The Unnumbered Corridor, part 11: Door Number Zero

The Unnumbered Corridor, part 11: Door Number Zero

Outside the ground-floor window, it was dark. In the glass, Nora could see the reflection of her rust-red jacket and the yellow bulb above the stairs. An ordinary wall stood in the place where their latest clues had led them.

Ben moved his backpack strap. “Maybe nothing will happen today.”

Nora was about to speak when the bulb went out. Something rattled briefly upstairs, and for a few seconds the whole building fell silent.

Click.

Filip switched on the flashlight clipped to his belt. Its beam crossed the floor just as the electric lights came back on. But the wall was no longer whole. Between the stairs and the corner of the landing, a corridor had appeared. Its walls were faded green. At the far end stood a door with a zero shining in the flashlight beam.

Nora’s stomach tightened. Last time, they had put the objects in the right order and found the way to the last unopened door. Now it was right in front of them. It looked much more ordinary than she had imagined. Somehow, that made her more nervous.

“First, our way back,” she said, taking out her paper notebook. She did not trust phones in the corridor because they lost their signal there. She drew the stairs, the window and the new entrance. Beyond it, she added a straight line to the door.

“No side passages. We stay together. If we can’t see the way back, we return.”

“And no rooms with machinery,” Ben added.

“Agreed,” said Filip. “I won’t repair the building today.”

They walked slowly, their shoes brushing against the dusty floor. Twice, Nora looked back to check that the ordinary landing was still visible. Meanwhile, Ben checked that nothing blocked the way to the entrance.

They stopped close to the last door. Nora could see tiny scratches on the metal zero. It was not a painted number, but an oval metal plate fixed to a small pin. Filip shone his light from the side. Beneath the metal, they could see a short curved track ending in a stop. The plate’s right edge stuck out a little.

“It looks as if it turns,” he murmured.

“Don’t force it,” Nora reminded him.

Using two fingers, the boy gently turned the metal clockwise. After a quarter turn, the zero lay on its side and stopped against the end of the track.

Nothing opened.

Ben glanced down the corridor behind them. “Maybe it’s just decoration.”

“Wait.” Nora leaned closer. “That edge is over a hollow now.”

With the zero on its side, its right end sat exactly above a shallow hollow in the door. Filip pressed it carefully. A dry click sounded, and the door opened a finger’s width. The smell of old paper and stale air drifted through the gap.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Filip opened the door a little wider and shone his flashlight inside. The small room held shelves, a low cupboard and a table covered with photographs, thick envelopes and tapes in plastic cases. Among them stood a tape player with a clear lid.

Nora asked him to shine the light down to the floor. The way to the table was clear. There were no wires underfoot and no opening into another space.

“Only things we can reach on the table,” she told her friends. “We leave the cupboards alone.”

They left the door open. Ben chose the side of the table nearest the exit. Only then did he dare to let out a breath.

Beside the player, a rectangular mark in the dust showed where an object had once rested. The machine had large square buttons and a small speaker on its side. Filip followed its cable to the socket. The cable was not cracked or torn, and the plug was already in place. He did not touch the socket or open the machine’s outer cover.

“Let’s test it first,” he said.

Through the clear lid, they could see that there was no tape inside. When he pressed PLAY, a small light came on. A spindle began to turn, and the motor made a quiet buzzing sound.

Ben suddenly lifted his head. A narrow, dark shape had appeared on the back wall. It looked like a person with their head leaning to one side.

For a moment, Nora held her pencil so tightly that her fingers hurt. Then she noticed that the shadow moved with the flashlight.

“Give it to me.”

Filip handed her the light and pressed STOP. The spindle stopped turning, and the buzzing ended. Nora moved the flashlight left. The dark head stretched towards a shelf. When she raised the light, it disappeared. A photograph stood on the table in a small stand. Its bent corner was making the strange shape.

“A paper person,” Ben breathed.

“At least it doesn’t need a chair,” said Filip, but his smile soon faded.

Nora gave him back the flashlight. They had explained one shadow. But nobody knew why this room existed in a place where there was only a wall during the day.

“The motor works,” Filip said. “We’ll need a tape to find out if it plays voices too.”

They left the player stopped and began looking through the papers around it. Between two envelopes lay a third, slightly smaller one. It had a bent corner and neat writing on the front:

Klara — memories before the rebuilding.

First, Nora wrote down where they had found it. Then she carefully lifted the unsealed flap. Inside were a tape and a folded sheet of paper.

“This one belongs with it,” she said.

The tape’s label read: Klara — memories before the rebuilding — A.

She unfolded the paper on a clear part of the table. It rustled so loudly that all three held their breath for a moment. The heading read: Memories before the rebuilding — list of photographs — 14 June 1984.

Below it were two lines:

Photograph 1 — Anna Malíková.

Photograph 2 — Peter Hruška.

Ben bent over the photographs spread across the table. He tried to find a familiar face, but he could not match a name to anyone. One picture showed a woman standing by a window, holding a plant pot. Beside it lay a photograph of a man carrying a wooden chair.

“I don’t know these people,” he said. “But there are numbers here.”

Holding the first picture by its edges, he read the writing on the white strip at the bottom: 1 — Anna Malíková — 14 June 1984. He placed it beside the first line on the list. Then he found the second picture: 2 — Peter Hruška — 14 June 1984. The dates matched.

“Maybe he made that chair himself,” Ben said.

“Maybe,” Nora replied. “For now, we only know what’s written down.”

The boy nodded, but looked at the man’s face again. His smile was a little shy, as if he felt uncomfortable having his photograph taken.

