The Government Pays Me to Watch a Door That Shouldn’t Exist

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Without it getting cold, but you'd be wrong. Too much distraction, or one single distraction, depending on how you look at it. At least I have a comfortable chair to sit in while I sit my cold coffee and watch. It. It being, well, a door. Just a door. It's a simple door, nothing fancy. One you'd find in any American ranch house from the 1970s or 80s. I remember doors like this in my grandparents' house. This one is a cheap, hollow door with wood veneer, lightish brown. The knob is fake brass, and jiggles when you touch it. Part of me has always wanted to take a screwdriver to the screws and tighten it up. But that's not really allowed. I'm here to watch. Not fix. And there's the fact that the screw heads are on the other side of the knob. The other side of the door, those screw heads get to see whatever might be over there. In the three years I have had this job, the job of watching a door, several hundred feet below the surface of the earth, inside a cave that no one knows about. Well, the most excitement I have had was actually finishing a full meal before I could be creeped out that someone, something, was listening. Their ear pressed against the other side of the door. It's that stress that anxiety of being observed that as my meals and coffee going cold, I hear a noise in the cave and my eyes lock onto the door. I sit. I wait. I watch. Then thirty minutes or more go by where absolutely nothing happens, and I've got zero to show for it except cold food and a cold drink. The pay and benefits are great though. Government work, I think. It's likely contracted, but my supervisor, Lawrence, insists that we work for a clandestine agency within another clandestine agency within, well, to get the picture. Honestly, I could be working for Disney or Apple for all I know, but hey, I get thirty days of PTO each year, so I don't really ask many questions. I just watch the door and log any anomalies, like scratching or crying or whispering or tapping, never knocking, three years, and I have never heard a single knock, which is fine by me. I'm not sure what I do if someone or again, something knocked on that other side. Would I get up and run, or would I grab the small walkie-talkie next to the coffee maker and call in my report, then run, or would I die of fear, and they'd find me white as a ghost with my eyes wide open and my face in the rictus of a scream, and they would have to find me, because there are no cameras down here, no listening devices either. Lawrence says that there is some sort of signal and a powerful one that messes with electronic surveillance. I think it messes with the microwave and coffee maker sometimes too, but that could just be because the machines are cheap and old, not because some super-signal is scrambling their operations. So, for all practical purposes, I am very much alone down here, but the thing is, I hear noise is coming from the other side all the time, so how alone am I, really? I don't hear them all day, every day, but maybe a time or two each day, sometimes only a couple of times a week. It's almost as if someone is trying to stay quiet over there, but can't help but make a noise now and again, sort of like me. I'm on strict orders to be as quiet as humanly possible. Of course, being human, noises will happen. The scrape of my chair, the hiss and verbal of the coffee maker, the microwave running, even though the bell has been removed, that motor's still worse though. My footsteps echoing in the cave, the walkie-talkie crackling to life, sounding so loud, even though it's on the lowest volume setting. And my snores, since I have been known to not off now and again, who wouldn't when their job is to sit and stare at a door all day and night? I do get breaks, I do get to sleep for a couple of hours on a rotating schedule, but when I sleep, I have to set up a detection system that may or may not work because of that powerful signal coming from the other side. So, naps and snoring end up happening because I'm so paranoid about truly falling asleep during my breaks. Overall, I'm as quiet as a mouse on this side, quieter than the real mice that scurry about sometimes. They aren't here often, but they do show up. I think they get scared, deeper into the cave system when storms rage by up above. Five months on, a month off, six months on, that's been my life, year after year. I honestly don't know who they have to take my position while I'm gone. Might just be my supervisor, Lawrence, probably the best thing to do, since it lessens the number of folks in the know. The thought of which makes me laugh, in the know of what? A door? A cheap ass door that I could probably punch through? No one will tell me what's on the other side. Lawrence says no one knows that the door was detected decades ago, and that maybe a team went over there and was lost, but he isn't sure. Before his time, he always says, "Definitely before my time." I sip my cold coffee and decide whether I'm going to read a book or just stare at the wood veneer. Since I've been down here, I've read more books than open AI. I would go through four or five a week. Since I read a book a day for a month straight, my eyes were exhausted after that. Same with my forearms, since I have to read actual paper books and can't use a candle or some other e-reader. The signal wipes them out. So I make requests, and they bring me books. I have a stack about two feet tall against the wall by the coffee maker table. Which is good. I like reading. I don't really have friends, no family either. I think I have a sister somewhere in New York, but her life has been devoted to opioids for as long as I can remember. So I doubt she's still