Notary Office - 17 x 20 - Cthulhu Architect

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Notary Office – 17 x 20

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“Every notary carries about inside him the debris of a poet.”

― Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

The Notary’s office stood at the end of a dimly lit corridor in a building that seemed older than the city itself. The brass nameplate simply read “Public Notary – Documents Authenticated,” though the letters appeared to rearrange themselves when I wasn’t looking directly at them.

I needed a simple document notarized – my grandmother’s will. The appointment was set for 11:55 PM, an odd time, but the notary insisted it was the only slot available.

The waiting room was a study in faded burgundy and dark wood, filled with the musty scent of old paper. Other clients sat motionless in Victorian chairs, clutching manila envelopes and documents. I couldn’t tell how long they’d been there.

“Next,” called a voice like rustling parchment.

Inside the office, the notary sat behind an enormous desk covered in stacks of yellowing papers. Her hands were stained with ink that seemed to move beneath her skin like dark veins. The rubber stamps on her desk had symbols I’d never seen before, certainly not official state seals.

“Your document?” she asked, extending fingers that were far too long and jointed in too many places.

I handed over my grandmother’s will. She opened it without looking at me, but I noticed her smile reflected in the brass desk lamp – too wide, too many teeth.

“This requires a special seal,” she said, reaching into a drawer that shouldn’t have been that deep. “And of course, your signature… in red ink.”

The pen she offered had no visible ink reservoir. When I pressed it to the paper, it drew blood from my fingertip. The signature glowed momentarily before sinking into the document.

“Perfect,” she whispered. “Now, about your own will…”

I looked up to protest but froze. The other clients I’d seen in the waiting room now lined the office walls, their bodies flickering like old photographs. Each held a document bearing a red signature.

The notary’s smile widened impossibly. “Everyone needs their papers in order. It’s a matter of public record.”

I tried to leave, but the door had vanished. The walls were now covered in filing cabinets that stretched into infinite darkness above. Each drawer was labeled with a date – some centuries past, others yet to come.

She opened a drawer marked with tomorrow’s date. “Don’t worry,” she said, her ink-stained fingers extending toward me. “Your documents will be filed properly. They all are.”

I’m still here, watching her stamp papers with seals that burn through dimensions. The other clients have become signatures in her ledger, their souls archived in perpetuity.

If you need a document notarized, there are other offices. Don’t come here, no matter how late they’ll see you. Some signatures can never be undone, and some records are kept far longer than forever.

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