ROOM 317
514 Words
It wasn’t on the floor plan.
Ellis sat hunched over the old precinct blueprints; printed copies spread across his desk like a conspiracy board. Every room was accounted for. Office numbers. Interview rooms. Locker bays. Holding cells.
But no Room 317.
There was a Room 316.
And a janitor’s closet.
And then a solid wall.
But that couldn’t be true.
Because the building had three vertical windows on that hallway — but only two rooms accounted for. Which meant there was space unaccounted for.
He circled the blank section on the blueprint.
15 feet wide. 12 feet deep.
Enough space for a small room.
Enough space for a secret.
He returned to the third floor of the precinct at 2:41 a.m.
Everyone else had gone home. The fluorescent lights hummed above him like they were whispering secrets.
He passed Room 316 — the end of the hallway.
Paused.
There was no door after that.
Just drywall. Paint.
Clean. Smooth. Silent.
Ellis put his hand on it.
It felt cold.
Colder than the rest of the wall.
Then — he stepped back.
And the light above him flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then off.
In the dark, the wall seemed to shimmer. Waver, like heat mirage on asphalt.
And then — a door appeared.
Simple. Black. Unmarked.
No knob.
Ellis stared at it, heart pounding.
He reached out. Pressed his hand to the center.
It opened inward without a sound.
No lights.
Just red.
Red-tinted bulbs humming like insect wings. The room smelled faintly of ash and hospital antiseptic.
A single metal table. Two chairs.
And on the table: a file.
Ellis stepped inside.
The door closed behind him.
He turned.
No handle. No hinges.
No way out.
He didn’t panic. Not yet.
He sat. Opened the file.
Inside were polaroid’s — dozens of them. Crime scenes. Dates scrawled in black marker. All different.
Except the method was always the same:
Throat slit
Word carved in skin
Watch in the hand
Time frozen at 3:17
Each victim had one more thing in common:
Ellis was in every photo.
Sometimes in the background. Sometimes beside the body.
Sometimes holding the murder weapon.
He turned to the last photo.
This one was dated October 1st — three days from now.
The victim’s face wasn’t visible.
But Ellis recognized the clothes.
It was him.
And standing over his own body…
Was himself.
There was a knock behind him.
He turned.
The door — the one that hadn’t been there — was now ajar again.
Someone was standing in the doorway.
Same height. Same build.
Wearing Ellis’s face.
But the eyes were wrong.
Not dead. Not blank.
Tired. So tired.
The other-Ellis spoke.
“You weren’t supposed to open this room yet.”
Ellis couldn’t speak.
“This is the fifth time you’ve found it,” the other said, stepping inside. “You always come here when you’re close to remembering.”
Ellis forced words out. “Remember what?”
The copy tilted its head. “That you’re not solving a murder.”
Beat.
“You’re reliving your own.”
- Writer
