The mirror at the end of the dismal hall reflected my sunken, Kubrick eyes. There wasn't another soul in sight in the labyrinth of corridors during nights like those at the manor. The retirement home was an old colonial mansion complete with creaky wooden floors and rigid columns at the front like giant, stone bars. The residents stayed in their rooms during most of the day and didn’t dare wander around at night. They never left their voluntary prison. It was an uneventful, quiet job, except on this one particular night.

The shift showed itself in my tired expression and disheveled attire. My hair was a mess and my favorite striped jacket was wrinkled. I ruffled my hair through my fingers in the mirror but the bent parts refused to stay down. The mirror made me feel hot, and I was reminded of something strange. It must have been some deja vu from the monotonous job.

I was stuck there all night, quite literally. The owner of Growden Manor even locked the front door. He stretched heavy chains over the front entrance in violation of every fire code. It was his way of guaranteeing no one wandered off, especially me. The shiny golden key was on a string that dangled from his belt. He expected me to do janitorial work so he didn’t have to pay a cleaning service, the cheap bastard. The manor was two hundred years old, and it showed. I mostly swept the dusty floors or wiped the cobweb ridden windows until I got tired and had to find something else. 

I killed a little time in the lobby flipping through the magazines, slouched deep on the sofa. There was quite a selection built up over the years spread out across the coffee tables. I had read most of them by that point, even though they don't change much from issue to issue. The tabloids decreed “Let them eat cake!” and the dieters listened week after week. There was always someone on the brink of death on the cover of Merchant of Death. And then there are the things for the visitors, I assumed. I picked up Teen Hearts & Minds but quickly put it back down. I'd even flipped through the Playgirl that's out there. That's the one that sticks out as a particularly odd choice. But there was really not much else to do on a night like that one other than browse.

The best reading material was gone. The film periodical I stole with my favorite director on the cover was home on my nightstand. Dexter Shuman, was the indie filmmaker who had risen to critical acclaim by breaking all the rules and became one of the best of all time. "Will Hollywood change him?" asked the cover story from ten years ago about a man no one has ever seen since. He gazed apathetically outward, signature premature snow white hair slicked back, looking right through me. He was up there with the big three: Kubrick, Kurosawa and Bergman. Stanley Kubrick was a master director, of course. His films were works of art, perfection on celluloid.

Kubrick pushed his films to their limits, and his actors. If it meant forcing a nervous breakdown from Shelley Duval to sell the scene, then so be it. She became a nervous wreck on set as Stanley grew increasingly unhinged. His bearded face with raccoon eyes took on a primal, intense expression like his character’s “Kubrick stare” but he was always in control. 

The headlights that came through the front windows started to agitate me and I felt compelled to move deeper into the heart of the manor. I wasn’t afraid of the dark or anything, but the place creeped me out and it always seemed like someone could be watching me.

In the recreation center an old television without basic cable collected dust in a cabinet. I couldn’t figure out how to hook it up or even where the power was coming from, so it was only good for videos. The assortment of VHS tapes inside were mostly childrens' movies for grand-kids. It didn't matter because I like cartoons. I am an animator myself, or at least that's what I went to school for. This job was keeping me from pursuing my career in the movie industry. All I wanted to do was create cartoons but I wasted my time stuck in a dead end job. Popping one of the tapes in, I began to doze off until an intense hissing sound interrupted me.

The staircase to the unlit basement was nothing but unfinished cement. Its makeshift rooms were horribly not up to code, even for the eighteenth century. With hallways like catacombs that branched off in every direction, I had to hunch over making it difficult finding my way around. I found my mind slipping back in time, to when that place was built. In the cerulean glow from my phone I couldn’t help but notice the metal brackets bolted into the walls, arm's length apart, stretching across the stone into the obscurity of the pitch. Any night could have been the night I got lost and couldn’t find my way back. 

The furnace was at the far end of the cellar. Getting to it was a daunting task. The air was so thick that it felt like a sweatbox. Every sound escalated my nerves. Before long, my anxiety got the best of me and I had a small panic attack. Claustrophobia gripped me. I went back upstairs for air.