The floor plan arrived by accident.
A maintenance worker—new, young, still unaware of the building's appetite—left it outside my door.
I didn't ask for it.
Didn't want it.
But the moment I looked, something clicked.
Or rather—unclicked.
A room labeled 0B.
Between the boiler room and the foundation slab.
Impossible.
There is no room below the basement.
There's barely even a basement to begin with.
I went down there.
As expected, the basement was a mess of mold, cracked stone, and forgotten pipes.
But now… the pipes were rearranged.
Twisting like ribs around an invisible spine.
And where there used to be solid concrete—there was now a door.
Rusty.
Unlabeled.
Warm.
Too warm.
I touched it.
And flinched.
Because the door pulsed.
Like skin.
I don't remember opening it.
I only remember standing inside.
In Room 0B.
A room made of sound.
Every surface vibrated with faint whispers.
Not words—phonemes.
Building blocks of language that never assembled into meaning.
Just pressure. Presence. Pulse.
The walls were black stone, etched with indentations like braille.
Except when I touched them, I heard screaming.
Far away. Echoing.
At the center: a sinkhole.
Circular.
Rimmed with candles that didn't burn but bled.
The blood didn't drip.
It climbed upward.
Back into the flame.
Gravity was optional here.
Then I saw it.
A plaque. Half-buried in soot.
Scratched with six words:
"Room 0B is not a location."
"It is a decision."
I stepped back.
The room didn't like that.
The whispers intensified.
The floor convulsed.
One of the braille-etched walls peeled open, like a mouth forming.
A black figure stood behind it.
Not a person.
A memory.
It wore my clothes.
But it wasn't me.
Its face was unfinished.
Smoothed over, like the idea of a face before you name it.
It raised one finger and pointed at me.
Then to the hole.
Then vanished.
Suddenly, the walls stopped vibrating.
The candles went out.
The air became still.
And the plaque had changed.
Same words.
But now… my name had been added to it.
Etched in blood:
"[Tenant: Elias Monroe]"
"Status: Decision pending."
I ran.
Didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
The sounds followed me.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Typing.
As if the contract were rewriting itself with every choice I made.
I got back to my apartment.
Locked every door.
Closed every window.
And checked the building map again.
0B was gone.
Erased.
But I knew what I saw.
The next day, I visited the landlord's office.
Showed him the floor plan.
He looked pale.
"I've seen this before," he whispered.
"When?"
"Before the last collapse."
"What collapse?"
He didn't answer.
Just gave me a file.
Sealed with black wax.
Inside: a single sheet.
An old complaint form.
Filed by a tenant in 1966.
The handwriting frantic.
Barely legible.
But the subject line stood out:
"Unauthorized Room Opened – Labeled 0B – Someone is living inside the hole."
I flipped the page.
A photo was attached.
Faded. Grainy.
But enough to see:
The same room.
The same sinkhole.
The same candles.
But in this photo…
There was a figure climbing out of the hole.
Crawling.
No eyes.
No face.
Just limbs and memory.
And one hand holding a pen.
The building doesn't forget its tenants.
Even the ones who never lived.
Even the ones who were written in by accident.
Or summoned by intention.
That night, the floor in my bedroom cracked.
Not visibly.
Just once—loudly.
As if a foundation stone below had shifted.
I moved the rug.
Checked the boards.
One plank was loose.
Underneath: a small black box.
Inside: a single folded piece of paper.
I opened it.
It read:
"Do you accept Room 0B?"
[ ] Yes[ ] No
And under the checkboxes, a final note:
"Choose carefully. This is the only question the building allows you to answer once."
I didn't check either box.
Not yet.
But I knew this was coming.
Sooner or later, the room would ask again.
And if I didn't answer…
It would choose for me.