The Backrooms Pt. 5: After weeks spent wandering impossible hallways, endless pools, and a suburban landscape that felt more like a memory than a place, Joe, Samantha, and the narrator discover something they thought they might never see again: A path upward.
Transcript
Host:
Tonight, on the midnight drive, after weeks spent wandering impossible hallways and endless
pools, three friends discover something they thought they might never see again.
A sky, rolling green hills, neighborhoods stretching across the horizon, and houses
that look almost like home.
Almost.
But after everything the back rooms have taken from them, certainty has become difficult
to trust.
Because the closer something appears to reality, the more unsettling the differences become.
Tonight, Joe Samantha and yours truly follow the final thread of a journey that began with
a marble staircase hidden deep in the woods.
No monsters, no answers, no explanations.
Just one final path forward.
And the question that has followed them through every impossible room.
What if home is still waiting?
The splashes continued.
Not often, not regularly, just enough.
A sound, every now and then, somewhere, out beyond the endless blue chambers.
A distant reminder that something existed beyond our immediate view.
For a while we followed them.
Not because we believed someone was making them, at least not consciously, I think all
three of us had moved beyond that kind of certainty.
The back rooms had a way of teaching humility.
Every assumption eventually broke.
Every theory eventually collapsed.
Every explanation eventually felt too small.
So we followed the splashes.
Not because we understood them.
Because they represented change.
And change had become precious.
The pool rooms continued for what felt like days.
Endless white tile.
Endless blue water.
Endless reflections.
The architecture became larger the farther we traveled.
At some point the pools stopped feeling like pools.
They felt like lakes.
Indoor lakes.
Bodies of water stretching beyond sight beneath impossible ceilings.
Massive pillars disappeared upward into darkness.
Walkways crossed distances that should have required bridges.
The scale felt dreamlike.
Not scary.
It was just difficult to process.
Eventually Joe stopped.
Not because of a splash.
Because he’d seen something.
Up ahead.
It looked like a staircase.
The three of us froze.
Nobody spoke.
Because staircases meant something now.
The first staircase had changed everything.
The first staircase had taken the world away.
And standing there in the pale blue glow of the pool rooms, all three of us were thinking
the exact same thing.
Not again.
Not again!
Joe laughed softly.
A tired laugh.
Well, nobody answered.
Because there wasn’t anything to say.
The staircase rose from the edge of a massive pool.
A straight tile.
Simple.
Unremarkable.
And yet somehow it commanded all of our attention.
The steps disappeared upward through an opening in the ceiling.
The first upward path we’d encountered since entering the back rooms.
The first one.
Weeks.
Months.
Days.
Whatever amount of time had passed, this was the first staircase leading somewhere other
than deeper.
Samantha stared at it, then looked at us.
You thinking what I’m thinking?
Joe nodded immediately.
Absolutely.
I nodded too.
Nobody wanted to say it out loud.
Hope had become dangerous.
Hope hurt when it failed.
The back rooms had taught us that same lesson repeatedly.
So nobody said.
This could be the way out.
Nobody said.
We’re almost home.
Nobody said.
We made it.
We simply climbed.
The staircase wound upward slowly.
The blue glow faded beneath us.
The sound of water became distant.
Then quieter.
Then quieter still.
Until eventually the pool rooms disappeared entirely.
The staircase continued.
Upward.
Always upward.
A direction that we’d almost forgotten existed.
At some point I noticed something.
A smell.
Fresh air?
I stopped immediately.
Joe stopped.
Samantha stopped.
Nobody needed to explain because we all smelled it.
Fresh air.
Not carpet.
Not dust.
Not stagnant water.
Fresh air.
The realization hit all three of us at once.
Joe closed his eyes.
Actually closed his eyes.
As though he was afraid the smell might disappear.
Samantha laughed.
Then immediately started crying.
Not sobbing.
Just tears.
Silent tears.
Weeks of pressure finding a crack.
Neither Joe nor I said anything.
Because there wasn’t anything to say.
The smell alone was enough.
The staircase continued upward.
The air grew warmer.
