The Backrooms Pt 3: How long can people stay in an impossible place before it starts changing them?

Transcript

Host:

Tonight on the Midnight Drive, we’ve been walking for what feels like days.

The yellow hallways continue endlessly in every direction.

The lights never turn off.

The carpet never changes.

And the buzzing overhead has become so familiar that silence now feels harder to imagine than
noise.

But something is changing.

Not the back rooms.

Us.

Memories feel farther away.

Conversations feel heavier.

And every corner seems to carry the uncomfortable feeling that we may not be alone after all.

Not because we’ve seen anything, not because we’ve found evidence, but because isolation
has a way of changing how people interpret the world around them.

Tonight, exhaustion begins to set in, and certainty becomes much harder to hold onto.

The Midnight Drive presents Act 3 of The Back Rooms.

The first thing to go was not hope.

It wasn’t sanity.

It wasn’t even our sense of direction.

It was certainty.

The quiet confidence that the world operates according to the rules.

That if something happens, there’s a reason.

That if you’re patient enough, you’ll eventually understand.

The back rooms slowly stripped that away.

Not all at once, just bit by bit.

Little by little.

Every single day.

Or what we assumed were days.

We had no idea.

By this point, we’d stopped trying to estimate time entirely.

The lights never changed.

The temperature never changed.

The hallways never changed.

Even our bodies seemed unchanged.

No beard growth.

No dirty clothes.

No hunger beyond a dull, manageable sensation.

No exhaustion beyond the mental fatigue constantly pressing against us.

It was as if the back rooms allowed discomfort, but refused to let anything reach a conclusion.

Even tiredness.

Even hunger.

Even time.

The three of us continued walking.

Sometimes talking, but mostly thinking.

And the longer we stayed there, the more those thoughts began drifting toward strange places.

I remember Joe stopping suddenly at an intersection.

Not because he’d seen something, but because he’d remembered something.

Or rather, he was trying to.

Ah, what was her last name?
Samantha looked at him.

What?
Kelsey.

I immediately knew who he meant.

Joe had mentioned her before.

Not often, but enough.

The high school crush.

The prom story.

The one that still bothered him more than he’d ever admit.

What was her last name?
Samantha frowned.

How would I know?
Joe rubbed his forehead.

No, no, no, no.

I know it.

Okay.

I know it.

Neither of us said anything.

But suddenly Joe looked genuinely distressed.

Not frightened.

Distressed.

Like a person standing in front of a familiar door and discovering the key no longer worked.

I know her name.

He snapped his fingers.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

The hallway buzzed softly around us.

I know it.

And finally, Baker.

The relief was immediate.

Invisible.

Almost embarrassing.

Kelsey Baker.

He laughed.

A short nervous laugh.

There.

Samantha smiled.

Congratulations.

But none of us really laughed.

Because something about the exchange felt wrong.

Not the memory itself.

The intensity.

The panic.

The fact that forgetting a last name had clearly terrified him.

We continued walking.

Nobody mentioned it.

For a while.

Then eventually Samantha did.

That bothered you.

Joe shrugged.

No.

It absolutely did.

Joe sighed.

It just felt weird.

Why?
I don’t know.

He paused.

Then surprised all of us.

Including himself.

Because I don’t think about my parents very much.

The words came out before he could stop them.

The hallway absorbed the silence that followed.

Joe looked down at the carpet.

At his shoes.

Anywhere except at us.

My parents call all the time.

Nobody interrupted.

My parents are fine.

Still, nobody interrupted.

But I couldn’t remember the last conversation we had.

The buzzing filled the space between words.

And somehow I can remember Kelsey Baker.

A bitter laugh.

The girl who never even liked me.

Nobody rushed to comfort him.

Not because we didn’t care.

Because this wasn’t really about Kelsey.

And all three of us knew it.

The back rooms had a way of removing distractions.

No work.

No schedules.

No obligations.

No notifications.

No entertainment.

No escape.

Just thoughts.

Weeks of thoughts.

And eventually those thoughts started finding cracks.

Places we’d spent years avoiding.

Joe kicked lightly at the carpet.

My whole life feels like somebody else’s decision.

The sentence hung there.

Heavy.

Unexpected.

He kept walking.

Talking almost to himself now.

I played football because my parents wanted me to.

Step.

I went to that college because I wanted me to.

Step.

I took that job because it was practical.

Another step.

I never really chose anything.

None of us knew what to say.

Because for the first time since entering the back rooms, Joe wasn’t trying to solve
a problem.

He was examining one.

And that seemed far more uncomfortable.

Eventually Samantha broke the silence.

Well, what would you have chosen?
Joe stopped walking.

Actually stopped.

Dead in his tracks.

The question hit him harder than any impossible hallway.

What?
Well, what would you have chosen?
Joe stopped for a moment.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something.

Then closed it again.

Then opened it.

Nothing.

No words.

The answer just wasn’t there.

And it’s not because he was hiding it.

It’s because he genuinely never thought about it.

And consequently, he genuinely had no idea.

The realization seemed to hit him hard in real time.

32 years old.

And he didn’t know how to answer a seemingly simple question.

What would you have chosen to do?
With your life.

And he didn’t know.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead.

The lights buzzed.

The carpet continued forever.

And for a moment, Joe looked more lost than he ever had inside the back rooms.

