The Doors to Elsewhere

Chapter 1: Almost

 

Chapter 1: Almost

Graham wiped down the last stretch of glass along the elevator doors, the cold scent of ammonia rising faintly from the polished floor. His reflection stared back at him, distorted in the seam where the doors met. It was the face of a man in his mid-thirties, dark hair shorn to a bristle and a pair of deep lines forming at the corners of his eyes. He could see the hint of a wrinkle forming across his forehead, and he smoothed it away, feeling a little self-conscious. The glass was spotless. Almost like it had never been used. Another job well done.

He turned and headed for the utility room on the other side of the hall. When he got there, he slid his keycard into the slot on the side of the wall and the door buzzed open. Inside, the room was small and cramped, lined with metal cabinets and shelves of supplies. He took a bottle of window cleaner and a rag from the bottom shelf and left, closing the door behind him.

A chime rang from the intercom speaker above the corridor, and a man's voice announced, "Graham, this is security. We are showing you as still on the premise."

"Almost done." Graham glanced toward the elevator. The chrome doors reflected his face, faint and distorted beneath the glare of the lights. "I just finished wiping down the east hallway and I am returning the cart."

"Very well. Your shift is almost up."

"Yes, I'm well aware."

The intercom clicked off. Graham walked the cart down the hall, the wheels rolling quietly over the marble.

The cleaning was always the easy part. It was the people that made his job a challenge. People were complicated. Cleaning was simple. Predictable. He liked the routine of his tasks—the repetition of it. Most of all, he liked the quiet of the night shift.

When he was younger, everyone told him he was good with people. You’re a good listener, Graham. You have a calming presence. The compliments always felt shallow, like people were trying to define him for their own comfort. He was never interested in any of it.

Thankfully, this line of work didn’t require small talk. It didn’t require him to be charming or clever or interested. It only required him to be punctual and efficient. He enjoyed that.

"Still here?"

A voice drifted down the hall. Graham glanced over his shoulder. One of the security guards, Carl, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a casual smirk on his face. His ID badge hung crooked from his collar. Graham resisted the urge to reach over and straighten it.

“Just finishing up.” Graham answered, grabbing a cloth and pressing it against the side of a chair. Dirt clung to it as he wiped. He could feel the security guard's gaze, watching him. "What about you? I thought the shift was over?"

"I'm waiting for my relief." Carl shrugged, glancing down the empty hallway. "They're late, as usual."

"You'd think they would take their jobs a little more seriously."

Carl nodded, chuckling under his breath. "I'm not one to complain."

Graham finished polishing the chair and stood, tossing the rag into the utility bag. He grabbed a spray bottle from the cart and started spraying down the window nearby.

"Did you hear the news?"

Graham looked over at him, frowning. "What news?"

"Apparently, there was a break-in at the clinic on 17th."

Graham shook his head. "No, I hadn't heard. A break-in?"

"Yeah, crazy, huh? They didn't take anything. Just came in, messed everything up and left."

Graham sprayed a layer of ammonia on the glass, rubbing it down in small circles. "Well, if no one got hurt, I guess there's no harm."

"I don't know about that. My buddy is a cop and said that the place was trashed. Tables broken, walls cracked, the works. It doesn't even look like they were trying to rob the place, more like just vandalizing. It was strange."

Graham wiped the excess cleaner from the window, staring at the dark glass. "Why would someone do that?"

"That's the thing, no one knows. There wasn't any sign of the perpetrators either, no fingerprints or anything. So the cops are baffled. They think it could be gang related."

"I suppose the police have the security footage."

Carl laughed. "Yeah, they do. But they're not letting other than the top brass watch it, according to my buddy. They're being pretty hush-hush about the whole thing. He thinks it has something to do with that big company that bought the building. The one with the red logo?"

"Solaris Global." Graham finished.

"Right. That's the one." Carl nodded.

The lights in the hall flickered, a momentary darkness descending around them before the overheads turned back on.

"Anyway, they're looking for a group of young guys. I wouldn't be surprised if it was some street punks looking for something to get high on. There's no way the clinic would have those kinds of drugs, but these kids are idiots. You never know."

Graham sighed, dropping the cleaning rag back into the utility bag. "Well, I hope they catch whoever was responsible. If nothing else, the people working there deserve to feel safe."

"Yeah, no kidding."

The sound of a door opening echoed down the corridor, followed by the tapping of footsteps. The two men looked up. Two more security guards walked toward them, talking quietly to each other. One was short, balding, with a thick neck and a broad chest. The other was taller, leaner, his head shaved smooth and a black goatee lining his square jaw.

"Speak of the devil." Carl smirked, waving to them.

"Sorry we're late. We were caught up with something." The shorter man grinned, his hand resting casually on the gun holstered at his hip.

"No problem." Carl answered. "You remember Graham, right?"

The men nodded at him, though their expressions remained blank.

"Well, I'm off." Carl sighed, walking toward the elevators. "Good luck."

"Have a good night, Carl."

The doors chimed and the three men watched the guard step inside the elevator and disappear, leaving them alone in the hall.

The rest of the night passed quickly, and Graham soon found himself taking the elevator to the lobby and exiting through the front doors. The early morning air was cool and damp, and the streets were empty. It was almost 3:00 a.m. He could see the first signs of sunlight forming along the horizon.

