It started with Mrs. Henderson describing the hallway. “The walls are this terrible shade of green,” she said, wringing her hands in her lap. “Like old copper, or maybe pond scum. And no matter how far I walk, it never ends. Just door after door after door, all of them locked except for the last one—but I always wake up before I can open it.”

I nodded, making a note in my journal. Recurring dreams were common enough, especially in patients processing trauma. But then Mr. Collins mentioned it in his session the next day.

“The carpet is the worst part,” he muttered, staring at his shoes. “This awful geometric pattern that makes your eyes hurt if you look at it too long. And the fluorescent lights keep flickering, but they don’t make any sound. They should make a sound, shouldn’t they, Dr. Mitchell?”

By the end of the week, five different patients had described the same hallway. The same sickly green walls. The same dizzying carpet pattern. The same endless row of locked doors leading to the one that waited at the end.

I told myself it was some sort of shared cultural touchstone, like dreams about teeth falling out or showing up naked to school. But my patients had nothing in common—different ages, backgrounds, neighborhoods. They’d never met each other. Never could have met each other.

The dreams started affecting them during their waking hours. Mrs. Henderson stopped sleeping altogether. Mr. Collins began drawing the carpet pattern obsessively on every surface he could find. Sarah Chen, my Thursday afternoon appointment, showed up with bloodied fingertips from trying to pick imaginary locks.

“You have to help us,” she pleaded. “We need to know what’s behind that door.”

That night, I found myself in the hallway.

The walls were exactly as they’d described—a nauseating shade of green that seemed to pulse in the corners of my vision. The carpet’s pattern writhed beneath my feet, circles and squares morphing into impossible shapes. The air felt thick, almost gelatinous in my lungs.

I started walking. Door after door lined both walls, their brass handles tarnished and cold to the touch. I tried each one methodically, my therapist’s mind still attempting to impose logic on this illogical place. All locked, just as my patients had said.

The fluorescent lights flickered in perfect silence.

I walked for what felt like hours. My watch had stopped working, its face showing only swirling shadows where the numbers should be. The hallway stretched endlessly before me, but when I turned to look behind, I could no longer see where I’d started.

Then I saw it. The last door. It looked exactly like all the others, but somehow I knew this was the one. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle.

It turned.

Beyond the threshold lay a vast, dark space. As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out shapes—hundreds of people, maybe thousands, all standing perfectly still. I recognized Mrs. Henderson, Mr. Collins, Sarah Chen. Their eyes were open but empty, faces slack and peaceful.

In the center of the room stood a figure. It was turning slowly, methodically, to look at me. Its movements were wrong, too fluid, too many joints. As it faced me, I saw it had no features—just smooth, green skin the exact color of the hallway walls.

It spoke without a mouth, its words bypassing my ears and appearing directly in my mind: “Welcome to the waiting room, Doctor. Your patients have been expecting you.”

I woke up screaming, my sheets soaked with sweat. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the business card on my nightstand—one I’d never seen before, printed on paper the color of pond scum. In elegant script, it read: “Thank you for joining our practice. Your first appointment is tomorrow.”

My patients haven’t come back to their sessions. Their phones are disconnected. Their emergency contacts claim they never existed. And every night, I return to that hallway. Every night, I get a little closer to joining them in the waiting room.

The door at the end is always unlocked now. It’s waiting for me. And I’m running out of reasons not to open it.