Patricia had shown properties for seventeen years, long enough to know that empty buildings held their own particular silence. This one felt different from the moment she turned the key.
The listing had been straightforward: 2,400 square feet of commercial space on Fletcher Avenue, previously a dental office. The exterior matched the photos—modest brick facade, glass double doors, a parking lot that needed resurfacing. Nothing remarkable. The kind of property that would move quickly in this market, assuming the price was right.
Photo: Fletcher Avenue, via photos.production.onxmaps.com
She'd arrived ten minutes early, as always, to walk through before the clients showed up. The Hendersons were relocating their accounting firm and had specific requirements about natural light and accessibility. Patricia prided herself on knowing every property inside and out before a showing.
The key turned easily, too easily, as if the lock had been waiting. The door swung open to reveal a reception area that looked freshly staged—neutral carpet, cream walls, fluorescent fixtures humming with that particular frequency that made her teeth ache. The smell hit her immediately: damp particleboard mixed with something chemical, like carpet cleaner that hadn't quite dried.
She checked her phone. The Hendersons would arrive in twenty minutes. Plenty of time to familiarize herself with the layout.
The reception area opened into a hallway lined with doors. Standard office configuration. She counted them as she walked: one, two, three, four on the left. Two on the right. The fluorescent lights above cast everything in that flat, institutional glow that made colors look slightly wrong.
The first door opened into what must have been an examination room. Clean white walls, built-in cabinets, a sink with fixtures that gleamed like they'd never been used. The window faced west, according to her mental compass, offering a view of the parking lot where her Honda sat alone under the afternoon sun.
She moved to the next room. Identical layout, identical fixtures, identical window facing the same direction. The same view of the parking lot, the same Honda, though something about the angle seemed off.
Patricia frowned and consulted the floor plan on her tablet. According to the listing, this hallway should terminate in a break room and storage area. She walked to the end, counting steps. Fifteen paces. The hallway ended at another door, unmarked like the others.
The break room beyond was staging-perfect: kitchenette with stainless appliances that had never been plugged in, a round table with four chairs positioned at exact angles. The fluorescent fixture above hummed in a slightly different key than the ones in the hallway. A window in the far wall should have faced the alley behind the building.
Instead, it faced another room.
Patricia stared through the glass at what appeared to be another break room, identical to the one she stood in. Same table, same chairs, same kitchenette. The fluorescent light in that room flickered once, as if responding to her attention.
She stepped back from the window and checked her phone. No signal. That happened sometimes in older buildings—too much steel in the walls. The Hendersons would have to wait in the parking lot if they arrived early.
Retracing her steps, she found herself back in the reception area. The hallway stretched ahead, lined with the same doors. She counted them again: one, two, three, four on the left. Two on the right. But hadn't there been more doors when she'd walked it the first time?
The examination rooms remained identical. White walls, built-in cabinets, sink with unused fixtures. Each window faced west, showing the parking lot where her Honda waited. But the car seemed farther away now, as if the building had stretched itself while she wasn't looking.
Patricia checked her watch. The Hendersons should have arrived by now. She walked back to the reception area, noting that the hallway seemed longer than before. Thirty paces instead of fifteen. The fluorescent lights hummed their discordant song, and the smell of damp particleboard grew stronger.
The front door stood where she'd left it, glass panels reflecting the overhead lights. She grasped the handle and pulled.
It opened into another reception area.
Same neutral carpet, same cream walls, same fluorescent fixtures casting their flat, institutional glow. The smell of damp particleboard and chemical cleaner hung in the air like a held breath.
She tried the door again, stepping through more carefully this time, watching the threshold. Her foot crossed from carpet to carpet, from one reception area to its identical twin. The door clicked shut behind her with the sound of a lock engaging.
Patricia stood in the center of the room, listening to the fluorescent hum. Somewhere in the building, she could hear voices—muffled conversation that might have been the Hendersons calling her name. The sound came from the hallway, from the direction of the examination rooms with their windows that faced impossible directions.
She walked toward the voices, counting doors as she passed. One, two, three, four on the left. Two on the right. The hallway stretched ahead, longer than any 2,400-square-foot building should accommodate.
The voices grew clearer as she walked. A man and woman discussing square footage and natural light, their words echoing from somewhere ahead. Somewhere deeper in the building that couldn't possibly be this deep.
Patricia reached for the first door handle, noting that her hand trembled slightly. The examination room beyond looked exactly as it had before, but the window now faced east, showing a parking lot where two cars waited under an afternoon sun that cast shadows in the wrong direction.
One of the cars was her Honda. The other was a silver sedan she didn't recognize.
The voices were closer now, coming from the next room, or perhaps the one after that. The Hendersons, still looking for their real estate agent, still discussing the property that had somehow become larger than its listing suggested.
Patricia stood at the threshold, her hand on the door frame, listening to the fluorescent lights hum their endless song. She could follow the voices deeper into the building, or she could try the front door again, hoping it would open onto Fletcher Avenue instead of another reception area.
Either choice felt like stepping through a door marked 'exit' that might simply lead to another room she hadn't counted yet.
