NOTHING HAPPENS, BUT IT HAPPENS AGAIN

by Fantomo Gost
Filed under: Paraspectra

The Corridors

I think the hallway has grown.

It used to be just a short space between my linen closet and the thermostat. Now it stretches on—slowly, almost politely, like it doesn’t want me to notice.

The floor tiles repeat. Black, white, black, white. The walls are dull and dry, like an old hotel that forgot how to be haunted. I count doors. Seven. Then five. Then eight. They shift when I pass them.