Why do certain municipal records show signatures from officials who died before the documents were supposedly created, and what's behind those basement offices that don't appear on any floor plans? Which city council meetings are held without public notice, and why do some civic ceremonies require participants who aren't elected or appointed to any known positions? What's stored in that vault beneath the foundation that requires keys held by trustees whose identities remain sealed?
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The more you approach infinity, the deeper you penetrate terror
― Gustave Flaubert
Cornelius Thorne adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles as he approached the imposing stone facade of Millbrook’s town hall, its Gothic Revival architecture casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The building had stood for over a century, weathering countless storms and civic disputes, yet something about its austere presence always made visitors feel unwelcome.
Inside, the lobby’s marble floors gleamed under flickering fluorescent lights that hummed with an unsettling frequency. Thorne had come to file a simple property dispute, but the clerk behind the mahogany counter seemed oddly reluctant to process his paperwork. Her pale fingers trembled as she sorted through filing cabinets that appeared far older than the building itself.
“Room 237,” she whispered, handing him a brass key that felt ice-cold against his palm. “Third floor. Follow the hallway until you reach the end.” Her eyes never met his, and when Thorne glanced back, she had vanished entirely, leaving only the scent of aged parchment and something else---something organic and decay-sweet.
The elevator’s brass accordion gate clanged shut with finality, and as it lurched upward, Thorne noticed the button panel included floors that shouldn’t exist. The building was only three stories high, yet buttons labeled “B2,” “B3,” and ”∞” gleamed alongside the standard numerals. The elevator shuddered to a stop at the third floor, but the hallway beyond stretched impossibly long, lined with doors that bore no numbers.
Room 237 revealed itself at the corridor’s end, though Thorne couldn’t recall walking such a distance. Inside, filing cabinets stretched to a ceiling that seemed to disappear into shadow. The paperwork he needed to complete lay spread across an ancient desk, but the forms demanded information that made no sense: “Date of Soul Transfer,” “Preferred Dimensional Alignment,” and “Next of Kin in Adjacent Realities.”
As Thorne filled out the bizarre documentation, he began to understand that Millbrook’s town hall wasn’t just a seat of local government---it was a processing center for something far more fundamental. The building collected more than taxes and permits; it harvested the very essence of civic participation, transforming citizens into something else entirely. When he finally emerged hours later, Thorne found his reflection in the lobby’s mirrors showed not his face, but an empty space where a person should have been.
The clerk had returned to her post, now wearing Thorne’s features with uncomfortable precision. She smiled with his mouth and stamped his completed forms with practiced efficiency. “Thank you for your patience,” she said in his voice. “Your transformation has been approved. Please expect your new assignment within seven to ten business days.”
