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Learning the Hallway

by Miles Rooker
Chapter 2
Room 17 again tonight.
Third time this month.
I told management the wiring hums wrong in that wing,
but they chalk it up to old breakers
and older ghosts of tenants
who smoked more than they slept.

I took the master key down the hall
even though I already knew
what kind of silence I’d find.
The door felt warm,
just for a second,
like someone had leaned against it
and stepped away
only after hearing my approach.

Key slid in smooth.
Turned smooth.
Alarmingly smooth.
Room opened on absolutely nothing.
Bed crisp.
Carpet flat.
Curtains hanging stiff
as if they’d never learned to sway.

I called out
because that’s protocol.
Room swallowed the word
because that’s normal here.

I stepped in.
The air had that strange weight to it,
the kind you feel before a storm
that isn’t listed on any report.
Bathroom light was on,
but it didn’t spill past the frame,
just sat there, trapped,
like it was unsure about leaving the tile.

Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
Nothing claimed the space
even though I could swear
I wasn’t standing in it alone.

Did a quick sweep,
marked it vacant,
closed the door.

And here’s the part
I can’t file on paper.
When I stepped back into the hall,
everything felt a half inch off.
Carpet color wrong by a shade.
Lights buzzing a note lower.
My own footsteps sounding
like they belonged
to someone walking right beside me.

I stood there a long minute,
trying to figure out
what had been moved
or swapped
or rewritten.

Still don’t know.

But I can tell you this:
when I looked back at the door of 17,
the peephole was dark
in a way peepholes shouldn’t be,
like it was watching the breezeway
instead of the room.

I’ll check it again tomorrow.
Not because I want to.
Because it’ll call me back
whether I do or not.