It was supposed to be just another day. A simple errand—renew my license at the DMV. Yet, the moment I stepped into that dingy, gray room, I sensed something was off. The air was stuffy and hot, like a claustrophobic sauna, and a slow hum buzzed through the space.
“Number 378!” an automated voice droned.
The room was packed. There were families, couples, individuals—all waiting. Rows of cheap plastic chairs spread out across the room, most of which were filled. A lone LED screen hung at the front, flashing numbers sporadically.
I pulled my ticket from the dispenser: 512.
Okay, I thought, might not be too bad.
To my left, an older gentleman coughed hoarsely. “Been here since mornin’,” he rasped. “Don’t seem like it’s movin’ much.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, feels like that every time. Hopefully, it moves quickly today.”
The hours started to drag. But what struck me as strange was the room’s stillness. Kids weren’t fidgeting. No one was complaining or checking their watches. Everyone was… waiting.
“Number 379!” the voice declared. But I couldn’t see anyone attending the counters.
By hour three, I began pacing. The room had no clocks, and my phone oddly showed the same time as when I first checked: 10:34 AM.
“Hey,” I nudged a young woman beside me. “How long have you been here?”
She stared blankly ahead. “I… I don’t know. I came in the morning.”
I frowned, “Has the line moved for you?”
She blinked, her eyes filling with sudden dread. “I don’t think so.”
Feeling a twinge of unease, I tried to pinpoint the staff behind the counters, but they seemed like shadows, blurry and indistinct.
“Number 380!”
I approached the old man again, “Sir, do you remember the last time your number changed?”
He squinted at his ticket: 402. “Don’t think it has.”
Suddenly, a chilling realization washed over me. None of the numbers being called matched anyone in the room.
“Hey!” I shouted, my voice echoing. “Is anyone here below 400?!”
A sea of vacant faces stared back.
Desperation clawed at me. I tried the exit, but the door wouldn’t budge. Windows wouldn’t break. We were trapped.
I felt eyes on me. I turned, noticing for the first time a man in a dark suit, observing silently from a corner. His gaze was predatory.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
He smiled, teeth unnaturally white against his pale skin. “I am merely an observer.”
“Observer of what?”
“Of this,” he gestured grandly at the room.
“This isn’t real, is it?”
He chuckled. “Oh, it’s very real. But it’s also never-ending.”
Horror gripped me. “Let us out!”
He leaned in, his voice a chilling whisper. “You see, this line doesn’t end. You all came here willingly, and now you’re stuck in the Eternal Queue.”
I stumbled back, heart racing. But deep down, a part of me already knew. We were ensnared in something beyond our understanding.
Days—or what felt like days—passed. The concept of time blurred. People became agitated, their initial patience evolving into panic. Some shouted and pounded on the walls, while others simply sobbed, slumped in defeat.
Food and water were nonexistent. Yet, nobody felt hunger or thirst. Just a gnawing sense of despair. The automated voice continued its relentless chant.
“Number 382!”
The man in the suit was always there, watching, enjoying our torment. He seemed to feed off our desperation. But despite everything, anger bubbled within me.
“We need to break this cycle,” I declared one day, rallying those around me. “This is our reality, and we can change it!”
A group of us began to strategize. The counters, we realized, were the source of the voice. If we could dismantle it, maybe, just maybe, we could disrupt the loop.
One evening, as the room dimmed mysteriously, we made our move. Chairs became weapons as we charged, but the closer we got to the counters, the more disoriented we became.
It was like wading through a thick fog. The world twisted, and vertigo overwhelmed us. The counters seemed to stretch endlessly ahead.
And then, out of the fog, he appeared—the man in the suit.
“What a futile attempt,” he sneered. “Did you truly believe you could escape?”
“We won’t be your playthings,” I spat, determination fueling me.
He smirked, circling us. “You humans. So predictable. Always thinking you can change your fate. But this? This is your eternity.”
One by one, my allies fell, consumed by the mist. But I pressed on, driven by sheer will. With a final, desperate lunge, I reached the counter.
My fingers grazed the cold surface. The world spun, and suddenly, I was in another realm, the room stretching infinite in all directions. Countless queues snaked around, filled with innumerable souls, all waiting.
The man in the suit approached, clapping slowly. “Impressive. You’re the first to ever reach here.”
“Why? Why do this?”
He sighed. “Humanity’s obsession with waiting, with patience, with the promise of future rewards—it’s laughable. You queue for things, for experiences, even in death, you wait for salvation. So, I give you the ultimate waiting game.”
“This is hell,” I whispered.
He shrugged. “A hell of your own making. You can leave any time.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. But no one ever realizes. They’re so conditioned to wait, to believe in the process, they never think of simply walking away.”
Anguish filled me. “So, we can just… leave?”
He nodded, gesturing to a door behind him, previously unseen. “But know this: once you leave, there’s no coming back. Most choose to stay, hoping for their number, clinging to a false sense of hope.”
I looked back at the room, at the countless souls trapped in their own despair. “I won’t be one of them.”
As I approached the door, he whispered, “Remember, the true horror isn’t monsters or ghosts; it’s the human mind’s ability to trap itself.”
The door opened to a blinding light, and I stepped through, leaving behind the Eternal Queue and its haunting lesson.