The Glass Door

I never thought I’d be the one to carry the story of the glass door, but after what happened at Meridian Claims, I can’t shake it. Eight years ago, I was a clerk there, and we were a tight-knit bunch—thirteen of us in that cramped office on the fourth floor of a building that smelled of stale coffee and toner. The six women and seven men, we were like family, sharing lunches and inside jokes. But the closest to me were Maya, Fiona, Greg, and Derek. We were inseparable, always pulling pranks and laughing until our sides hurt.

Derek was the prankster, the one who loved to mess with me the most. His favorite trick was to hold the office door shut just as I was about to walk in. The door was thick, see-through glass, and his desk sat right by it, so he could watch my expression. He’d do it every time I came back from a break, his face a mask of innocent concentration as he pretended to be busy, but I could see the smirk behind his eyes. It was our little game, and I’d play along, feigning frustration while secretly enjoying the attention.

But one Tuesday, the game changed. I returned from lunch, my arms full of files, and tried to push the door open. It resisted, as usual. I knocked on the glass and saw Derek at his desk, but he didn’t look up. His head was bowed, and his hands were flat on the desk, unmoving. The other four at the front office—Maya, Fiona, Greg—were frozen too, like statues. I knocked harder, but no one responded. The office was eerily silent, the usual hum of phones and chatter gone.

A cold dread crept up my spine. I pressed my face against the glass, peering through the distorted view. Everyone was in their usual places, but they weren’t moving. Not even a blink. I tried the door again, but it wouldn’t budge, as if an invisible force held it shut from the inside. I looked around the hallway, but no one else was there. I called out their names, my voice muffled by the glass. Nothing.

Panic set in. I ran to the elevators, but they were out of order. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding, and burst through the fire door into the office from the rear entrance. The room was exactly as I’d seen it through the glass—everyone frozen, but now I could see them up close. Their eyes were open, but unseeing, their faces slack. I touched Derek’s shoulder. He was cold, colder than the air around us. His skin had a waxy sheen, like a mannequin’s.

I stumbled back, screaming, but no one responded. I ran to the phone on my desk and dialed 911, but the line was dead. I tried my cell phone—no signal. The office felt like a tomb, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I went to the windows, hoping to signal someone, but the glass was blackened, as if the sky outside had vanished into pitch. The world beyond was gone.

I was trapped in that office with thirteen frozen bodies, and the only sound was the hum of the lights and my own ragged breath. Hours passed, days—I lost track of time. I tried everything: shaking them, shouting, even attempting CPR, but they were beyond any help. The glass door remained sealed, but I could see out into the hallway, which was empty and dark, as if the building itself had been abandoned.

Starvation began to gnaw at my stomach, but thirst was worse. I drank from the water cooler, rationing it, but it was finite. I searched for food in the break room, finding stale crackers and coffee creamer. I slept on the floor, huddled in my coat, avoiding the bodies that seemed to watch me with their glassy eyes.

Then something odd happened. On the third day, I woke to find Derek’s chair empty. His desk was clean, as if he’d never been there. I looked around, and the others were beginning to move, but not as themselves. They were jerky, puppet-like, and their mouths moved without sound. They seemed to be repeating a phrase, over and over, but I couldn’t hear it. I pressed my ear to their mouths, but there was only silence—a silence that felt heavy, oppressive.

I realized then that the door was unlocked. I could feel the cold air from the hallway. I hesitated, glancing back at my friends, who were now contorting in unnatural ways. Their heads twisted, and their eyes turned to me with a terrible awareness. I didn’t wait. I ran out the door, down the stairs, and into the lobby. The building was empty, the street outside was dark, and there were no stars. The world had become a void.

I ran aimlessly for hours, until I found a small café with a light on. Inside, an old man sat at a table, staring at a cup of coffee. He looked up as I entered, and he said, ‘You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The glass door.’ I nodded, speechless. He continued, ‘That office has been a door for a long time. It opens when it wants, and it takes those who laugh too much, who love too freely, to feed the silence.’ He pointed to the window, and through the glass, I saw my reflection—but it wasn’t me. It was Derek, his face pale, his eyes hollow.

I woke up in the hospital three days later, with no memory of how I got there, but I knew. The doctors said I was found in the office, unconscious, surrounded by my coworkers who had all died of cardiac arrest. But I knew the truth. The glass door had shown me what it really was: a mirror to a place where time doesn’t pass, and where the silence eats everything. I quit my job, moved across the country, but I still see that door in my dreams. And every morning, when I come to work at my new office, I check the door—just to make sure it’s not holding me away from the rest of the world. Because I know now, that door is never just a door. It’s a sentence, and I’m still waiting to serve it.