No Clipped

The Warning

The city was alive tonight, drenched in the neon glow of streetlights and the low hum of traffic that echoed between tall, weathered buildings. Aaron Jenkins pulled his jacket tighter around him as he paced down the cracked sidewalk, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the cold biting at his fingertips. It was supposed to be a quiet walk home after work—just another typical Friday night in the city. He felt the usual tug of exhaustion weigh on his limbs as his feet moved rhythmically over the concrete, the day blurring into the monotony of every other day.

But tonight, something felt different.

He couldn't place it at first—the feeling hovered at the back of his mind like a shadow he couldn't shake. The alleyways he passed seemed darker than usual, and the air hung heavy with an almost suffocating tension. His heart beat a little faster, but he kept walking, shaking his head as if trying to dispel the unease.

That's when he heard it—a voice, low and raspy, muttering to itself from the mouth of an alleyway just ahead. Aaron slowed, curiosity piqued, and glanced over. There, huddled under the flickering light of a broken streetlamp, was a man.

The figure was hunched, ragged clothes hanging from his thin frame, his hair a mess of tangled grays and blacks. His face was dirty, almost hollow, and his eyes, though half-hidden under a heavy brow, gleamed with a strange intensity. He looked up as Aaron approached, his cracked lips moving soundlessly at first. Then, with a voice that seemed to scrape against the walls of Aaron's mind, he spoke.

"They're real, you know."

Aaron paused, one foot half-lifted as if caught between flight and curiosity. "What?"

The man coughed, a dry, rattling sound that sent a chill down Aaron's spine. "The Backrooms," he said, voice no louder than a whisper but sharp enough to pierce the city's hum. "They're real. And they're dangerous."

Aaron blinked, confusion mixing with a slight wariness. He'd heard of the Backrooms before—urban legends, internet forums filled with creepy stories about endless yellow hallways and strange creatures lurking in the shadows. A joke, a meme. He almost laughed, shaking his head at the absurdity of the conversation.

"Yeah, right. Sure, man," Aaron muttered, trying to step past the figure, but the man lunged forward with surprising speed, gripping Aaron's wrist with a vice-like hold. His fingers were cold, skeletal, and the touch sent a jolt of panic through Aaron's chest.

"I'm serious," the man hissed, his breath foul with decay. "You think it's a joke, don't you? But I've been there. I've seen it." His eyes were wild now, wide and unblinking as if haunted by visions only he could see. "Once you slip through, you're never the same. They'll find you. The rooms... they change, twist, and stretch forever. And the things in there—" his voice broke, trembling, "—they're watching. Always watching."

Aaron tugged his arm free, stumbling back a few steps. His heart pounded in his ears, the man's words sinking into him like icy fingers. There was something unnervingly convincing about his tone, the raw terror in his eyes. But still, this had to be some kind of prank, right? A drunk or a crazy guy on the streets. Just another night in the city.

"I... I gotta go, man," Aaron stammered, turning quickly and walking faster down the street. He could still feel the bum's gaze burning into his back, but he forced himself not to look. The man's muttering faded into the background, swallowed by the city's hum, but the unease remained.

Aaron shook his head, trying to clear the fog that had settled over him. The idea of the Backrooms—some cursed dimension of endless hallways and lurking terrors—was ridiculous. Just an old internet story that had gone viral, nothing more. But the bum's voice stuck with him, the look in his eyes—a man broken by something beyond comprehension.