The Room That Watches You
The real estate agent called it a “quirk.” For Liam, a writer on a tight budget, the absurdly low rent for the spacious, sunlit apartment was a miracle. The only condition: he was never to enter the small, windowless room at the end of the hall. The door was to remain locked at all times.
“Storage for the building’s historical archives,” the agent had said with a wave of her hand. “A legal formality. Just ignore it.”
For the first week, Liam did. He set up his desk in the living room, the back of his chair pointed squarely towards the forbidden door. It was then he began to feel it—the distinct, crawling sensation of being watched. It was a pressure between his shoulder blades, a silent, unwavering attention that followed him from the kitchen to the bathroom.
He dismissed it as paranoia, the solitude of a new city. But the feeling persisted, growing stronger, more focused. It always emanated from that door.
Driven by a mix of fear and furious curiosity, he dug out the single key the agent had given him. It didn't fit. The lock was newer, heavier than the others. One night, armed with a screwdriver and a healthy dose of whiskey, he jimmied the lock. The mechanism gave way with a soft, definitive click.
He pushed the door open.
The room was empty. Not just unfurnished, but surgically sterile. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all painted a flat, non-reflective black. In the center of the ceiling, a single, unblinking lens of a camera stared down. There were no wires. No housing. Just a dark, glass eye.
A wave of cold dread washed over him. This wasn't storage. This was an observation room. And he was the exhibit.
He stumbled back, slamming the door shut. He piled books and a heavy chair against it, a pathetic barricade against the silent watcher. The feeling of being observed didn't vanish; it intensified. Now that he knew the source, his mind couldn't un-know it. Every quiet moment was filled with the hum of its attention.
He tried to research, to find out who owned the building, who would do this. Every search led to a dead end. The company listed was a shell, a ghost.
Days blurred into a cycle of fear and exhaustion. He stopped sleeping, jumping at every creak of the old building, convinced it was the door opening. He started talking to the camera, at first pleading, then screaming, then whispering threats. The lens offered no reaction. It just watched.
One morning, bleary-eyed and broken, he found a small, plain envelope that had been slid under his front door. There was no stamp, no address. His hands trembled as he tore it open.
Inside was a single, high-resolution photograph. It was of him, taken last night. He was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. The angle was from directly behind him, from the perspective of the black room.
Scrawled on the back in neat, block letters was a message:
WE ARE PLEASED WITH THE RESULTS. YOUR LEASE HAS BEEN EXTENDED. INDEFINITELY.
Liam looked up from the photo, his eyes drifting to the barricaded door. The feeling of being watched was no longer a paranoid itch. It was a fact. He was a specimen in a cage, and the room at the end of the hall was the one-way mirror. He could barricade the door, but he could never block its view. It didn't need to open to see him.
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