Meanwhile, Filip moved the tape player just far enough to reach the buttons easily. He put the tape inside with side A facing the clear lid. It lay flat, and the lid closed normally. When he pressed REWIND, the reels spun quickly. Nora watched the open door until the player stopped rewinding by itself.

“Ready?”

Ben rested his hands on the edge of the table. “Play it.”

This time, PLAY clicked more loudly. First came a hiss, then a short breath and a girl’s voice.

“My name is Klara. Before the rebuilding, I’m collecting the residents’ memories. I want to return them to the people they belong to.”

Nora looked up from her notebook. Suddenly, this was more than a sound from an old machine. Someone had once sat down to record it. She had thought about her words. Perhaps she had also worried about forgetting something.

The voice continued.

“List of photographs: the fourteenth of June, nineteen eighty-four. Photograph one: Anna Malíková. Photograph two: Peter Hruška.”

Ben pointed to the first picture, then the second. At the same time, Filip followed the date in the heading with his finger. Everything matched.

There was a short pause. Beneath the hiss, something made a faint tapping sound.

“You’ll find the last part…”

The voice cut off.

The tape kept moving for a little longer, but there were no more words. Finally, it reached the end and the player stopped. Ben stayed close to the speaker.

“Where?” he whispered.

No answer came.

Filip looked at the buttons. “Maybe she didn’t have time to record it.”

“Or the ending was lost,” Nora said. “We don’t know.”

A small cracking sound came from the shelf. Ben turned towards the cupboard. For a second, he looked ready to step towards it.

“No,” he said, stopping himself. “We agreed not to go there.”

Nora was glad. She wanted to search straight away too, while the room was still there. The unfinished sentence bothered her like a missing step on a staircase. But nothing in the recording had told them to look on the shelf or in the cupboard.

She opened a clean page in her notebook and copied the whole heading and both numbered entries. Underneath, she added:

The recording labelled with Klara’s name gives the same names and date. She says she wants to return the memories to their owners. It ends with: “You’ll find the last part…” The location of the last part was not given.

“Check my notes,” she asked.

Filip compared the date with the original sheet. Ben checked the names and numbers against both the list and the photographs.

“One, Anna Malíková. There’s an accent over the í. Two, Peter Hruška.”

Nora’s r looked almost like a v, so she corrected it. Ben nodded. They had Klara’s name on the envelope, on the tape and in her introduction on the recording.

“We can take these notes to the archives,” Nora said. “We’ll check the building register.”

Before opening the tape compartment, Filip pressed STOP once more. Only then did he take out the tape. Nora put it and the list back into their original envelope and smoothed down the flap.

Another crack sounded. This one came from lower down, as if it were near the cupboard’s foot.

Ben returned the photographs to their places. He put down the woman’s picture carefully, making sure not to catch its bent corner.

“The one with the plant pot,” he said quietly. “I hope it gets back to her.”

Another cracking sound came from beside the table.

Ben pulled his hands away. “Let’s go now.”

Nora closed her notebook and slipped it into her jacket pocket. Her fingers would not do what she wanted, and she had to feel for the pocket opening twice. Filip aimed the flashlight at the floor. Nothing was moving there. Through the open door, they could see the corridor and the light on the ordinary landing.

“Together,” Nora said. Her voice sounded thinner than she wanted.

They stepped away from the table.

Crack.

This time, the sound came from just behind them.

Filip stopped and shone his light back. The player was silent, and the photographs lay on the table. Nora wanted to say that perhaps the old wood was cracking, but the words stuck in her throat. Why did the sound come closer each time?

Ben caught her sleeve. “I don’t want to investigate that.”

“Neither do I. The way is clear.”

They moved towards the open door. Nora could feel her heartbeat in her throat. She waited for another crack, but the silence was worse.

At the doorway, Filip turned the flashlight towards the corridor. A long shadow moved along the door frame. It looked like a head leaning to one side.

Filip froze and held the light still.

The shadow leaned a little further towards Nora.

She stepped back sharply into the corridor. Her shoulder hit Ben, who caught her sleeve. Nobody screamed. For a moment, she heard only their quick breathing.

Then the dark shape disappeared.

“Out,” Filip whispered.

They did not wait to see if it returned. Staying close together, they walked straight towards the landing. They took no side passages and tried no other doors. Behind them, something cracked once more. This time, they did not turn around. With every step, Nora’s notebook rustled in her pocket. That ordinary sound helped her more than she had expected.

Soon, they were standing on the ground-floor landing. It was still night outside, but the bulb above the stairs was shining. All three fitted beneath its warm light. Ben let go of Nora’s sleeve, and Filip lowered the flashlight. Only now did she notice that his hand was shaking.

“Was that the photograph again?” Ben asked.

Filip looked towards the open corridor. “I don’t know.”

Nobody went back to check.

“That’s enough for today,” Ben said. This time, nobody argued.

They spent the rest of the night outside the corridor. They did not return to the landing until morning. By then, ordinary daylight was coming through the window, and an unbroken wall stood where the entrance had been.

Nora compared its position with the drawing in her notebook: stairs, window, corner. It was the right place, though they had not seen the exact moment when the corridor disappeared.

Filip stood with his hands in his pockets. “I can explain the tape player. Not this. Not yet.”

This time, Ben looked at the notebook rather than the wall. Two names and a date remained on the paper: Anna Malíková, Peter Hruška and the fourteenth of June, 1984.

“The register first,” Nora said. “We’ll find out what it says about them.”

They still did not know why Klara had left her sentence unfinished, or where to find the last part. But they no longer had to try doors at random. Nora turned her notebook towards the morning light. Beneath the carefully checked lines, there was an empty space for whatever they found in the archives.