The Doors to Elsewhere

Chapter 1: Mundane

 

Chapter 1: Mundane

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. The glass was spotless. Almost like it had never been used.

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. The wheels of the cleaning cart rattled as he rolled it into the hallway, the sound unusually loud in the stillness.

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

"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. What he had always wanted was to be left alone.

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. Graham 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.

“Just finishing up.” Graham grabbed a cloth and pressed it against the side of a chair. Dirt clung to it as he wiped.

Carl’s sneakers squeaked against the marble floor as he stepped closer. “You know you don’t have to close out every night, right?”

Graham slid the cloth into the side pocket of his cart. “I’m aware.”

Carl smirked. “Guess you just love the smell of industrial cleaner, huh?”

Graham didn’t answer. He pushed the cart toward the storage closet. The hum of the lights followed him as he opened the door and slid the cart into place. The lock clicked softly under his hand as he closed it.

"Lisa was asking about you earlier," Carl said.

Graham’s hand lingered on the closet door handle. He let his gaze settle on the floor, the soft glow of the hallway lights reflecting off the marble in pale, broken streaks. “Asking what?”

Carl shrugged. “Just if you were still here. I think she has the hots for you.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’s nice, you know. You could—”

The elevator door nearby dinged. A thin chime that cut the conversation short. Graham was thankful for it. He stepped toward the doors as they slid open, the light from inside casting a sharp line across the hall. “Good night, Carl.”

Carl shook his head, amused. “Well, alright then.” He turned and walked down the hall, his reflection breaking apart in the glossy floor beneath him. “See you tomorrow, man.”

The elevator was quiet as Graham stepped inside. His fingers brushed the button for the ground floor, and the doors slid shut with a soft hush of air. The elevator descended, the vibrations growing stronger beneath his feet.

His gaze followed the slow countdown of the floor numbers. Other numbers came to him in his mind's eye. Seven floors. Eight janitors. Four of them during the day and four of them during the night. When he'd been given the choice by his boss, Graham had not hesitated to choose working during the late hours. He found it preferable. The silence. The solitude.

When Graham had first arrived in Dallas, he had come with a lot of hopes and dreams. Back then, he’d been young and eager, ready to change the world. That had been a whole different version of him. Nowadays, after a long day, he often just wanted to go home and sleep. Ten years of the same type of tedious work tends to do that to a man. Life becomes monotonous.

He had at one point had the chance to go to another city. A larger one. More opportunities there, and better pay. But he had chosen not to. His brother was here. His roots. And the pay wasn't so bad. He had a nice apartment, a roof over his head. Food to eat.

And he was a creature of habit. That, more than anything, was his one true weakness.

The elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors slid open. A soft chime marked the arrival at the ground floor. Graham stepped out, his steps echoing down the hall as he approached the lobby. It was quiet, the lights dim. The floor beneath his feet was cool, the faint scent of disinfectant still lingered in the air from the mopping hours before. He strode past the main entrance and toward the employee locker room. It was empty when he walked in, the lights flickering as he switched them on. The lockers were lined up along the wall, a row of gray and silver boxes. He barely glanced at his name, scrawled in black sharpie at the top, before opening the locker.

"Hey, Graham. You still here?"

Graham froze. The voice echoed faintly around him. He took a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm about to leave."

Lisa stepped into the room, her figure silhouetted briefly against the hallway lights. She was clutching something to her chest. A book. Her gaze flicked toward him, then away, her cheeks already flushed pink.

"I just… wanted to give you this." She held the book out with both hands. "It’s the one I mentioned last week. The one about—well, you said you liked this kind of thing, so…"

Graham hesitated before reaching for it. Their fingers brushed as he took the book from her. He glanced at the cover — worn edges, a soft crease down the spine. She must have read it more than once.

"You didn’t have to—"

"It's part of a series," Lisa interrupted, her voice soft. "If you like it, I have the rest."

Graham turned the book over in his hands. The cover showed an image of a boy, crouched low behind a rock, a knife clenched in his hand.

Lisa smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Let me know if you like it. Or—" Her eyes lifted to his face, cautious hope flickering there. "If you want to talk about it sometime. During lunch maybe."

"Maybe." Graham's words came out flat. He winced. "I mean... yeah, sure."

Lisa's gaze dropped. She nodded quickly, her hair falling into her eyes. "Okay."

"Thank you." Graham clutched the book in both hands. He glanced toward the exit, his feet itching to move. "I should… go. I have an early morning."

"Right. Yeah, of course." Lisa backed away. Her heels clicked across the tile floor as she retreated into the hall.

Graham let out a long breath and shoved the book into his locker. He didn't like lying to her. To anyone, really. But he didn't want to give her the wrong impression. The air conditioning kicked on. He could hear the gentle hum from the vent above his head.

"Have a good night," Lisa called from the hallway.

"Good night." Graham grabbed his backpack from the floor and headed for the door.

Outside, the street was quiet. A few cars rolled by, their headlights cutting through the night. 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.

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.

He stared blankly at the TV. 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 half-empty bottle resting beside him. The room breathed in a quiet rhythm—steady, predictable. Safe.

Then, suddenly, his phone buzzed on the coffee table and knocked him out of his reverie.

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 youth. That was before the schedules got complicated, before the gaps between conversations stretched wider. And it was 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 her tendency to overthink everything. It wouldn’t take much. 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.

The fridge kicked on again, filling the apartment with a steady vibration.

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.