The Long Corridor

By R.J. Tennyson

Raul pulled into the parking space and turned off the engine. He glanced at the imitation Rolex on his wrist – an imitation is all he could afford on a detective’s salary. 7:27pm.

The past four weeks Raul had been tracking ‘One Leg Jake’, a killer he knew nothing about. Hell he didn’t even know if his real name was Jake – but he did know was that ‘Jake’ was how the note nailed to the forehead of each of Raul’s murdered colleagues was signed.

Raul stared up at the crudely painted sign above the door; the address matched. An hour earlier he’d received a text from a number he didn’t recognise – ’55 WESTERN RD. 7:30. DON’T BE LATE’. This might’ve been the break he needed. Hopefully the message was from one of the snitches who scoured the city for useful information – then willing to sell it for the price of a shard of meth. It might bring him a step closer to ‘Jake’.

Raul took a deep breath as he got out of his car. It’s show time, he thought, approaching the front door of the building. With his revolver in his right, Raul turned the handle with his left hand.

As though someone was pulling, the heavy door swung – its own weight dragging it open. Raul’s eyes adjusted to the dusty darkness and Raul saw a long corridor; forty, fifty, feet long. Three doors on its left, two on it’s right. Each held firmly shut with large padlocks hanging from metal push-bolts. At the end of the long corridor stood a single door, its edges illuminated by a dull light behind it; no lock.

Raul gripped his revolver and stepped as silently as possible down the long corridor. He was halfway when he heard a noise coming from the room in front of him – a scraping; hard and heavy, as though purposely gouging the floor to leave proof it’d been there. It stopped, then started; then stopped again.

Raul continued toward the door. Its hinges revealed it would open outward toward him. With his right thumb, Raul cocked his revolver, his index finger alert and gently taking up what slack the trigger offered. Again he heard the noise. This time the scraping stopped just on the other side of the door. He placed his left hand on the knob. A thin film of sweat separated them. Steadily raising the revolver he turned the knob and yanked the door open.

Raul was met by a deafening wall of sound. One, two, three flashes of light blinded and disorientated him. He fell backwards, without aiming, he fired at the figure that lunged toward him.

The guests at Raul’s birthday party dove to the floor. Their deafening cry of ‘SURPRISE’ now silent. With her walking frame next to her, Raul’s grandmother lay in front of him; the third eye he’d given her weeping crimson tears. In her hand, she held a box with ‘Rolex’ embossed on top.