Brighter.
Lighter.
And finally the ceiling opened.
The three of us emerged and stopped completely.
Because above us was a sky.
A sky.
Blue.
Endless.
Beautiful.
The first sky we had seen since the forest.
The first clouds.
The first horizon.
The first open space.
For a moment.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
The three of us simply stood there staring upward.
I don’t even know how long.
A minute.
Ten minutes.
An hour.
It didn’t matter.
Because for the first time in forever there was a sky.
Joe eventually laughed.
Then laughed harder.
Then sat down on the grass.
Actual grass.
Green.
Soft.
Real.
At least it appeared real.
The three of us stood there taking everything in.
Rolling green hills stretched across the horizon.
Neighborhoods dotted the landscape.
White fences.
Street lights.
Mailboxes.
Sidewalks.
Houses.
Hundreds of houses.
Maybe thousands of houses.
The entire world actually kind of looked like a suburban dream.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
The grass seemed slightly too green.
The sky slightly too blue.
The houses were slightly too clean.
Like somebody had reconstructed the idea of a neighborhood from memory.
A very good memory, but still a memory.
Joe stood slowly looking across the hills.
I don’t see anybody.
The words settled heavy on all three of us.
Because suddenly we noticed it too.
No people.
No cars moving.
No dogs barking.
No birds.
No lawnmowers.
No wind.
No sound at all.
The neighborhood stretched endlessly across the landscape.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly empty.
Joe stood there and just stared at the horizon.
Samantha and I sat there and we stared at the horizon.
It’s really a difficult thing to explain.
But somehow, sitting up here on the hill, overlooking this endless expanse of pristine
suburban neighborhood, somehow that felt lonelier, far lonelier than the hallways ever had.
You’re listening to the Midnight Drive.
We approached the neighborhood slowly.
Not because we were afraid.
Because after everything that we had experienced, certainty had become difficult.
The back rooms had a habit of punishing assumptions.
And this place felt like one enormous assumption.
A neighborhood.
A perfectly ordinary neighborhood.
Except for the part where nobody lived there.
The three of us walked down a gently sloping hill toward the nearest street.
The grass felt strange beneath my feet.
Not artificial.
Not astroturf.
Too consistent.
Every blade the same height.
Every patch the exact same color.
Every hill perfectly shaped.
Like a rendering.
Like a memory.
Like somebody had spent years designing the world’s most idealized suburb.
And had forgotten the people.
Joe stopped beside a mailbox.
No number.
No name.
Nothing.
Just a mailbox.
He opened it.
Empty.
Of course.
The road stretched in both directions.
Spotless black asphalt.
No cracks.
No oil stains.
No tire marks.
No evidence that a vehicle had ever even touched it.
The houses lined both sides of the street.
Beautiful.
Identical.
Not exactly identical.
But close enough.
Each house looked like a variation of the same memory.
White siding.
Front porch.
Garage.
Flower beds.
Curtains.
Everything exactly where it should be.
Everything except life.
No movement.
No sound.
No people.
No pets.
Nothing.
Silent.
I remember looking through a front window.
The living room.
Beyond.
Looked absolutely perfect.
It had a couch.
A coffee table.
Bookshelves.
Family photos.
The photos caught my attention immediately.
I walked closer.
Closer.
Then froze.
The frames contained pictures.
But nobody was in them.
There were backgrounds.
The backgrounds existed in the picture.
The beach.
The mountains.
The living room.
The birthday party.
The wedding venue.
But every photograph was empty.
As if the people had never been added.
My stomach tightened.
Not fear.
Recognition.
This place wasn’t a neighborhood.
It was an approximation of one.
Joe had noticed something similar.
A parked car.
The vehicle looked pristine.
Fresh off a showroom floor.
He opened the door.
The keys were in the ignition.
The gas tank was full.
The engine started immediately.
Then died instantly.
Joe tried again.
Same result.
The engine came to life.
Then shut off.
As though the car understood the concept of running.
But not the purpose.
The three of us continued walking.
House after house.
Street after street.
The same pattern repeating.
Everything present.
