And the Void Stares Back

Deep in my heart I held a vicious all-consuming fondness for the past. It glowed brightly and validated my existence. But now, I sit here in this sprawling darkness, wondering whether my obsession with the comforts of fleeting memories was worth it. 

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, the only place worth visiting in the old town mall was the large cinema complex within. It held four different screen rooms of massive size and endless rows of lush theater seating.

The experience always seemed like an exciting adventure. I often felt lost roaming from the stairway leading to the grand entrance, passing the thriving lobby with the lines at the concession counter, and running down the long softly lit hallways that seemed to twist and turn to the various screen rooms, as if moving through a maze in a video game. The floor was lined with gleaming dark brown tiles, and the walls displayed numerous vibrant movie posters ensconced in cases that barely lit up the hallways, yet glowed with an enticing aura.

I recall the array of emotions after watching a new movie in that wonderful place. The thrill of seeing the story of the film play out, the energized and excited reflections after a good movie, and even the deep contemplative sullenness after a bad movie. The aesthetic and emotional memories imprinted on my mind all the joy and carefree attitudes of life as a younger person.

Then one day the cinema abruptly closed and boarded up the grand entrance that meant so much to me, and many others, leaving the dreary mall with nothing left but uninspired retail stores and desolate empty storefronts. That was over two decades ago.

However, in what seemed a serendipitous turn of events, I found myself standing before the steps of the grand entrance for the first time since its closure. It remained a decaying relic from a moment in time long passed. It looked so much smaller than I remembered. All the posters were removed and only the metal husks of the wall-mounted casings remained. And unlike in my childhood, I stood there not for fun, but for work.

A vague advertisement in the town newspaper said the former owners of the cinema needed a maintenance worker to keep the space clean. I found this ad entirely by chance in a waiting room at the doctor’s office. I noted it was placed recently and took down the phone number it provided. However, the ad offered no other details. A thorough internet search revealed no further information. The local paper is a rather obscure source to rely on, I thought. I had no idea it was still in print.

Despite my failed attempts to vet the source of potential employment, and amid growing concerns, my sentimental memories and curiosity, combined with my coincidental need for money, got the best of me. I called the number.

The phone on the other end rang for almost a minute before the ringing gave way to a distinct noise, a crackling static. I checked the elapsed time on my phone to make sure the call was still on. The timer continued to tick up, two minutes and counting. “Hello?” I cautiously uttered. A brief pause in the static sent chills throughout my body and triggered that anxious anticipation one feels when calling a total stranger. I then heard a deep inhale and a low gruff voice asked, “Do you want to be a janitor for the movie theater?” Before I could second guess myself, I responded, “Yes of course. Do you need any more information from me, or have a website, or anything I can set up beforehand?” The voice huffed, “Tomorrow, 8 pm.” The call stopped.

When the time arrived, I decided to ignore the red flags because I was too interested in reveling in the memories of a better era. I ascended the stairs up to the old grand entrance unsure of what awaited.

No one greeted me or directed me where to go. The decrepit mall had already closed for the day, and I surely would have been removed if I lingered much longer. I checked my phone, 8:30 pm. My anxiety kicked in. Maybe I was supposed to simply walk through the entirely wall-off barricaded entrance. But that barrier has likely blocked many groups of miscreant teenagers over the years, how was I supposed to figure it out?

I approached the section of plywood wall near where I remembered the former ticket window stood. I pressed my hands against the splintering surface, hoping to find some kind of door. I considered calling the number again, until I noticed discrete, thin spaces between the wood panels that ran from my waste to my feet. When I bent down and pushed, the board rotated up at its center, like a small revolving door on its side. I could see a weak light on the floor emanating from the other end. This was it, the only way in. I crawled through with as much dignity as I could muster. “Hello? I am here for the job,” I yelled out, as I slowly crossed the threshold.

I got back on my feet and expected to look up into some black abyss no human had viewed since the early millennium. To my surprise, several dim, wall-mounted lamps dotted the surrounding area and illuminated the vacant concession counter in the windowless lobby. Again, I yelled, “Hello?” and yearned for some human response. Instead, I was left with tormenting echoes of my own hallow uncertainty. The air felt heavy, but my impulse-driven curiosity overtook my senses. I stepped further into the lobby.

Everything inside was familiar. Yet, it wasn’t the same. It all looked far bleaker than in my memories. The bulbs from the light fixtures flickered, clinging to their last minutes of use. The walls were empty, devoid of the flamboyant art that once defined the joyful build-up to siting in the main screen room. The sights and smells of popcorn were no more and the tall stacks of soda cups that lined the counter were removed. The cheerful sounds of excited movie-goers were long extinguished. It was a space stripped of its color and its life. I felt nothing but emptiness. I heard nothing but emptiness. All that was left was the silence of a crypt.

From the lobby stretched three hallways. I recalled the hallways to the immediate left and right of the concession counter led to the four screen rooms that made up the entire cinema, with each hallway leading to two separate screen rooms. The third hallway led to expansive bathrooms designed to process large crowds of people rushing over after a long film. I could not see down any of the hallways, given their jagged turns and lack of lighting.