alive. Odds are not in her favor. Not much of a wonder I was recruited for this position. No friends, no family. Loves to read and can sit for hours on end. The perfect candidate. I hear a scraping noise coming from the door, and I pause with my coffee mug almost to my lips. I can smell the stale beans and the artificialness of the creamer. My ears strain to hear more, but after a minute or two of nothing, I relax. If it's a cave like this one on that side too, who knows what kind of critters might be sniffing and snuffling around. Finally, taking that sip. I set my coffee mug on my little side table, ease back into my chair, and pick up my new book. It's a mystery I have been wanting to read, and I'm glad they got it for me. But as I flip the cover open, I hear that scrape again. Setting the book down, I push up from my chair, stretch a little since I've been sitting a while, and move closer to the door. My head cocked. My ears on high alert. There. Another scrape. Getting in close, I lean in. My ear almost touching the veneer. I do hear something, but I'm not sure what it is. It could be a mouse. It could be a bear. It could be an alien civilization. I have zero info to go on, other than the occasional scrape. Imagine setting your makeup. Then forgetting it's even theirs. Meet new grippy setting mist from Mavily New York. Gel to mist technology locks in your look for up to 24 hours, with flexible all day comfy grip. No tightness. No stickiness. No residue. Just plump, dewy hydrated skin that still feels like your skin. I knew grippy setting mist from Mavily New York. Maybe it's Maybelline. If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, The SCP Experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now, or search for the SCP Experience wherever you get your podcasts. Then I do something I'm not really supposed to do while it's not explicitly forbidden. It is discouraged. I press my ear to the door, going full skin on Veneer, and listen. Is that a voice? Do I hear breathing? No. It has to be my breathing echoing in the cave. My ears are playing tricks on me. Then the door knob jiggles and I jump back. My hands clamped to my mouth to stifle the scream that so wants to come out. I quickly take several steps away from the door. The backs of my legs bump into my chair, and I almost scream again. My eyes are locked onto the door knob. My ears strain to hear anything. But after a few minutes of nothing, I start to relax. I probably imagined it. The door knob jiggling. I know I heard noises. That wasn't imagined. But I can't say for sure that the door knob jiggled. Now can I? I know what happened. It was because I pressed my ear to the door. I must have put too much force on that Veneer and made the knob jiggle. Perfectly solid explanation. Except that as the minutes ticked by, I feel less and less confident in that explanation. And as my confidence wanes, I know I have to call this in. I'm supposed to call everything in. But I don't always do that. It seems silly to report noises that are most likely just echoes of noises coming from inside this cave. The scrapes though weren't coming from this cave. They were definitely on the other side of the door. And there wasn't just one scrap. Taking a deep breath to steady my voice. I go to the table and pick up the walkie talkie. I also notice that I need to make more coffee. But that can wait. My hand lifts the walkie. And my thumb is about to press the call button when static hisses and a voice asks, "Hello? Is someone there?" I drop the walkie and stumble backwards until I fall over the arm of my chair and collapse into it. The hiss of static is like a dragon stalking the walls of the cave. I expect fire and smoke to explode from the little speaker at any second. I'm more than a little freaked out. Then I shake my head and laugh. What am I worried about? That was probably my supervisor just messing with me. I mean, it didn't sound anything like Lawrence. But he could have gotten someone to do it for him. I'm sure they get just as bored up there on the surfaces I do down here in the bottom of this damn cave. Although I'm not sure of the last time Lawrence ever told a joke, or laughed at one of mine, or really laughed at all. But there's a first time for everything. Pushing myself out of the chair. I walk over to the table, hesitate for only a second, then pick up the walkie and press the call button. Hello? Who is this? Stop messing around on this channel. I smirk as I wait for whatever answer Lawrence is going to think up. Oh, hey, wow, you answered. I shake my head and wait. The static crunching out of the little speaker. Yep. Here. Who is this? Did Lawrence put you up to this? More static. As I think about it, I am almost certain that this is a prank. The voice even sounds familiar. Although I can't quite place it. I bet it's a tech up there. I hear that scrape again from the door and whirl around. I'm so focused on the exchange over the walkie that I've forgotten my main job. Watch the damn door. Listen, this has been sort of funny, but I need to focus on my work. Tell Lawrence nice try. I'll figure out how to get him back. I set the walkie back in its space next to the coffee machine and walk to my chair. My shoulder slump. As I see, I bumped my coffee and spilled it everywhere. Signing. I find the paper towels and clean up. Are you the person on the other side? I freeze midwife. The pool of coffee I was trying to soak up just to get pushed off the edge of the side table, spilling onto the cave floor. My eyes go to the door even though the voice is coming from the walkie on the table behind me. It's you, isn't it? The person I hear sometimes. My mouth is dry and I could really use a swig of coffee. Coffee that's still drip, drip, dripping onto the cave