The Linoleum Tiles

Every Thursday, at a quarter to six, I’d walk the half mile from my apartment to the old Mercy Chapel. It wasn’t a church anymore, not officially. It was a community center now, but it still smelled of dust and old hymnals, and the stained glass windows—though cracked and patched—still cast faint rainbows on the worn oak floors. My mother had been attending the weekly sobriety meetings there for three years, and I’d offered to help set up the room an hour early. It was my small way of supporting her, and it gave me an excuse to spend time in the building that had always fascinated me, despite its unsettling atmosphere.

The chapel had a long history. It was built in the 1870s by a congregation that had dwindled and disbanded, then was bought by the city, and later leased to a variety of groups. There were rumors of a fire in the 1920s that had gutted the original interior, and of a caretaker who had died in a fall down the main stairwell in the 1950s. The only modern addition was the hideous green linoleum that had been laid over the concrete steps leading to the basement, advertised as a safety measure, but it always felt like a cheap veneer over something more sinister. The basement was used for storage, and the stairs creaked ominously, even with the new flooring.

That night, the last Thursday of October, the air was cold and damp. I pushed open the heavy oak front doors, propping them wide to let in the last of the evening light. I flicked on every light switch I could find, chasing away the shadows that pooled in the corners. The main hall was a large open space with high ceilings and rows of folding chairs. I set up the chairs in a perfect circle, as was the custom, and placed a stack of pamphlets and worn self-help books on a table near the door. I then headed to the small kitchenette to make the coffee, the percolator gurgling as it filled the room with the bitter aroma of cheap grounds.

As I worked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was not alone. I’d always felt that way, but tonight it was stronger. I attributed it to the approaching All Hallows’ Eve, when the veil between worlds was thin. I tried to ignore the prickling on the back of my neck, the sense that if I turned around too quickly, I’d see something just out of sight. I hummed a tune to keep my spirits up, but my voice echoed hollowly on the stone walls.

The coffee was done, steam rising from the hot plate. I poured myself a cup and sat on the edge of the stage that faced the circle of chairs. The room was bright now, fluorescent lights humming. I looked at the floor, at the worn wooden planks, and noticed a strange pattern in the grain—almost like a face, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I’d seen it before, but tonight it seemed more defined, as if it had grown darker. I shook my head and looked away.

Then I heard it. A faint scraping sound, like a chair being dragged across the floor. It came from the basement, from behind the green-tiled stairs. I froze, listening. The sound stopped. I tried to dismiss it as the old building settling, but the hairs on my arms stood up. I grabbed a flashlight from the supply cabinet and walked to the basement door. I switched on the light at the top of the stairs, and the green linoleum glowed under the bare bulb, the tiles gleaming like something wet. I started down, the steps creaking under my weight despite the covering. The basement was cluttered with boxes and old furniture, and a single, low-wattage bulb hung from a cord in the center of the ceiling, casting a dim pool of light.

I swept the flashlight beam around, dust motes dancing in its path. Everything looked as it always had: stacks of chairs, a broken lectern, a moth-eaten curtain. I was about to go back up when the beam caught something on the far wall. A door I’d never noticed before, half-hidden behind a sagging bookcase. It was painted with the same green linoleum pattern, as if to blend in. I felt a chill, but curiosity got the better of me. I shoved the bookcase aside, the wood protesting, and tried the door handle. It turned easily, and the door swung open onto a narrow, stone spiral staircase leading down into darkness.

The air from below was cold and musty, carrying a faint scent of decay. I should have turned back. Every instinct screamed at me to leave, but I was compelled to see what was down there. I descended, the flashlight beam bouncing off damp walls. After about twenty steps, the staircase ended in a small, rectangular room. It was empty except for a single object in the center: a old wooden chair, like the ones upstairs, but small, child-sized. And on the floor, arranged in a circle around the chair, were hundreds of green linoleum tiles, each one cut into a strange, sigil-like shape.

My breath caught in my throat. I knelt down and picked up one of the tiles. It was cold to the touch, and on its underside was a name, scratched in crude letters: ‘Margaret.’ Another tile, ‘Samuel.’ Another, ‘Ella.’ I turned over several tiles, each bearing a different name, some I recognized from local history. I realized with horror that these were names of people who had died in the chapel over the years—the fire victims, the caretaker, and many others.

I stood up, my heart pounding. I wanted to leave, but my legs felt rooted to the floor. The air grew colder, and the light from my flashlight began to flicker. Then I heard a soft, childlike voice, rising from the floor like a whisper. ‘Sit with us.’ I looked down, and in the center of the circle, a shadow coalesced, shaped like a small child. It reached out a shadowy hand, and I felt an icy grip around my wrist, pulling me toward the chair. I cried out and wrenched free, scrambling back up the stairs, dropping the flashlight. I didn’t stop until I burst into the main hall, gasping, the fluorescent lights buzzing above.

The meeting attendees were starting to arrive. My mother was among them, her face concerned. ‘You look pale,’ she said. I told her I was fine, just a bit under the weather. But as I helped hand out pamphlets, I couldn’t stop thinking about the room below. I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it, but I had the faint smell of linoleum and dust on my clothes, and a scratch on my wrist where the shadow had gripped me.

The meeting went on as usual. But afterwards, when the room was empty, I went back to the basement. I expected the bookcase to be in place, but it was moved, and the door was open. I descended to the secret room, and the tiles were still there, but now the circle was incomplete—one tile was missing. It was the one I had taken, the one with ‘Ella’ on it. I hadn’t dropped it; it was in my pocket. I pulled it out, and saw that the name on it had changed. It now read ‘Ella Morton,’ which was my mother’s name.

A deep, primal fear seized me. I realized that the tiles were not just names of the dead, but a calling list. They were meant to claim new victims. The circle was meant to be completed with new tiles for each person who walked the stairs. And I had inadvertently taken the last tile, the one that would be my mother’s fate, if she ever came down here.

I knew I had to destroy the tile, but even as I thought it, the tile grew cold and seemed to fuse to my skin. I tried to peel it off, but it stuck fast, and the name ‘Ella Morton’ began to fade, replaced by another: ‘My Name Is Not Ella.’ I looked down, and in the shadowy reflection of the tile, I saw not my face, but the face of the child, with wide, empty eyes. It smiled, and from its mouth came a river of green linoleum tiles, each one bearing my name.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, but when I finally got out, the sun was rising. I went home, but I didn’t sleep. I sat in my apartment, staring at the tile still stuck to my palm. I knew that if I ever went back to the chapel, I would be adding my own tile to that circle, and completing the set. But I also knew that I couldn’t stay away. The chapel called to me, and I had to close the circle, to join the others in that cold, dark room, where the tiles were not just floor coverings, but grave markers.

My mother never went back to the meetings. She said she felt a cold presence in the chapel. But I continued to go, every Thursday, and I set up the room an hour early. And every time, I would stand at the top of the basement stairs, looking at the green linoleum, and I would hear a faint, childlike voice, singing softly, ‘Come down, come down, and take your place among the floor.’ And I would descend, and I would add another tile to the circle, always leaving one empty: the tile that was meant for me, which I kept in my pocket, growing colder and heavier each day, as if it were waiting for me to finally stop fighting and give in.