In my happiest of memories, I always preferred the hallway to the right of the concession counter. At its far end, it led to the largest screen room. I viewed several of my favorite movies in those seats, including the first two films in the Lord of the Rings franchise and many others.

I casually approached the right side of the counter, as if to expect some glimpse of the past to give my current life meaning. I only saw more darkness. The closer I moved to the hallway, the more my adrenaline and reckless desire to explore took hold. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and shuffled further down the abandoned space.

The right-side hallway contained the same brown tiles as the lobby. The walls were made up of a dark blue, almost black, layer of carpet-like fuzz. They were lined with a wooden railing, that cascaded along with each bend of the path. As I ventured forward, the hall immediately turned to the right, straight for several feet, and then reached a crossroad between the first and second screen rooms. I shined my light onto a sign that hung down from the low ceiling over the right path, in disheveled letters it stated “Master and Commander.” Perhaps it was the last movie played in that room, yet my goal was the screen further to the left. As I went in deeper, uninterrupted, seemingly undiscovered, I began to smell an overpowering musk. My mind conjured thoughts of black mold or asbestos. But my body moved forward towards that final chamber.

The surrounding blackness began to instill a sense of dread. I quickened my pace, planning to check in on the venue of my youth and then promptly leave. The discomfort grew with each step. It reached a fevered high when I stopped in front of a new fork in the hallway. My small phone light could only reveal so much. But there couldn’t possibly be a third screen on this side of the cinema, the mall’s proportions could not physically allow for that. But the hallway appeared to lead to a third screen. “Maybe it loops around,” I convinced myself.

But when I took the right fork that went into the second screen room, it dawned on me that I could be in the wrong place. Is this the correct room from my memories? I rushed in and flashed the phone light. It was empty. The rows of seats sat uniform with all the seats in the down position, staring into the blank screen before them. It lacked the epic splendor I had anticipated and remembered. Is this it?

Out of ghastly momentum, I felt I had no choice but to check the newly discovered third screen room to compare. Maybe that was the room of my memories. Just as I pivoted to leave, a massive, loud, and unworldly thud roared through the unseen spaces of the cavernous void. I had never shivered so thoroughly. It sounded as if someone had hit a metal pipe with a heavy blunt object directly next to my head. “Hello . . .” I uttered meekly. “Hello . . . Hello?”

I left in a bigger hurry than I entered, but proceeded to my goal. The third screen. I ran down the other fork in the hall, eager to finish the businesses I stubbornly set out to accomplish. And once more, I stopped in my tracks.

Another crossroads.

I proceeded down the left hallway again, increasingly frustrated. Another fork.

“Surely, this must end,” I desperately convinced myself.

I raced down the left side of each crossroads, into another fork, then another crossroads, and yet another fork. It’s all the same. There was no loop, just more crossroads for an inexplicable number of screen rooms on the right side of each fork. How much time did I spend lurching through the infinite pairs of divergent hallways?

 My memories offered nothing. My memories were nothing. Nothing but a worthless guide to oblivion. Over these years, I must have dreamed everything and lived nothing.

As I wallowed in panicked despair, the noise of crackling static reached my ears. It seemed to ripple through a hallway on the right side leading to another screen room. It was something new yet familiar in the endless churn of the labyrinth. Like a moth to flame, I went forward to the right.

Closer and closer, the static picked up. And soon I began to hear distinct muffled sounds. I paused to listen. It was just a distorted blur, but it seemed to recur every twenty seconds or so. For a moment, I thought I saw a faint light. I briefly covered the phone, and looked hard ahead. A faint light. Returning to my previous pace, I quickly rounded the corner into the screen room. I saw a light projecting onto the screen.

“Hello?” I shouted.

“Hello? I am here for the job.”

My heart paused in terror. “Who said that?”

“Hello? I am here for the job.” . . . “Hello? I am here for the job.”

The projector continued to roll the film. I stood before the long rows of seats, all down, all facing the tall screen. It showed a repeating projection of a video from the angle of a security camera. Confused, I watched myself on the screen outside the grand entrance of the cinema. It showed me pushing on the barricade and eventually entering . . . “Hello? I am here for the job.”

It continued to play over and over again. I sprinted towards the projector room at the top of the rows of seats, but found the door for it lay outside the screen room.

“Hello? I am here for the job.”

I ran down into the shimmering darkness, flailing my telephonic appendage in all directions to see if the light would reveal anything. It did nothing to dispel the empty chaos before me. Its battery had died the moment I entered the room.

“Hello? I am here for the job.”

How was I to get back? My will gave out. I returned to the screen room and took a seat in the middle row in the middle seat as I always had done. But this time, I slumped down and placed my face into my hands.

“Hello? I am here for the job.” . . . “Hello? I am here for the job.” . . . “Hello? I am here for the job.” . . . “Hello? I am here for the job.”