The Rotating Levee

In the autumn of 2019, I moved into a cramped attic studio in an old brick row house in Richmond, Virginia. The building had been converted into four units: two on the ground floor, two upstairs. My neighbor across the narrow hall was a reclusive elderly woman named Mrs. Gable, who had lived there for decades. She rarely spoke, and when she did, it was in a thick Eastern European accent. The landlady, a brisk woman named Ms. Avery, warned me that Mrs. Gable kept odd hours and that I should just ignore her. I was a graduate student at VCU, and the proximity to the campus and the James River bike trail made the place ideal.

The apartment itself was cramped but cheap, with slanted ceilings and a single window that overlooked a graffiti-covered floodwall along the river. The most prominent piece of graffiti was a huge, swirling yin-yang symbol, with a serene angel on one side and a snarling demon on the other. I fancied it a sign of balance, as I had just begun practicing qigong to manage stress. Every evening, as I unlocked my door, I would give a little spin on my heel, a playful ritual that made me feel at home.

However, the spin began to feel less playful after the first week. I noticed that when I turned, the hallway seemed longer, the walls pressing in slightly. I chalked it up to old building quirks. But then came the night I heard the dragging sound. It was a heavy, wet scrape, like something being pulled across the floor, coming from Mrs. Gable’s apartment. It lasted for about ten minutes, then stopped abruptly. I pressed my ear to the wall, but heard nothing else. The next morning, I saw a dark, damp stain near her door, but I told myself it was just spilled tea.

A few days later, I came home late from the library and performed my usual spin. This time, the spin didn’t stop after one rotation. I found myself spinning three, four, five times, my feet moving without my command. When I finally halted, dizzy, I was facing my own door, but the number on it had changed. It read ‘A4’ instead of ‘A3’. I blinked, and it was back. I hurried inside, my heart pounding, and convinced myself it was a trick of dim light.

The next evening, I decided to greet Mrs. Gable. I knocked on her door. A long silence, then a shuffling. She cracked the door, her face pale, eyes sunken. ‘What you want?’ she snapped. I introduced myself and asked if she was okay, mentioning the noise. She stared at me for a long moment, then said, ‘You are the spinner, aren’t you?’ I nodded, confused. She smiled thinly. ‘Be careful. The levee spins too.’ And she shut the door.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying her words. Around 3 AM, I heard the scratching again, louder this time, as if something was crawling up the wall. I got up and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty, but the floor seemed to ripple, like water. I blinked, and it was normal. Then I noticed that the painting at the end of the hall, a generic landscape, was slowly rotating. It turned upside down, then back, over and over.

I decided to leave. I grabbed my keys and opened the door, but the hallway stretched before me, impossibly long. The stairs were at the end, but as I walked, they seemed to get farther away. I turned around, and there was my door, right behind me. I tried the knob, but it was locked. I fumbled for my keys, but they were gone. Panic set in. I spun around, and the hallway twisted, and I found myself facing a different door, one that hadn’t been there before. It was ajar.

I pushed it open and entered a room that was a mirror image of my own, but inverted. The bed was on the wrong side, the window was opposite, and the view showed a levee under a blood-red sky. On the wall hung the yin-yang graffiti, but it was alive. The demon side was writhing, and the angel side was weeping. In the center of the room stood Mrs. Gable, but she was young, beautiful, and glowing faintly. ‘You’ve found it,’ she said. ‘The other side of the spin.’ I asked what this place was. She smiled. ‘A place where balance is a lie. The spinning keeps the boundaries weak.’

She gestured to the window. ‘Look.’ I saw the levee, and on it, hundreds of figures, all spinning, their arms outstretched, their faces contorted in ecstasy or terror. ‘They’re all residents,’ she said. ‘Past tenants. They spun too much.’ I shook my head, backing away. ‘This isn’t real.’ She laughed, and the sound came from all directions. ‘Real? Real is a door that locks you in. This is freedom.’ Then she lunged at me, and I screamed.

I woke up on the floor of my apartment, the morning light streaming through the window. The yin-yang graffiti on the levee seemed calm. I was drenched in sweat. I thought it was a nightmare, but then I noticed my shoes were muddy, and there was a fresh scratch on my arm. I called the police, but they found nothing. I told Ms. Avery, and she dismissed me. ‘Old building, drafts, dreams. Get some sleep.’ But I couldn’t.

That day, I went for a walk along the bike trail, trying to clear my head. I saw the levee up close, the graffiti weathered and faded. As I approached the yin-yang, I noticed the demon’s eye seemed to follow me. I hurried back, and as I unlocked my door, I couldn’t resist. I spun once, twice, then stopped. But the hallway felt different. The air was thick, and the walls were breathing. I heard a faint voice, like an echo, saying ‘Balance is a lie.’

I ran to the stairs, but they turned into a spiral that went nowhere. I was trapped. I screamed for help, but no one came. The voice grew louder. Then I saw Mrs. Gable at the top of the stairs, beckoning. ‘Embrace it,’ she said. ‘Spin with us.’ And I felt my body turning, slowly, involuntarily, and I knew that I had become a part of the levee, forever caught in the eternal rotation.

Months later, a new tenant moved into the attic studio. He was a young man who practiced meditation. He noticed the graffiti with the yin-yang, and gave a little spin as he unlocked his door. From the floor above, a faint scraping sound began, and the walls seemed to pulse. He looked up, but saw nothing. He shrugged, assuming it was an old building’s groaning. But as he entered his apartment, he caught a glimpse of the window, and for just a second, he thought he saw a face pressed against the glass, spinning, spinning, spinning.

He closed the blinds and told himself it was nothing. But that night, he heard dragging footsteps across the ceiling. And in the morning, when he left for class, he noticed the number on his door had changed. But he ignored it. After all, balance is everything.

And the levee kept spinning.