The Corridor

Another short story

The Corridor

By J.K. Stenger

He had no idea how he’d ended up in there.

Nor was it clear how long he had been there. Hours perhaps, although it felt much longer. Time itself seemed different in this place, as if it had stopped altogether.

Nonsense, of course. Time never stopped. Time always was.

And yet all sense of time, with its stress and urgent pressure to accomplish things and to get somewhere, was gone. The rat race, some called it, but he just called it life. After all, that was what life was about: speeding forward, making progress, preferably faster than everyone else, just to get there first and on time.

Where that “there” was, nobody really knew. At least, he didn’t, and neither did any of his acquaintances. But truthfully, that didn’t matter. It was the journey that mattered. That was what the professionals said, so it had to be true.

But now he had gotten stuck here, alone in this strange, dreamlike, endless corridor. The floor was laid with spotless dark vinyl, and the walls on either side were made of gray cement; cold to the touch. The entire place had a chilly feel, or perhaps sterile would be a better word. From the ceiling neon lights were spaced at regular intervals. Nothing here was hidden. Everything was clean, neat and orderly, but without warmth. No atmosphere. Without a place to dream, with nowhere to hide. The air was crisp. Not clean, in a fresh or invigorating way, but hygienic and unblemished, like the ER of a hospital.

And then there were these doors…

Countless doors. Just like the neon lights on the ceiling, they stretched out at regular intervals, as far as the eye could see. Was there even an end to this corridor? There had to be, right? Everything had an end.

But he couldn’t see it.

When he’d first realized he was in the corridor, he had refused to look. He had found himself sprawled on the floor and had quickly closed his eyes.

It must be a weird dream. Nothing more.

He would sleep a little longer. Exchange this strange, uncanny dream for a pleasant one, a dream where he accomplished his goals and was cheered for his zeal and success. But that dream never came. When he opened his eyes again, he was still in the corridor.

The doors would help.

After all, doors go somewhere. That’s the purpose of a door … to get you from one place to the next. So, he got up and walked over to the nearest door on his right.

There was a silver sign on the door, just like the ones on every door in his own office. In his office, these signs read things like:

Chief Visionary Officer

Director of Strategic Synergies

Master of Operational Excellence

And more such signs. Signs that would lead the way and told you who or what was inside. So, all he had to do was find the door of the one in charge of this crazy place. Easy enough. He would give that person a piece of his mind and then be on his way.

But the first sign he read did not hold a title.

It said something else.

Something that made the hair on his arms and neck stand up. It read: “Lies I’ve told.”

Lies? Ridiculous. He never lied.

He lifted his eyes to the neon lights on the ceiling and roared, “This joke has gone on long enough, you hear me! Get me out of here!”

Nobody answered. There was not even a sound.

Perhaps if he opened the door labeled ‘lies I’ve told’, there would be an exit or a window he could climb through. It was worth a try.

Just to be polite, he knocked. When no answer came, he pushed down the doorknob with bated breath and tried to open it. The door was stuck. He pushed harder, but it still wouldn’t budge. Something was blocking it. Just then, several index cards tumbled out into the corridor.

He stared at them in shock and picked up one of the cards. It burned in his hand, and he wanted to throw it away in disgust. But just before he could, he read what it said:

“Lie number 567,0981: I told Mother I gave the milk money to a beggar, but instead I’d bought a Snickers.”

He remembered that moment. It flashed through his mind as if it had happened yesterday. That day he had lied, and he could almost still feel the candy bar wrapper in his pocket.

It dawned on him why he couldn’t open the door. It was stuck with all of his lies. They were all there, each even carrying a number. For a moment, his knees knocked and a queasy feeling welled up from within. What place was this? And why a room full of his lies? Ridiculous. He was a good person… well, sort of.

Sure, he had told a few lies here and there. Mostly white lies. But then he remembered a few bigger ones too. Really big ones he had told just to get himself ahead. He blushed.

He slammed the door shut, refused to read the other cards still scattered on the floor, and with trembling legs stumbled to the opposite door. Perhaps that one said “Exit.”

It didn’t.

It read, “Impure thoughts.”

As he read the sign, he felt his cheeks grow warm. This was a room that definitely needed to stay closed.

Panic struck, but he pushed it down. Surely there were other doors that would lead to cards holding all of his good deeds… days when he had been kind, when he had freely given away his hard-earned cash. He was not all bad. He was good too. … Mostly good.

His heart hammered in his chest as he ran, checking door after door. The pounding of his desperate footsteps on the floor told a story of fear and helplessness. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sped through the corridor while checking the signs.

Pride, apathy, fear, arrogance, ingratitude, jealousy, gossip, neglect, hypocrisy, manipulation… on and on it went.

No door held his good deeds and no door said “Exit.”

At last, he fell to the ground, weeping.

He cried like he had never cried before. His shoulders shook while he wailed like a lost child. Now he knew. He had not been good at all and he was stuck in this horrible corridor with no exit.

Then a gentle hand landed on his shaking shoulder; warm, comforting, soft.

He looked up with his tear-stained face and stared into the gentle eyes of a man clothed in light. Where had he come from?

The man held out his hands. They were pierced. Dark red holes still dripped with blood. And his eyes, oh, so tender and full of sorrow. Tears were brimming.

“This is why I died for you,” the man said softly. “To take away your sin.”

“Jesus?”

The man nodded and knelt down right next to him. For a moment that felt like eternity, peace washed over him. He remembered from his days in church how people claimed that Jesus was a door too. A door to eternal life.

Right then, another voice cut through the sacred moment. Not gentle or filled with understanding, but harsh, cold and warped. It was as if a wave of winter stormed through the corridor.

“Don’t believe it,” the voice said in impatient tones. “Lies! All lies. Don’t fall for the old story of redemption. I can show you a much better way.”

Lies? If Jesus was really here, then that other voice was…

He cast a desperate glance at Jesus and saw only reassurance. Safety… hope.

No, he would not listen to that lying voice. All his life he had fallen for the tricks of the world. But no more. Never again.

And so, he cast himself down before the Redeemer and cried, “Have mercy, my Savior. I am a sinner.”

Instantly, the wave of coldness was gone and all the doors in the corridor burst open in one great swoop. But instead of loads of index cards tumbling out, light streamed in from everywhere. He saw green, flower-strewn fields, babbling brooks filled with water that sparkled with light and children playing with animals.

“Enter thou into the joy of your Lord,” Jesus said with a warm smile, beckoning him to step out of the corridor onto the grass outside. Hesitantly but reverently, he took the hand of the Savior. Together, they stepped through the nearest door. As the warm grass touched his toes, humble joy filled his heart. He whispered, “My Lord and my King… how good You are.”

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