The Last Chapter
Paul Moss

The Stairwell

I found myself in a dark stairwell. After groping around for a few minutes, my eye began to adjust and the vague spotlight of my retina began to make out the shadows of the staircase. A twinkling little star hit my eye from the first step leading upward. It was a key.

Door 17B

I reached the first landing and tried the key in door 17B — the number was scratched heavily into the woodwork. The key grated and stuck in the lock. I wrestled with it before I managed to get it out. Nothing unnerves me as much as a key grating in the wrong lock. I brushed my tongue over the edges of my teeth and swallowed the nausea.

The key worked its way loose and the action caused the inevitable reaction; the door swung open of its own accord. It opened onto a living room showered in the purple light of a backroom casino: fag ends, discarded bottles of beer and spirits, little evil-looking blue dragons of smoke curling overhead, mutterings and malevolence. Seven men sat hunched over a small wooden table staring intensely at a confusion of cards, half of them on the floor, the rest splayed onto the table trying to escape. The seven men grinned yellow grins.

By way of introduction, I asked if anyone had a paper handkerchief. No one so much as breathed. The dragons of smoke yawned in the air above their heads.

I left.

Door 3

The next landing up I tried my key again. It stuck again. My teeth felt like razor blades. I tried pushing the door open, but it only rattled. Above the door was a little message engraved on a brass tube that read: "I thought you were coming earlier.”

Sauna Room

Another floor, another floor. There was a large double door made of reinforced steel. Above it, in large ornate letters: “Sauna Room.” Somewhere in the distance, from behind the door, I heard the erotic laughter of an underage girl. I moved on furtively.

Room 101

I ran up to the next floor.

The Parachute

The climb was getting tedious. I found a huge unfurled parachute. I grappled with it for awhile and then gave up in dismay.

Three Young Women with Clipboards

Later I was confronted by three young women with clipboards. Their blazing eyes lit up the corridor. They attacked me with questions. One was bold and beautiful, one was diligent and persistent, another I didn’t even notice until I had managed to get passed them. There is a lot to be said for the pain of lost love.

The Boiler Room

I must have been high by this time. No need for the key. The boiler room had no door, just a large gaping hole. Inside sat a whale of a man reading pornography. The man's fat rolls spilled across the floor tiles. He asked me if it was time. I said it was about time. The boiler hissed, missed a beat, and the man picked up a copy of Thus Spake Zarathustra and started to lose weight.

The Maternity Ward

I was arrested by the hustle and bustle of the maternity ward. Screams, wretches, interminable laughter. A blue-eyed baby looked me in the eye and quite clearly, quite intelligently stated, “The last chapter is next.”

The Little Door at the End of the Corridor

The staircase ended. Only one door remained. I could see it at the end of the corridor. The key vibrated in the palm of my hand. I walked forward. Some time later I was still walking.

The corridor ended. Only one door remained. I could see it in front of my face. The key vibrated in the palm of my hand. I reached forward. Sometime later I was still reaching.

I gripped the doorknob and pulled it off. I knocked on the door and asked if anybody was home. I put my ear against the door. I listened.

I turned and began to retrace my steps.

Raised in the outer regions of Manchester, England, Paul Moss is an English teacher and has been teaching overseas for the last thirteen years. After several years in Bulgaria, he moved a little further east to China, where he has been teaching in Shanghai for the last five years. He recently returned to the UK, to live with his brother, his wife, daughter and son, three dogs, one cat and one rabbit in a Scottish farmhouse, while he awaits the birth of his first child. In his spare time he writes fiction and plays, some of which have been published and produced here and there.