But nothing alive.
Only Samantha stopped.
Not because she’d found something.
Because she’d reached a limit.
Weeks.
Weeks of pressure.
Weeks of uncertainty.
Weeks of impossible spaces.
Weeks of wondering whether home still existed.
The weight of it all had finally caught up.
She sat down on the curb.
Staring across the neighborhood.
Joe sat down beside her.
Neither spoke.
I joined them.
The artificial sun hung motionless above us.
The hills stretched forever.
The houses remained quiet.
And for a while, nobody said anything.
Then Samantha spoke.
Very softly.
I can’t picture her anymore.
Joe looked over.
Neither of us asked who.
We already knew.
Her mother.
The hallway conversations had told us enough.
Samantha stared at the street.
I remember her voice.
I remember her laugh.
She paused.
I remember how she’d squeeze my shoulder when she walked by.
Another pause.
I remember this time.
But I can’t see her face.
Nobody interrupted.
The silence felt sacred somehow.
Like speaking would only make the moment worse.
I know what she looks like.
I know I do.
But every time I try, her voice cracked just slightly.
The details disappear.
Joe stared down at the sidewalk.
For once, he didn’t try to fix anything.
Didn’t offer encouragement.
Didn’t offer solutions.
Just listened.
Because some problems aren’t looking for answers.
They’re looking for witnesses.
Eventually Joe spoke.
So softly, I almost missed it.
I miss traffic.
Samantha laughed.
A tearful laugh.
What?
I’m serious.
He smiled.
A tired smile.
I miss sitting at red lights.
I miss being annoyed.
I miss Mondays.
That got a genuine laugh from all three of us.
The first real laugh in what felt like literally forever.
And somehow that made the silence afterward easier.
Because now we understood something.
The back rooms hadn’t made us appreciate grand things.
Not success.
Not achievement.
Not fame.
Not purpose.
Small things.
Ordinary things.
The things people complain about every single day.
The things nobody notices until they’re gone.
The neighborhood stretched endlessly before us.
A perfect imitation of home.
And maybe that’s why it hurt.
Because it was close.
Close enough to remind us what we’d lost.
But not close enough to give it back.
Then Joe stood up.
Without warning.
Without explanation.
And then he pointed.
Farther down the street.
At a house.
Nothing remarkable at first glance.
Just another perfect house.
Another perfect lawn.
Another perfect porch.
Then I saw it.
The basement door.
Built into the side of the house.
Slightly open.
Not wide.
Just enough.
A narrow black line against the white foundation.
The first open door we’d seen in this entire place.
The three of us stared at it.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody needed to.
Because after everything.
After the hallways.
After the offices.
After the pool rooms.
After the endless suburb stretching beyond sight.
There was only one thing left to do.
We started walking toward the house.
You’re listening to The Midnight Drive.
The house looked exactly like all the others.
That was the problem.
Nothing distinguished it.
No special color.
No unusual shape.
No sign that it mattered.
And yet there it was.
The only open door we’d seen since entering the suburban world.
The basement entrance sat along the side of the house.
Partially open.
Waiting.
The three of us approached carefully.
Not because we thought something was inside.
At least not in the traditional sense.
By this point, we’d learned that danger in the back rooms rarely announced itself.
The danger was always pressure.
Distance, time, memory.
The slow accumulation of uncertainty.
Joe reached the door first.
He looked back at us.
Nobody said anything.
Then he pulled it open.
The hinges did not squeak.
Of course they didn’t.
Nothing in this place ever aged.
The doorway opened into darkness.
Not complete darkness.
Just enough that we couldn’t see very far.
A staircase descended below ground.
Wooden stairs.
Ordinary wooden stairs.
For a moment, none of us moved.
Then Samantha laughed.
A small, exhausted laugh.
What if this is another staircase?
Nobody answered.
Because all three of us had already thought it.
The marble staircase.
The fog.
The counting.
The beginning.
Everything traced back to a staircase.
Joe took a deep breath.
Then stepped inside.
The rest of us followed.
The basement felt cooler than the neighborhood outside.
