Sounds like a really bad horror movie, doesn't it? However, there is a room that doesn't exist in my school, and unfortunately, it's my US History class. You know, the one I have to go to twice a week? Straight from somewhere across the (very large) building in three minutes? Which would be hard enough if the room did, you know, actually exist?
First day of school: I check my schedule and see it's room 165. A large brown sign informs me that if I go straight, I will pass all the rooms from 128 to 170. I mentally confirmed that 165 is between 128 and 170, and I began to walk.
I kept an eye on the numbers, having spaced right past the room I needed earlier that day. 155, 156... 162, 163, 164. I blinked. Looked at the number again: 164. It's a room right on the wall in front of me, with no other doors or halls that would lead to 165, or 166, or 170. I frowned and thought that if I stared at 164 long enough, it would change into 165.
I adjusted my backpack straps and hugged my books closer to me. Some students passing me shot me odd looks, but most were already in class. A teacher came by and asked me if I needed help.
"Yes, I'm looking for room 165. Can you tell me where that is?" I asked, wishing my voice wasn't so soft and shy.
The teacher frowned. "165, you say?"
"Umm, US History," I replied, consulting my extremely wrinkled schedule. There were spots that were beginning to wear away from my fingers.
He scratched his head and shifted his weight to his left leg, placing his chin on his fingertips. He bore a striking similarity to the Aristotle pictured on the poster behind him. Finally, he spun around and pointed in the opposite direction. "Try going that way."
I looked where he pointed. "But that sign says those rooms are from 127 to 101."
"Just try it, okay?" he snapped.
"Okaaaay," I said, and started walking down that direction. 127, 126... 114, 113, 112... 103, 102, 101.
I noticed a door and decided to walk through it. The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me in a hallway so dark I could barely see the books clutched to my chest. I heard the same sound my dog makes when he drinks water after a long walk. Squinting, I saw a couple thrusting their bodies together and hungrily sucking face.
I slowly walked down the hall, careful not to bump into any other couples. I studied the room numbers: 170, 169, 168... 166... 165.
I breathed a sigh of relief and walked in, having found my class at last. Just as I entered the room, my teacher said, "And that's the end of the very important and crucial-to-life information you'll never get to hear ever again, no matter what. Class is dismissed."