The Backrooms: Echoes of the Abyss

     Weeks passed, and John tried to settle back into some semblance of normalcy. He found a part-time job at a local bookstore, something to keep his mind occupied and his body busy. The routine helped, at least for a while. Shelving books, interacting with customers, making small talk about the weather—it all felt mundane, but comforting in its simplicity. The bookstore was a quiet place, filled with the soft rustling of pages and the faint scent of old paper. It was a far cry from the oppressive silence of the Backrooms.

     But no matter how hard he tried to move on, the Backrooms were never far from his thoughts. Every creak in the floorboards, every flicker of a light, every moment of stillness in the bookstore after closing hours sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn't help but scan the room for hidden doors, for cracks in the walls that might lead back to that other world. The Backrooms had taken root in his mind, a constant, gnawing presence that refused to let go.

     One evening, as John was closing up the store, he heard it again—the tapping. At first, he thought it was just his imagination, a lingering echo from his time in the Backrooms. But as he listened, the tapping grew louder, more insistent, like someone knocking on a door just out of sight.

     John froze, his hand hovering over the light switch. The tapping was coming from the back of the store, from the small, cramped storage room where they kept old, unsold books. His heart pounded in his chest as he turned slowly, his eyes locked on the door to the storage room. The tapping continued, rhythmic and steady, just like before.

     He took a step toward the door, then stopped. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, to lock up the store and run as far away as possible. But something—some deep, irrational curiosity—kept him rooted in place.

     The tapping continued.

     With a deep breath, John walked toward the storage room. His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence of the store, each step bringing him closer to the source of the sound. He reached the door and hesitated, his hand trembling as it hovered over the doorknob. For a moment, he considered turning around, leaving the store, and never coming back. But he knew that wouldn't stop it. The Backrooms were always there, always watching. They would find him again, sooner or later.

     He turned the handle and opened the door.

     Inside, the storage room was just as he had left it—dimly lit, cluttered with boxes and old books. The tapping had stopped. John stepped inside, his heart racing, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of what had made the noise. But there was nothing there. Just dusty shelves and forgotten books.

     He let out a shaky breath, half laughing at himself. It had been his imagination, just like he had thought. He was letting the Backrooms get to him, letting the memories of that place bleed into his reality. He needed to stop, to let it go, before it drove him mad.

     But as he turned to leave the storage room, something caught his eye.

     In the far corner of the room, behind a stack of boxes, was a door. It was small and unassuming, just like the one in the abandoned building. John's breath caught in his throat as he stared at it, his mind racing. The door hadn't been there before—he was sure of it. He had been in this storage room dozens of times, and there had never been a door in that corner.

     His heart pounded in his chest as he walked toward it, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. He knew, deep down, that this door wasn't like the others. This door led somewhere else, somewhere he had been before.

     With a deep breath, John turned the handle and opened the door.