Above the fourth landing

An original fictional scene set in an invented civic records office.

Just before closing time, the clerk asked me to carry a rolled street plan to the survey room on the fifth floor. The building was almost empty, and my footsteps sounded unnecessarily important on the stone stairs.

On the second-floor landing, a green mug stood beside a potted fern. Through the narrow window, I could see the clock in the square. The minute hand pointed to six.

One flight higher, another green mug stood beside another fern. The furniture must have been ordered in bulk, I thought. Even the windows had been made identical, although the clock outside seemed no lower than before.

The next landing was marked 4. Beside its fern was a green mug with a pale ring of tea beneath it. One leaf of the plant had been torn halfway across. I looked back down the stairs. On the landing below, the mug had the same stain and the fern had the same torn leaf. I stopped smiling.

I continued upwards. A footstep followed each of mine from somewhere below, always arriving a moment late. When I stopped, the other steps stopped too. Then, after several seconds of silence, one more step sounded.

The fifth-floor door was locked. In its brass plate, I saw the staircase reflected behind me. For an instant, someone was standing on the landing, holding a rolled plan beneath one arm. I turned. The landing was empty.

I hurried down, keeping one hand on the rail. After two flights, I reached a landing marked 5. The green mug and fern were waiting beside the window. As I stared at them, the door handle behind me began to move slowly downwards.