A few cars rolled by, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Graham pulled his jacket tighter against the chill as he crossed the sidewalk toward the parking lot. His sedan sat under a streetlight, the windshield fogged over from the drop in temperature. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The drive home was short. Six turns, three stoplights. The same route he'd driven for a decade of his life. His headlights traced familiar patterns over the darkened storefronts and empty intersections. A low radio hum carrying some 90's song filled the cabin, the volume turned down to near silence.

At the apartment complex, Graham parked in the back lot and climbed the narrow concrete stairs to the second floor. His key turned smoothly in the lock.

Inside, the apartment was dark and still. The soft click of the light switch sent a pale light spilling across the room. A small table sat against the wall, empty except for a stack of unopened mail. The fridge hummed from its corner, the sound blending with the quiet vibration of the heater in the walls.

Graham opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. The cold glass pressed against his lips, the bitter taste of hops cutting through the faint chemical sting still lingering at the back of his throat.

His keys clinked against the counter as he set them down. In the living room, his laptop sat open on the couch, the screen dim and dark. He tapped the space bar. The screen brightened, the glow casting faint blue lines across the cushions.

A news site blinked to life. A row of unread emails hovered beneath the header. Graham skimmed the headlines without really processing them. As for the emails, most of them were spam or advertisements about deals for products he had no interest in. He closed the laptop and sank into the couch.

The beer was already half gone. He finished the rest in one long drink, the cold heaviness settling low in his chest.

He dropped the bottle on the floor and stretched out, letting his head fall against the armrest.
It had been a long day, but not any longer than any other day. The same routine. The same job. He wondered when he would start feeling tired of it. When it would become dull and routine, the monotony finally catching up with him.

With a press of the remote, the TV came on with a muted flicker. A news anchor was reporting on the latest political scandal, her mouth moving without sound. Graham watched the screen without interest, the white of her teeth flashing between sentences.

His body sank deeper into the cushions. His fingers curled slightly against the edge of his knee. He could feel the low vibration of a distant train slightly rattle the walls, the coolness of the air coming through the windows. The room breathed in a quiet rhythm.

Then, suddenly, his phone buzzed to life on the coffee table, disrupting the calmness.

He glanced at it. A notification from a social media app.

You have a new message from Sam Fitzgerald.

Graham hesitated before picking up the phone. He swiped it open with his thumb, the soft blue light from the screen illuminating his face in the dark room. The messaging app popped up first.

Sam: Hey. How’ve you been?

Graham leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

Been good, he typed. He stared at the blinking cursor. His finger drifted toward the backspace key. He deleted the message.

He hadn’t seen Samantha in over a year. Maybe longer. They used to talk more. Used to meet up for drinks after work and go out partying on the weekends back in their younger days. That was before the schedules got complicated, before the gaps between conversations stretched wider, and before Graham had turned more introverted.

Sam had a family now—a husband, a kid. Graham had seen the pictures online. Birthday parties, summer vacations, a life moving forward. Graham had meant to reach out more. He just… never knew what to say.

His thumb brushed over the phone’s screen again.

Sam: We should catch up sometime.

Graham’s gaze settled on the message. He could picture Sam’s easy smile, the way he used to joke with her about the triviality of life and her tendency to overthink everything. It wouldn’t take much to bring her back into his life. Just a simple yeah, let’s meet up—and it could be easy again.

But then he thought about how it would go. The initial warmth of seeing each other again. The casual conversation—How have you been? What are you doing these days?—the inevitable drifting toward the growing gap between them. Sam would talk about her husband, her kid, the house they bought last summer. And Graham would sit there with nothing to contribute except polite nodding and vague answers about work.

Sam’s life had expanded, stretched forward. Graham’s had contracted. Reduced to the clean, simple lines of repetition.

He almost typed: Yeah, let’s meet up.

Almost.

But the memory of other conversations lingered—the awkward pauses, the long stretches of silence where he struggled to find the right thing to say. The creeping realization that Sam had an actual happy life, and Graham had stayed behind.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

He could almost see it: Sam smiling from across the table, laughing at his dry humor the way she always used to. Maybe it wouldn’t be that hard to reconnect.

Except it would be.

Graham sighed and set the phone back on the table.

The quiet settled back into place, but it didn’t feel as comfortable as before.

He stood and carried his empty beer bottle into the kitchen. The fridge hummed quietly as he opened it, grabbed another beer, and twisted the cap off. He took a long drink, the bitterness cutting through the dryness in his throat.

His gaze drifted toward the phone, still face-up on the table. Sam’s last message stared back at him.

It wouldn’t take much. Just a simple message.

But he wouldn’t send it.

He finished the beer, set the bottle down beside the couch, and let his head rest against the cushions. His chest felt heavier now, like something had pressed into it and left a mark.

Maybe this was why he liked the quiet. It was easier. No expectations. No risk of disappointment.

But maybe he liked it a bit too much.

His eyes drifted toward the ceiling. Outside, the occasional sound of passing cars filtered through the window. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor’s television hummed low through the walls.

These sounds had been with him for so long, they were practically muscle memory.

Graham’s gaze slid toward the outside lights, the way the city beyond glowed in the darkness. Maybe this wasn’t the life he had planned, but it was the one he had now.

His phone vibrated again. This time, he ignored it.

He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.

Time slipped.

Half-formed thoughts blurred at the edges of his mind: the curve of Sam’s smile, the taste of the beer, the steady pulsing of the hotel’s lights. Fragments of sound and memory layered and dissolved beneath the weight of sleep.

The quiet settled in.

His body sank deeper into the couch. His mind dimmed.

All noise and sound faded as sleep pulled him under.