The Parallel Corridor

After graduating in Mumbai, I returned to my homeland, Malaysia, and moved into a flat with my cousin Aisha and her boyfriend Riz. The flat was in a low-rise block in Petaling Jaya, on the ground floor, and it had a strange layout: the kitchen was a long, narrow corridor that connected the living room to a series of rooms. My room, which I called the ‘Store Room’ because it was filled with boxes, sat at the far end of this corridor. From its doorway, I could see into the kitchen, the living room, and even the bathroom and the other bedrooms. The flat was always dim, even during the day, because the ground floor windows faced a concrete wall. We kept the lights on all the time, and soon I got used to the perpetual twilight.

One weekend, Aisha and Riz threw a small party, and a few of their friends came over. I was assigned to help Riz’s friend, Sam, with cooking. The kitchen was cramped, and as we chopped vegetables, the others sat in the master bedroom, which was visible through the open doorway at the end of the corridor. The light in the bedroom was warm, but the kitchen’s fluorescent tube flickered occasionally, casting a strobing effect on the tiles. At some point, Sam went to the bathroom, and I was alone. I turned to rinse the rice, and when I glanced down the corridor, I noticed something odd: the hallway seemed longer than it should be. The door to my room, which was usually closed, was now ajar, and beyond it, instead of the familiar boxes, there was what appeared to be a continuation of the corridor, lined with doors.

I blinked, and the image vanished. My room was as I left it. I shrugged it off, thinking it was just the dim light. But as the evening progressed, I caught more glimpses of that impossible extension—a flicker of a figure moving past a doorway that didn’t exist, a sound like footsteps in a space that wasn’t there. The others seemed oblivious. I tried to tell Sam, but he laughed it off. ‘It’s just your mind playing tricks,’ he said, handing me a cold beer.

Later, after the guests left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was living in that other corridor. I decided to investigate. I walked to my room, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. The room was normal—boxes stacked against the wall, a mattress on the floor, a small wardrobe. But as I turned to leave, I saw that the wall at the far end of my room, which should have backed onto the neighbor’s flat, was now a doorway. It was dark, and beyond it, a distinct musty smell wafted out. My heart pounded. I took a step closer, and the darkness seemed to pulse. A low hum emanated from it.

I reached out, and my hand touched something cold and solid—a doorframe. I leaned in, and in the faint light from my room, I saw a corridor with wallpaper peeling off, and on the floor, a child’s toy—a red ball. I recognized that ball. I had lost it when I was seven, in the old house in Penang. I stepped through, and the air grew cooler. The corridor stretched ahead, with doors on both sides. I heard a child’s laughter, distant and echoing. I called out, ‘Hello?’ The laughter stopped. A door creaked open, but there was no one there. I walked further, and the corridor began to twist, curves that defied the flat’s geometry.

I reached a door with a mirror. In it, I saw my own reflection, but it was me at a younger age, standing in this same corridor, looking frightened. I reached for the mirror, and my reflection reached back, but his hand passed through the glass and grabbed my wrist. His grip was icy. He pulled, and I stumbled forward, through the mirror, into another space—a massive, endless hallway with doors lining both sides, each one different, some glowing, some dark. I realized I was not in my flat anymore. I was in the space between places, the parallel corridor that existed alongside my own. And I was not alone.

A figure emerged from the shadows—a woman in a white dress, her face obscured by long, black hair. She walked toward me, and as she got closer, I saw that she had no eyes, only black sockets. She spoke in a voice that was both whisper and scream: ‘You shouldn’t have come here. We’ve been waiting for you.’ I tried to run, but the corridor had no end. The doors along the walls began to open, and from each one, a version of myself stepped out—versions that had taken wrong paths, versions that had lingered too long. They all wore the same expression of terror.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was back in my room, lying on the mattress, drenched in sweat. The morning light filtered through the cheap curtains. I thought it had been a nightmare, but then I saw my wrist. There were five purple bruises, shaped like fingers. And on the floor, next to my bed, lay a red ball. I threw it away, but I knew. I had brought something back. When I walked to the kitchen, I paused and looked down the corridor. For a split second, I saw it again—the parallel corridor, but this time, it was not empty. A shadow was standing at the far end, and it was watching me. I moved out of that flat the next week, but I’ve never been the same. Some places have doors you shouldn’t open, and once you’ve opened one, it never truly closes.