The Corridor That Shouldn’t Exist"

Some nightmares wake you with a start, leaving you clutching the sheets and gasping for air. Others are more subtle—they follow you into the waking world, clinging like a shadow you can’t shake. For Michael, this nightmare was both.

It started the night he moved into the old apartment building on Hollow Street. The rent was suspiciously cheap, the neighbors kept their doors shut, and the hallways always smelled faintly of damp wood. But Michael didn’t care—he needed a fresh start.

On his first night, he dreamed he was lying in bed. Everything looked exactly as it did in real life—the peeling wallpaper, the single dusty window—but there was no sound at all. Not even the faint hum of traffic from outside.

Then, without warning, the wall opposite his bed cracked down the middle. The plaster split like wet paper, revealing a narrow passageway that shouldn’t have been there. Its walls were blackened, as though scorched by fire, and from somewhere deep inside, a faint tapping echoed.

Against all common sense, Michael stepped inside.

The corridor stretched on, longer than the entire building should allow. A dim light flickered far ahead, but every time he walked toward it, it seemed to retreat just a little farther. The air smelled of dust and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe. The tapping grew louder, like footsteps dragging across the floor.

He turned back, but the crack in the wall was gone. Only the endless corridor remained.

The first figure he saw was a man, or what used to be one. His body was bent at unnatural angles, his eyes clouded white, and his mouth hung open in a silent scream. As Michael passed him, the man’s head twisted all the way around to follow him. Michael broke into a run.

He found doors along the corridor—rusted metal ones, rotting wood, even one covered in strange symbols—but they were all locked. Except for one.

It opened onto a small, candlelit room. In the center sat a table, and on it was a journal. Its pages were filled with frantic handwriting:

"Once you enter, you never leave. The corridor finds you, even when you’re awake."

Michael slammed the book shut. He didn’t believe in curses, but the tapping outside was now joined by something else—a slow, wet dragging sound, like something being pulled along the floor.

He shut the door, but the candlelight flickered violently. The shadows stretched and curled like living things, reaching toward him. One brushed against his arm, and it burned like ice. He stumbled backward, but the floor vanished, and he fell into blackness.

He woke in bed, drenched in sweat.

It was just a nightmare, he told himself. Nothing more. He laughed nervously, went to make coffee, and tried to shake off the unease.

But when he opened his kitchen door, the corridor was there.

It wasn’t supposed to be real.

The tapping began immediately. This time, it was closer.

Michael ran. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and the corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, the lamps swaying overhead like pendulums. He passed more doors, some ajar, revealing glimpses of horrors inside—hands that reached for him, mouths that whispered his name, shapes that slithered into the darkness when he looked too long.

And then he saw her.

A woman stood in the center of the corridor. Her dress was tattered, her face obscured by a veil, and her hands clutched a lantern.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she whispered. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping together.

“How do I leave?” Michael begged.

“You don’t,” she said. “You only keep walking until it swallows you.”

The tapping grew into pounding footsteps. Michael turned to run, but the woman grabbed his wrist. Her grip was ice-cold, her fingers digging into his skin. “If you see the door with the red frame,” she said, “don’t open it.”

And then she was gone.

Michael didn’t know how long he’d been running. Time felt meaningless here. Eventually, he saw it—the door with the red frame. Its paint was chipped, revealing black wood beneath, and from the crack under the door came a dim, throbbing light.

He should have listened. But the pounding footsteps were almost on him, and the dragging sound was so close he could hear wet breath in it. He flung the red door open.

Inside was… his bedroom. Exactly as it was before the nightmare began. Relief flooded him, and he stumbled inside, slamming the door shut.

He climbed into bed, his heart still racing. He told himself he was safe.

Then he noticed the walls.

The wallpaper was peeling in long strips, revealing blackened, scorched wood beneath. The air smelled faintly of metal. And from the other side of the wall came that tapping sound, slow and deliberate.

He pressed his hands over his ears, but it grew louder. The wall split down the middle, and the corridor was there again.

Michael never woke up after that night. At least, not in the way we think of waking.

If you visit the building on Hollow Street, you might hear footsteps in the hall, or tapping from behind the walls. Sometimes, if you walk past apartment 3B, you’ll hear a man’s voice whispering, begging you not to sleep.

And if you ever dream of a long, scorched corridor with a red-framed door… don’t open it.

Some nightmares don’t end when you wake up.

They follow you forever.