floor. Slowly, I look over my shoulder at the walkie. I'm starting to think that this isn't Lawrence messing with me. I make a quick decision. And instead of walking to the table, I drop the damp paper towels and some fresh ones into the puddle of coffee at my feet. Step over it and go to the door, moving as silently as I can. When I reach it, I lean in. But make sure not to bump the door with my ear. Jerking back, I stay calm. I heard that voice come from the walkie and from the other side of the door at the same time. Oh crap, I need to report this. I'm literally being paid to report something like this, although knowing Lawrence, he'll probably completely freak out and call in a security team or something. I don't want that. I don't want all the time I've spent down here to end with a bunch of guys with guns. I ease away from the door. Then turn and hurry to the walkie. Think about it for a few seconds and press the call button. What door? Oh, good, you are there. I don't respond as I move back closer to the door, but stay at a respectable distance. I'm, um, Jimmy. What's your name? I still don't respond. I'm certainly not going to tell the guy that my name is James too, and that I refuse to go by Jimmy. Most everyone calls me by my last name, Woodson. I say none of that. I just wait. The staticie silence stretches on. Hello? Are you there? Yes, I clear my throat. What door? There are a few clicks, but the person is debating back and forth about whether to answer my question or not. Uh, the door. It's old. It's in wood if it is wood. I think it's called veneer. Looks like something for my grandparents house. Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. That's the door all right. The knob jiggles, and I stare at it. I think I can hear voices over there. Not just the one speaking to me through the walkie. God, I need to call this in. But how? This person is talking on the channel I use to contact Lawrence with. I press the button, and I'll just be speaking to the same guy, not Lawrence. And if I switch channels, I may lose them, but I have to do my job. Before he can speak again, I switch to the backup channel. Lawrence, come in. It's Woodson. And I think we have a problem. Static. Then whose Lawrence? What problem? I immediately switch to a different channel and try that. Same result. The guy who I think is on the other side of the door is the only voice that responds. No matter what channel I'm on, what shouldn't be possible? The comm system in this cave is supposed to be secure, like better than the White House secure, like next level CIA secure, except they don't even have this tech. Although that's what Lawrence says. So maybe he's wrong. Or maybe he's misinformed, or maybe the signal is more powerful than they know about up there. I return to the original channel. Maybe Lawrence or his supervisor or that person supervisor will pick up on this conversation and send people down, which brings me back to not wanting guys with guns, swarming my corner of the cave. Why has it always got to be guys with guns? As far as I know, they haven't solved a damn thing for anyone, anywhere. Pretty sure guys with guns make things worse. I close my eyes and think. The knob rattles and my eyes shoot open. Now, Christ, is the knob turning? Not good, not good. But it doesn't turn all the way, and the door remains closed. I take a deep breath. What agency are you with, I ask? A long pause then. Agency? They sound genuinely confused. I can't help but laugh because it's BS. Agency? Please. They know what I'm talking about. It's probably the Russians over there. To think, all this time that I've been down here wondering if it's aliens or maybe even hell, and it's just been some old Cold War crap all over again. It's the KGB or whatever they are called now. Can you help me? Please? God, where do I know that voice from? It is familiar, but the static and the little speaker on the walkie aren't helping. And that last word, that please, didn't sound like someone trying to extract information. They sound like they actually need help. The non-jiggles, rattles, twists back and forth. Please, I'm going to die. They're going to kill me. A shiver runs down my spine. If this person is a spy, they're a great one. There is legit fear in that voice now. They continue to plead with me, asking if I'm here, asking if I know how to open the door, asking if I can help them before it's too late. I stay silent. Then there's banging on the door, heavy fists pounding against it. I cry out and drop the walkie. It's back panel cracks open, and the battery packs slides out, bouncing across the K floor and under the chair. I hurry to fetch it, reaching under the chair where my hand lands and the pool of coffee I still haven't cleaned up. It's spread farther than I realized. Pulling the battery out from under there, I frown at it. It's coated in coffee and creamer. Crap. The banging on the door stops. "Why won't you talk to me?" I cry out again and scramble up onto the chair, talking my knees to my chest. I don't know why. It's like I expect an attack from all directions, and the chair is the safe place where it can't get me. Which is ridiculous. I'm sitting in a chair, completely exposed, with no weapons of any kind anywhere near me. If something wants to get me, it's going to get me. Put the voice. It came out of the walkie when the walkie doesn't have a of battery back in it. That's not possible. Except that it is. I heard it. The knob rattles. Stop. Rattles. Bang, bang, bang! Please help me! More terrified than I've ever been in my life. I rest my chin on my knees and stare at the door. It's shaking in its frame. I'm shaking in the chair. The person on the other side, the one on the walkie, must be pounding and kicking and slamming themselves