Not cold.
It was comfortable.
The staircase descended straight downward.
Simple, predictable, ordinary.
A word that had become almost mythical.
Ordinary.
The wooden steps creaked softly beneath our feet.
The first genuinely familiar sound
I’d heard in what felt like literally forever.
We descended slowly.
One step, then another, then another.
The light from outside faded behind us.
The darkness deepened.
And for a few moments, everything
felt surprisingly normal.
The handrail ran along the wall.
The wood felt worn.
Real.
The staircase continued downward.
Joe was the first to notice.
He stopped completely.
The rest of us nearly walked into him.
What?
Joe didn’t answer.
He simply pointed at the next step.
I looked down and immediately felt my stomach drop.
Marble.
Not wood.
Marble.
Bright, white marble.
Exactly like the staircase in the forest.
Nobody spoke.
Joe stepped down carefully.
The next step.
Marble.
Another.
Marble.
Another.
Marble.
The wooden staircase ended without any warning.
And the marble staircase continued below.
Exactly as before.
Perfect.
Pristine.
Impossible.
Samantha closed her eyes.
Not in fear.
It was recognition again.
Weeks of pressure.
Weeks of uncertainty.
And suddenly, the beginning was standing in front of us again.
Nobody needed to discuss it.
Nobody needed to debate it.
The three of us knew.
Joe laughed.
A tired laugh.
Of course.
Nobody argued, because honestly, of course.
The back rooms had always spoken in circles.
Hallways, pools, neighborhoods, patterns, repetition.
The staircase felt inevitable somehow.
Like we’d been walking toward it the entire time.
We continued downward.
The marble steps stretched beneath us.
White.
Clean.
Nobody counted.
Not at first.
The memory hurt too much.
Then eventually, Samantha said, quietly,
One.
Joe looked back.
She shrugged.
May as well.
Fair.
Two.
Another step.
Three.
Another.
Four.
The counting continued.
Slow.
Steady.
The same way it had all begun.
Except now, something was different.
The three of us weren’t counting,
because we were confused.
We were counting, because we remembered.
The staircase descended farther and farther.
The darkness around us gradually softened.
A faint glow appeared below.
Not yellow, not blue.
Moonlight.
Actual moonlight.
I stopped breathing for a second.
Not literally, just enough.
Because suddenly I knew, or at least I hoped,
the glow grew brighter.
The marble steps continued.
Then finally, the staircase ended.
Grass.
Real grass.
Dirt.
Roots.
Stone.
Forest.
The three of us stepped forward slowly.
Nobody said anything.
Nobody moved much at all.
Because standing beyond the staircase,
beneath a sky filled with stars, was the forest.
The same forest.
The same forest.
Or what appeared to be the same forest.
The trees swayed gently.
A breeze moved through the leaves.
Actual wind.
The sound nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Leaves.
Branches.
The natural chaos of the world.
Messy.
Imperfect.
Alive.
The three of us stood there, just listening.
Just listening to everything happening around us.
We listened for a long time.
Nobody wanted to be the first person to say it,
because saying it out loud would make it real.
And after everything we’d experienced,
hope still felt fragile.
Finally, Samantha whispered, I think we’re home.
Nobody corrected her.
Nobody challenged it.
The stars stretched overhead.
The forest breathed around us.
And for the first time since the marble staircase
had appeared among the trees, the three of us
allowed ourselves to believe it might be real.
Nobody ran.
I’ve thought about that a lot.
Because if you’d asked me before any of this happened,
before the staircase, before the hallways,
before the pool rooms, before the endless suburb,
I would have assumed that escape would look like this.
I would have assumed that escape would
look intense, dramatic, cinematic.
People sprinting, people crying, people celebrating.
Something from a movie.
Instead, the three of us just stood there.
The forest moved gently around us.
The wind passed through the trees.
Leaves rustled overhead.
And none of us seemed capable of doing much more than listening.
Listening to a world that wasn’t artificial.
Listening to a world that didn’t loop.
Listening to a world that felt alive.
I remember kneeling down.
Not intentionally.