Because some mazes aren’t made of hallways.

Some are built from unanswered questions.

You’re listening to the Midnight Drive.

I think Samantha noticed it before either Joe or I did.

Not the hallways.

Not the lights.

Not the buzzing.

Us.

She noticed us changing.

The three of us had fallen into a rhythm by then.

Walk.

Talk.

Rest.

Think.

Walk.

Repeat.

The back rooms had reduced life to its simplest components.

Movement.

Thought.

Waiting.

At some point, Samantha stopped in the middle of a hallway.

She just stopped.

Joe nearly walked into her.

What?
Samantha looked at both of us.

Then looked down the endless corridor.

And back at us again.

Do either of you remember what rain sounds like?
The question landed strangely.

Joe laughed.

Seriously?
Yeah.

Of course I remember rain.

Okay.

Why?
Samantha hesitated and shrugged.

I was trying to think about it.

Nobody spoke.

I know what rain is.

Pause.

I know I’ve heard it a thousand times.

Probably more.

Pause.

But I can’t hear it.

That shut all of us up.

Because we knew exactly what she meant.

Not forgetting something worse.

Distance.

Like the memory existed behind frosted glass.

It’s still there.

It’s just harder to reach.

Joe folded his arms.

I can hear rain.

Can you?
Yeah.

Right now?
Joe opened his mouth.

Then paused.

The hallway buzzed softly overhead.

The wallpaper stretched endlessly into the distance.

For a few seconds, nobody said anything.

Because we were all trying.

Trying to hear rain.

Trying to remember thunder.

Trying to remember wind through trees.

Trying to remember sounds that weren’t electrical.

The realization hit me like a punch.

I couldn’t remember birds.

Not clearly.

Again, I knew the birds existed.

I could describe them to you, but I couldn’t summon the sound of any kind of bird.

Not completely.

Not anymore.

And suddenly, the back rooms felt heavier to me.

Not physically, but emotionally.

Because this place wasn’t taking memories away.

It was making them harder to reach.

The difference is significant and somehow made it worse.

Joe finally shook his head.

Okay.

There was that word again.

Okay.

The word he used whenever reality stopped cooperating.

This is stupid.

Probably.

No.

He pointed around us.

This.

The hallways.

The lights.

The endless repetition.

How long have we been here?
Nobody answered.

Not because we didn’t want to.

Because we couldn’t.

The question had become meaningless.

Hours.

Days.

Weeks.

Who knew?
The phones still held their charge.

The lights never changed.

The environment never changed.

Time had become something we discussed rather than experienced.

Joe rubbed his face, then laughed.

A strange laugh.

Not happy.

Not sad.

Just tired.

I missed my office.

Samantha stared at him.

Your office?
Yeah.

That’s what you miss?
Apparently.

He shook his head.

I know that’s ridiculous.

No.

It is.

You’ve mentioned it three times.

Joe looked genuinely surprised.

I have?
Yep.

The realization settled over him slowly.

My desk.

He pauses.

My computer.

My stupid coffee mug.

A tiny smile.

The one with the football on it.

He laughed softly.

I hated that mug.

Sounds like you love that mug.

Joe shook his head.

No.

Then stopped.

Thought about it.

Finally smiled.

Maybe.

The three of us sat down against the wall.

For what felt like the hundredth time.

Nobody seemed eager to keep moving.

The hallway wasn’t going anywhere.

It never did.

After a while, Samantha spoke up.

Very softly.

I missed my shower.

Joe immediately laughed.

There it is.

What?
The most Samantha answer possible.

I’m serious.

I know.

She leaned her head back against the wallpaper.

Eyes closed.

The steam.

The hot water.

The thinking.

Joe nodded.

Surprisingly.

Not mocking.

But understanding.

Because for the first time, all three of us were talking about the same thing.

Not objects.

Not places.

These were anchors.

Small, seemingly ordinary things that quietly connected us to our lives.

A desk.

A shower.

Rain.

Birds.

Coffee mugs.

The kinds of things nobody appreciates until they’re gone.

The hallway buzzed.

The lights hummed overhead.

The yellow walls stretched endlessly into the distance in both directions.

And for a moment, none of us said anything.

Then Samantha spoke again.

So quietly I almost missed it.

What if we die down here?
The question settled into the hallway.

Heavy.

Permanent.

Joe answered first.

Of course he did.

Then we know where we’re going.

The response came instantly.

Automatic, like a reflex.

The kind of thing somebody says because they’ve heard it said before so many times.

Samantha looked at him.

Not angry.

Not offended.

Just tired.

Do you actually believe that?
Joe blinked.

What?
That!
The heaven thing!
Yeah.

The hallway seemed to get quieter.

Not literally.

The buzzing continued.

But suddenly all three of us were listening.

Joe stared at the carpet, then at the ceiling, then somewhere far down the endless corridor.

For the first time since I’d known him, he didn’t answer immediately.

The silence stretched.

Long enough to become uncomfortable.

Long enough to reveal something.

When Joe finally spoke, his voice sounded smaller than usual.

I don’t know.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The lights buzzed overhead.

The hallways stretched endlessly beyond sight.

And for the first time since entering the back rooms, the three of us sat together in
complete silence.

Not because we were afraid.

Not because we were lost.

But because every certainty we’d brought with us into this place was beginning to feel
much farther away from home.