against the door. That veneer isn't going to hold out for long, because if the door is like the ones in those old ranch houses, then it's not even wood inside, but thick strips of cardboard used as bracing. This door is going to come down any second now. Then it all stops, and the silence is almost painful. I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding. And wait. Meet new groupie setting mist from Maybelline, New York. Gel to mist technology locks in your look for up to 24 hours, with flexible all-day comfy grip. Try new groupie setting mist from Maybelline, New York. If you're into horror with the heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, The SCP Experience. The walking on the floor crackles. I'm not dangerous. I just need help. I'm not bending down to pick up that walkie. No way. Listen, my name is Jimmy. Give me woods and tell me your name at least. I feel sick, not because the guy just said my name, including my last name, even though I hate being called Jimmy. No, I'm sick because now I know it's a prank. Now I know that someone up on the surface is just playing games, trying to freak me out. Screw them. I unfold my legs and set my feet on the floor. The coffee pool has spread more, and I almost slip, but I keep my balance and take slow step after slow step, until I am back at the door. Put the battery back in, please. The tank we have is good, but not perfect. I'll lose you soon. Battery pack? Right. I think that I figured it out. What happened is that Lawrence came down here when I was asleep and switched out the walkie. That's gotta be a hidden battery somewhere in there. You'd think he'd have something better to do than mess with me. Then the knob rattles yet again. How is he doing that? How the hell is Lawrence jiggling the damn knob? Oh my God. Has all of this been some sort of experiment? They hire me, train me, put me down here for years on end, only to study me, holy crap. That must be it. It's the only thing that makes sense. On the other side of this door is probably nothing, or just more cave. I bet there are servos, or motors, or whatever connected to the knob in the door. They press a couple of buttons, and some mechanical thing magig makes the door shake, or the knob rattle, or speakers make scraping noises, or scratching noises, or even the few times I thought I heard voices. It's all special effects. And I have been the captive audience this whole time. Those bastards. Those bastards. I spin around and grab up the walkie, shoving the battery back into it. Pressing the call button, I say, nice try you, jerks. You almost had me, but I'm done being your experiment. Done being your puppet on strings. This isn't cool. What does that mean? I laugh into the walkie and toss it over my shoulder, hearing it bounce and crack on the cave floor. Then I grip the door's knob with both hands, and twist with all of my strength. It moves some, but not much. I twist and pull, placing my foot to the side of the door for leverage. The damn thing should open in my direction. You can tell by how the hinges are set. All I have to do is put my back into it, and I'll expose these assholes for what they are, a bunch of charlatans. I ignore the voice asking me what I'm doing. Asking me if I'm trying to open the door, asking me to talk to them, to tell them what is going on. Nope, we are way past that. I strained to the point where I think I'm going to tear a muscle in my back. Then the knob gives one final twist, and the door is slung open, sending me tumbling onto my ass. My back hits my chair, and I can only stare at what I see. Another door, about two feet past the one I just yanked open. And it is an exact duplicate of my door. I get up, and dust myself off, then step into the gap between the doors. And knock, my eyes fall on the new door's knob. I see it jiggle, I see it twist, I hear the click. Slowly, it opens. And now I'm not so sure about my whole "me" as a test subject theory. I don't see any motors or servos or speakers in this small space. A crack of light appears, bright light. And I shield my eyes as the door finally swings wide. Beyond, against the glare of huge spotlights, I can make out shapes, shapes of large pieces of machinery, shapes of long workstations with monitors on them, shapes of a group of people, all standing far back, and a single shape close to me. There's some alarm blaring from the other side, and I can make out the sound of men shouting in boots clumping. I squint against the harsh light, the single shape in front of me steps closer, blocking one of the huge spotlights with its head. A gasp. Hi, James, the shape says, I have to blink a few times to understand what I am seeing. And even after a couple of moments with the evidence right here, I still can't believe it. It's me. I am seeing me. I am sorry, the other me says. But I was going to lose my job if there weren't results soon. And I really love my job. And I glance past his shoulder and realize some of those shapes are men holding guns. Guys with guns rush me. And I try to turn and flee, but I'm not fast enough. Mainly because I slip a little and that damn spilled coffee. They tackle me hard. I collapse against my chair, knocking it over. The men pull my arms back, and I cry out and pain as my wrists are zipped tied together. And I'm violently yanked to my feet. They spin me around and walk me through the door with the other me stands. He gives me a pained smile, then slips past me. As the guys with guns march me deeper into whatever this other place is, I swivel my head and look back at my space, my cave. The other me purses his lips, nods at me, gives a small wave, then closes the door. My door. The door I have been watching for years. He's over there now. And they'll think he's me. [MUSIC]