Somewhere deep in what looks like a strip mall in Orlando, there is a hallway. It is primarily beige, an unremarkable place with flecked vinyl tiles on the floor. In the hall there is a doorway, also beige, also unremarkable. There is no sign on the door, no number. If you ask one of the building’s few employees about the door, they’ll tell you they don’t know what’s in there. They don’t have the key. No one has they key, they’ll tell you. They just leave the door alone. It’s not their problem, and it shouldn’t be yours either. Please leave.
Yet, if you press your ear against the door you can hear something like breathing. Wait long enough and maybe, just maybe, you’ll hear a throaty “Oh yeeeah”.