Home / The Door in MIT's Basement: I Went In and Now I Regret It
The Door in MIT's Basement: I Went In and Now I Regret ItChapter 2: The Wrong Coordinates
Chapter 2: The Wrong Coordinates：696words
Update Time：2026-01-19 06:34:08
I stood frozen in the doorway, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Darkness oozed from the doorway like something alive. My job description definitely didn't include "exploring interdimensional portals." I clean floors, collect a paycheck, and deal with PhD candidates who can't figure out which end of a trash can opens. That's it.
But another voice piped up in my head—the voice of "Leo the Model Employee." What if this is just some forgotten storage room? Could be filled with trash, flammable materials, or leaking pipes. As frontline maintenance staff, it's my duty to check it out, at least to determine if it needs immediate attention.
A perfectly reasonable justification. I latched onto it immediately.
I pulled out my phone, cranked the flashlight to maximum brightness, and aimed the harsh white beam into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, I stepped across the threshold.
What I saw beyond the door stopped me cold.
This was no storage room. It was a corridor—narrow and stretching into the distance. The walls were crude, unfinished concrete with rough surfaces still bearing the imprints of formwork. Nothing like MIT's underground system with its smooth painted walls or bright tiled surfaces. This looked more like a Cold War bunker.
The air felt different too. Gone was the antiseptic smell and climate-controlled dryness of the building. Here hung a thick dusty scent mixed with something else—ozone. Like an old TV set running too hot.
My rational brain scrambled for an explanation: perhaps this was some ancient passage predating the campus construction. Plausible enough.
I inched forward, my boots creating hollow echoes against the cement. I pulled out my phone again and opened my mapping app.
The blue dot sat motionless on my screen, showing my location—in the maintenance corridor, second basement, Building 32. Right where I'd been standing moments ago, outside the door.
I walked several steps forward, eyes glued to the screen. The blue dot remained stubbornly in place.
I walked another dozen steps, nearly reaching the limit of my phone's light. Checking the screen again—that damn blue dot hadn't budged an inch.
I refreshed the app. Nothing. I checked my phone status—full GPS signal, normal network connection. Yet according to the map, I might as well have been standing still.
That's when the first real chill of fear hit me. Not fear of the darkness, but fear of technology failing. My phone was my lifeline, my truth-teller. And now it was lying to me.
The ozone smell intensified. An inexplicable weight pressed down on me as my pulse quickened. This corridor wasn't just visually wrong—it felt wrong. I realized it wasn't straight. It curved ever so slightly, a distortion barely visible but something my body's equilibrium could sense.
I aimed my light deeper down the passage. The beam seemed to grow sluggish, swallowed by the darkness ahead, barely penetrating. As if the darkness itself had mass and weight.
"Enough," I muttered. This was way above my pay grade. Time to retreat, lock this door—if possible—and send my supervisor a detailed email with photos tomorrow. Let someone earning six figures deal with this nightmare.
I spun around and hurried back. The bright rectangular doorframe wasn't far—a portal back to sanity. Within seconds, I'd crossed through it and returned to the familiar, well-lit maintenance corridor.
I whirled around, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut. It clicked closed with perfect precision. The strange symbol caught the light one final time before being sealed away.
I exhaled deeply, collapsing against the opposite wall, suddenly aware of my shirt clinging to my back with cold sweat.
I stayed there until my heartbeat normalized. Finally, I straightened up, ready to wheel my cart away from this cursed spot. Out of habit, I glanced back one last time.
My blood turned to ice.
That door. That deep gray metal door.
It was gone.
In its place stood a perfectly intact wall of white ceramic tiles. The grout lines between them flawless and unbroken. And there, in the corner where it had always been, that lightning-shaped crack silently mocked me.
As if that door, that corridor, and my entire reality-shattering experience had been nothing but a hallucination.
Darkness oozed from the doorway like something alive. My job description definitely didn't include "exploring interdimensional portals." I clean floors, collect a paycheck, and deal with PhD candidates who can't figure out which end of a trash can opens. That's it.
But another voice piped up in my head—the voice of "Leo the Model Employee." What if this is just some forgotten storage room? Could be filled with trash, flammable materials, or leaking pipes. As frontline maintenance staff, it's my duty to check it out, at least to determine if it needs immediate attention.
A perfectly reasonable justification. I latched onto it immediately.
I pulled out my phone, cranked the flashlight to maximum brightness, and aimed the harsh white beam into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, I stepped across the threshold.
What I saw beyond the door stopped me cold.
This was no storage room. It was a corridor—narrow and stretching into the distance. The walls were crude, unfinished concrete with rough surfaces still bearing the imprints of formwork. Nothing like MIT's underground system with its smooth painted walls or bright tiled surfaces. This looked more like a Cold War bunker.
The air felt different too. Gone was the antiseptic smell and climate-controlled dryness of the building. Here hung a thick dusty scent mixed with something else—ozone. Like an old TV set running too hot.
My rational brain scrambled for an explanation: perhaps this was some ancient passage predating the campus construction. Plausible enough.
I inched forward, my boots creating hollow echoes against the cement. I pulled out my phone again and opened my mapping app.
The blue dot sat motionless on my screen, showing my location—in the maintenance corridor, second basement, Building 32. Right where I'd been standing moments ago, outside the door.
I walked several steps forward, eyes glued to the screen. The blue dot remained stubbornly in place.
I walked another dozen steps, nearly reaching the limit of my phone's light. Checking the screen again—that damn blue dot hadn't budged an inch.
I refreshed the app. Nothing. I checked my phone status—full GPS signal, normal network connection. Yet according to the map, I might as well have been standing still.
That's when the first real chill of fear hit me. Not fear of the darkness, but fear of technology failing. My phone was my lifeline, my truth-teller. And now it was lying to me.
The ozone smell intensified. An inexplicable weight pressed down on me as my pulse quickened. This corridor wasn't just visually wrong—it felt wrong. I realized it wasn't straight. It curved ever so slightly, a distortion barely visible but something my body's equilibrium could sense.
I aimed my light deeper down the passage. The beam seemed to grow sluggish, swallowed by the darkness ahead, barely penetrating. As if the darkness itself had mass and weight.
"Enough," I muttered. This was way above my pay grade. Time to retreat, lock this door—if possible—and send my supervisor a detailed email with photos tomorrow. Let someone earning six figures deal with this nightmare.
I spun around and hurried back. The bright rectangular doorframe wasn't far—a portal back to sanity. Within seconds, I'd crossed through it and returned to the familiar, well-lit maintenance corridor.
I whirled around, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut. It clicked closed with perfect precision. The strange symbol caught the light one final time before being sealed away.
I exhaled deeply, collapsing against the opposite wall, suddenly aware of my shirt clinging to my back with cold sweat.
I stayed there until my heartbeat normalized. Finally, I straightened up, ready to wheel my cart away from this cursed spot. Out of habit, I glanced back one last time.
My blood turned to ice.
That door. That deep gray metal door.
It was gone.
In its place stood a perfectly intact wall of white ceramic tiles. The grout lines between them flawless and unbroken. And there, in the corner where it had always been, that lightning-shaped crack silently mocked me.
As if that door, that corridor, and my entire reality-shattering experience had been nothing but a hallucination.