My legs simply gave out.
The dirt beneath my hands felt rough, uneven, messy, perfect.
Nothing in the back rooms had ever been messy.
Everything had been controlled.
Repeating.
Predictable in all of the wrong ways.
The forest wasn’t.
The forest felt real because it was imperfect.
Joe sat down beside a tree.
Not saying anything.
Just staring upward through the branches, watching stars.
Actual stars.
Samantha was crying again.
Not from sadness.
Not from happiness.
Relief.
Pure relief.
The kind of relief that arrives after you’ve
carried something for so long that you’ve forgotten
what life felt like before it.
Nobody asked how long we’d been gone.
Nobody checked their phone.
Nobody discussed theories.
Nobody asked questions.
For several minutes, the three of us simply existed.
Then eventually, Joe laughed.
A real laugh.
Not nervous.
Not forced.
A real one.
I miss mosquitoes.
That broke whatever tension remained.
All three of us laughed.
Hard.
Genuinely.
Because it was ridiculous and completely true.
The forest suddenly felt full of things
we’d spent our lives ignoring.
Insects.
Dirt.
Wind.
Temperature.
Sound.
Movement.
Life.
The ordinary miracles of a very ordinary world.
Joe shook his head.
I can’t believe I missed traffic.
Samantha laughed.
I can’t believe you missed traffic.
I do.
That’s insane.
I know.
Another laugh.
Another moment.
Another reminder that we were still ourselves.
Changed.
But ourselves.
The laughter eventually faded.
The quiet returned.
Comfortable this time.
Not oppressive.
Not endless.
Comfortable.
When Samantha asked me, how do you feel?
I asked the question.
The one we’d all been avoiding.
Do you think anybody noticed?
The forest seemed to grow still.
Not literally.
Just inside us.
Because we’d all thought about it.
None of us had wanted to say it.
Joe looked down at the dirt.
At the grass.
Anything except us.
I don’t know.
Neither did I.
The truth was we had no idea.
Had we been gone?
For days?
Weeks?
Months?
The back rooms had never offered answers.
Why would they start now?
Samantha stared into the darkness between the trees.
My mom would have noticed.
Joe nodded.
My parents too.
A pause.
Then.
Kelsey probably wouldn’t.
I got another laugh.
A much needed one.
But the question remained.
Somewhere out there.
Beyond the forest.
Beyond the trail.
Beyond the staircase.
The world had continued.
People had gone to work.
People had eaten dinner.
People had paid bills.
People had celebrated birthdays.
People had argued.
People had fallen asleep.
Life had continued.
Whether we’d been part of it or not.
And somehow.
That thought felt beautiful.
Not cruel.
Beautiful.
Because the world hadn’t depended on us.
It had simply kept going.
The stars shone overhead.
The breeze continued moving through the trees.
And I realized something.
The back rooms had spent weeks stripping things away.
Comfort.
Routine.
Noise.
Distraction.
Certainty.
Until eventually only a handful of things remained.
People.
Memories.
Home.
Not the place.
The feeling.
The thing we’d been chasing through every hallway.
The marble.
And every impossible room.
The thing we’d almost forgotten.
Joe stood first.
Then Samantha.
Then me.
The marble staircase remained behind us.
Silent.
Pristine.
Exactly how we’d found it.
The moonlight reflected softly from its surface.
And the three of us simply stared at it.
The beginning.
The ending.
The same staircase.
Waiting.
Patient.
Impossible.
Nobody suggested climbing it again.
Nobody suggested investigating.
Nobody suggested trying to understand.
There’s some questions that stop feeling important.
Everything we’d experienced, understanding, wasn’t what we wanted anymore.
We’d spent weeks searching for explanations.
What we’d actually been searching for was something else.
Perspective.
The forest trail appeared faintly through the trees.
Familiar.
Ordinary.
Wonderful.
Joe adjusted his backpack.
Samantha wiped her eyes.
I took one final look at the staircase.
Then at the stars.
Then at my friends.
Nobody said anything.
There wasn’t anything left to say.
So we turned around and we walked home.