There’s a door at the end of the hall
with no sign,
no number, no label,
no “visiting time.”
The knob’s rusted over
like it’s never been touched,
but the laughter from behind it
is just too much.
It starts soft–
like a giggle caught in prayer,
then rises like steam
from electric air.
They say it’s just pipes,
just vents, just strain–
but that’s a fucking lie–
it knows your name.
I pressed my ear to the wood last night,
and it whispered back in blacklight.
It laughed in time with my pulse on glass,
then said, “You’re next,
just let it pass.”
There’s laughter behind the locked door,
twisting jokes you’ve heard before.
You’ll scream first, then smile wide–
that’s how it gets you inside.
I asked the nurse, she just went pale,
muttered something about “the Cedarvale.”
She said that room was sealed for good,
but her voice cracked like old wood.
Last week I saw it–just for a blink,
the door was open, I didn’t think.
Inside was a mirror turned toward the floor,
and a man with my eyes
begging for more.
They say it’s an old wing,
condemned, ignored,
but the hallway tilts
when I walk toward.
And every night, a little more,
I hear my own laugh
from behind that door.
Now I pass it slower,
step by step,
matching the rhythm,
holding my breath.
And one night soon,
I won’t just hear–
I’ll knock back once
and disappear.