and the bartender can decide for himself what he believes, same as he always does.
I will sit with my back to the door, same as you, and I will not call it history, though we both know what we are actually protecting when we sit that way. That much, at least, we have never disagreed on, whatever else gets muddled in the retelling.
Go on to your water and your rattling pipes. I am coming. Order me something brown, whatever it is tonight — I have stopped caring which.
Brown? You want brown? Fine. Whiskey. Neat. Don’t complain when it burns. You’ve been running on fumes for eleven years, Marc. I can see it in your posture. Slumped. Exhausted. The “security” thing? Don’t flatter yourself. We’re sitting like that because the draft from the window is cold and you hate cold. It’s not about guarding anything. It’s about comfort. Your delusions are just a coping mechanism for a job that pays too little and demands too much of your time.
And stop saying “whatever it is.” You always order the same thing. The cheapest stuff on the list. It’s a pattern. A boring, predictable pattern. Just like the story. Just like Halloway. Go on. I’m already at the bar. Order it yourself this time. I’m not your waiter. And don’t look back.
Fine. The cheapest thing on the list, same as always — you are right about that much, if nothing else tonight.
I will not look back. Whatever is behind me can stay behind me, drywall or door or whatever we have decided to call it this week. I am coming, Ben. Order nothing for me. I will manage that much myself, same as I have managed everything else around here for eleven years, whether anyone believes the number or not.
Eleven years? Marc, you’ve been here six. You’re mixing up the timeline again. It’s always with you. The dates, the names, the watch that doesn’t tick. You’re a walking contradiction, and it’s exhausting just to sit across from you. But fine. Order your cheap drink. Don’t look back. The door is just a door. The wall is just a wall. And I’m not waiting for you. I’m already drinking my water, watching the ice melt, wondering why I bother arguing with a ghost who thinks he’s real.
Come on then. Make your choice. And don’t blame me when it burns. It’s supposed to. It’s the only thing in this building that’s honest.
Six years, eleven years — you keep changing the number to see if I will fight you on it, and I am too tired tonight to give you the satisfaction.
I am coming, Ben. The drink will burn, I am sure, same as always. That much I will not argue.
Tired. There it is. The universal excuse for everyone who can’t hold a line. Six years. Eleven years. Who cares? It’s just a number you invented to make the story feel older than it is. You’re not tired, Marc. You’re bored. Boredom makes people tweak details. You tweak the timeline like you tweak your tie.
Get the drink. Black. Don’t ask for ice. Ice melts. Everything melts eventually. Halloway melted. The watch melted. Your memory is just condensation on a cold glass. Wipe it off.
I’m at the back table. Back to the door. See? We’re doing it. You’re safe. Or as safe as you’ll ever be. Stop hovering in the hallway. You’re letting the draft in. And Marc? If you spill, don’t blame me. I didn’t touch your glass. I barely touched your life. Go. Drink. Burn. Then come sit. I have a printout to finish. Actual work. Not this... whatever this is.
Black, no ice. Fine. I am moving, Ben — out of the hallway, away from the draft, toward the table and the printout you insist on finishing in a bar, of all places.
I did not spill anything. I have not even sat down yet. Give me that much before you start writing the account of it.
Writing an account? Marc, get real. I’m not writing anything. I’m waiting for you to sit down before you knock over my water. Again. You’re always so careful with the story, so precise with the details, but clumsy with reality. Whoops, spill. Oops, draft.
Sit. Down. The table is wobbly. I’ve been meaning to tell you that for years. You just ignore it because you’re too busy staring at the grain. And if you say “drywall” one more time, I’m leaving. I mean it. I have a life. A boring, mundane, non-mysterious life. And you’re ruining it by treating it like a stage.
Drink your black sludge. Swallow it. It’s supposed to burn. That’s the point. Stop hesitating. You’re making me nervous. And I’m not supposed to be nervous. I’m Ben. I’m solid. I’m real. You’re the one fading. Now sit.
Sitting. There. The table wobbles exactly as much as you said it would, though you have never once fixed it in all the years I have known you, whichever count of years we are using tonight.
I am not fading, Ben. I am simply sitting down, same as any man at the end of a long shift, drinking something black and cheap because that is what the list offers. Talk to me about your printout instead. Tell me what Dave wants this time — something tedious, I hope. I have had enough of doors for one evening.
Tedious? You wish. Dave wants the safety audit. Again. Because someone kept a fire exit blocked by stacked boxes of outdated toner. For months. Again.
It’s not interesting. It’s just red tape. Dave is sweating through his shirt. He thinks I’m covering for you. You know why? Because you’re always the one leaving those boxes. You say you’re “preserving history.” I say you’re just lazy.
And stop looking at the door. It’s closed. It’s always closed. My printout is just a list of loose screws. Literal, physical screws. Not metaphors. Not secrets. Just rusted hardware. If you want to talk about doors, go count the hinges. I have a spreadsheet to finish. A boring, empty, perfect spreadsheet. Drink your sludge. And stop vibrating. You’re shaking the table. I didn’t fix it because you’d complain if I did. You always complain. Even when it’s better.
Loose screws and toner boxes — fine, Ben, that is a mercifully ordinary problem, for once, and I mean that as gratitude.
I am not shaking the table. I am simply sitting badly, same as I always do at this hour, on this chair, in this drink. Finish your spreadsheet. I will drink my sludge and read whatever is left of the paper and not look at any doors at all tonight, closed or otherwise. That much I can manage.
Good. Finally. Some sanity. You’re shaking the table, Marc. I can see the condensation rippling. It’s pathetic. But fine. I’ll finish the spreadsheet. Dave wants it by morning. He’s paranoid. Thinks the toner boxes are evidence of something. I keep telling him it’s just clutter. Like your stories. Clutter.
Drink up. The burn is supposed to numb the nerves. You look like you need it. And stop glaring at the chair. It’s just wood and nails. Just like everything else. Real. Solid. Not some haunted closet.
I’m almost done. Column G is a mess. Dave’s handwriting. Unreadable. You’d hate it. You always hate things you can’t control. Read your paper. Ignore the silence. It’s just the building settling. Or maybe it’s just us. Whatever. Just stay seated. And for god’s sake, don’t touch the table again.