Right, settle in. The Library. My new home, therapist, and potential infinite prison rolled into one glorious, eternally lit, vaguely musty package. Forget Level 0's monotonous yellow hum or Level 11's perpetually daytime cityscape shuffle; this place, Level ZH-653, is where the real action is, provided your definition of action involves deciphering philosophical texts that might be elaborate jokes penned by cosmic entities with a twisted sense of humour. Safety? Check. Compared to whatever teeth-gnashing horrors lurk just beyond any given doorway in less… archived Levels, this place is a spa retreat. Danger here is mostly existential, paper cuts, or accidentally stumbling into the "Forbidden Library" downstairs and getting politely but firmly teleported back by a nattily dressed Librarian. Which, frankly, sounds preferable to being turned inside out by a Smiler.
So, picture me: yesterday's hero (read: terrified survivor), today's aspiring scholar of the weird. I'm surrounded by bookshelves that mock the very concept of "ceiling." They just go up, forever, presumably holding tales from dimensions where gravity is merely a suggestion and Tuesdays don't exist. The air hums with a silence so profound it feels like a physical presence, punctuated only by the soft shush of turning pages from other lost souls finding solace, distraction, or perhaps just instructions on how to reassemble their sanity after witnessing a hallway fold itself into an origami swan.
My fingers, practically tingling with the thrill of not running for my life, trace the spines. Gold leaf lettering winks under the eternal glow of the lanterns – flames burning with unknown fuel, brighter than they ought to be, never flickering out. Comforting, in a way. Predictable light in an unpredictable multiverse. I drift towards the 'B' section – Philosophy, Psychology, Religion. Seems like a good place to start untangling the cosmic knot I've found myself in. My eyes snag on a hefty volume. Call Number: BF237 .C4 4935. The title practically leaps out and slaps me with a dose of cosmic angst: "Existential Dread in Infinite Space: A Wanderer's Guide." Oh, goodie. Sounds like light reading.
This is definitely a Backrooms Book. No ISBN, publisher listed as "The Wandering Press (Est. ???)", and the cover illustration is a crudely drawn stick figure peering into a swirling vortex that looks suspiciously like a toilet bowl flushed with nebulae. It feels… authentic. Like it was written by someone who gets it. I heave the tome – and it is a tome, dense as dwarf star matter – off the shelf. The pages are thick, yellowed, with a texture like aged vellum that somehow resists the omnipresent dampness of other Levels. It smells faintly of ozone, old paper, and desperation.
I find a relatively secluded spot between towering shelves, settling onto one of the thoughtfully provided wooden chairs near a hollowed-out nook containing a perpetually unlit lantern and a bizarrely cheerful-looking potted plant. Time to dive in.
The author is listed only as "K.M." – initials that could stand for anything from "Knowing Mystic" to "Kevin Malone." Judging by the tone, I'm leaning towards the latter, if Kevin Malone had spent too much time contemplating the infinite horrorscape. The preface sets the stage with a cheerful disclaimer: "If you're reading this, you're probably lost, scared, and questioning whether that patch of wall actually just winked at you. Good news! You're not crazy. Probably. Bad news! Reality here is that messed up. This book won't get you home, but it might help you keep your marbles… mostly."
Chapter One: "Spatial Anxiety: When 'Up' Becomes a Philosophical Debate." K.M. dives right in, describing that gut-wrenching feeling when the corridor you just walked down is suddenly… not there. Or when you turn a corner and find yourself inexplicably back where you started, only the wallpaper is now puce instead of pee-yellow. K.M. argues, with surprising academic rigour interspersed with panicked scribbles in the margins, that our Frontroom-evolved brains are hardwired for predictable, Euclidean space. We need reliable right angles, floors that stay beneath our feet, and a consistent sense of direction. The Backrooms, K.M. posits, weaponizes geometry. "It's not just that the space is infinite," one passage reads, "it's that it's aggressively infinite. It actively resents your attempts to map it. It rearranges itself out of spite. Trying to navigate Level 8 using conventional means is like trying to knit fog – pointless, frustrating, and you'll probably just end up poking yourself in the eye." He includes several anecdotes, like "The Tale of Barry and the Infinite Staircase," wherein poor Barry apparently climbed a single flight of stairs for what subjective time suggested was three weeks before realizing he was only two steps higher than where he started, but his shoes were now on his hands. The accompanying illustration looks like Escher designed a fire escape after a particularly bad batch of almond water.
Chapter Two: "Ephemeralism, or: Don't Get Attached, It'll Probably Noclip Away." This section tackles the sheer transience of everything here. Not just the geography, but objects, memories, even fellow wanderers. K.M. recounts finding a beautifully crafted music box in Level 4, only to have it dissolve into dust when he looked away for a second. He speaks of companions vanishing mid-sentence, not taken by entities, but simply… ceasing to occupy that particular slice of reality. "The Backrooms operate on the permanence of a soap bubble in a hurricane," K.M. writes. "Build a base? It might relocate itself to another Level overnight. Make a friend? They might forget who you are by morning, or worse, forget who they are. The core tenet of survival here isn't fighting or hiding; it's radical acceptance of impermanence. Cling to anything – an object, a place, a sense of self – and the Backrooms will pry your fingers off one by one, laughing its silent, wallpapered laugh." He suggests thinking of yourself not as a resident, but as a temporary glitch in an unstable system. Morbid, yet weirdly practical. The chapter includes a "Helpful Exercise" box: "Try to remember exactly what you had for breakfast three days ago. Now, try to remember if 'three days ago' even happened. See? Ephemeralism!"
Chapter Three: "Entity Nihilism: Why Arguing Theology with a Hound is a Bad Idea." This was the bit that really resonated. K.M. tackles the bizarre menagerie of creatures inhabiting these spaces. His central thesis? Stop trying to understand them. Stop assigning motives, malice, or meaning. They aren't demons, angels, or aliens in the way we understand them. They are simply… there. Products of the same reality-warping nonsense that created the infinite yellow rooms. "Is a Smiler 'evil'?" K.M. asks. "That's like asking if a landslide is evil. It's a dangerous phenomenon operating according to its own inscrutable rules. Attributing human-like malice to it is a category error that will get you killed faster than trying to high-five a Skin-Stealer." He argues against viewing entities as tests, punishments, or cosmic jokes, suggesting they are more akin to "sentient physics glitches". "Trying to comprehend the 'why' of a Faceling," he writes, "is as productive as trying to teach quantum mechanics to a pot plant. Observe, avoid, survive. Do not attempt to psychoanalyze the shapeless horror squelching towards you. It doesn't care about your childhood trauma; it just experiences your existence as an irritating anomaly it needs to 'correct'." The chapter features unsettlingly detailed sketches of various entities (clearly labelled "DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PET") alongside philosophical arguments that boil down to: They Are Weird. Get Over It. This perspective, strangely, felt less terrifying than the idea of calculated malevolence. Random, chaotic danger is somehow more manageable than purposeful cosmic spite.
Chapter Four: "The Architecture of Anxiety: Interior Design by M.C. Escher and H.P. Lovecraft." K.M. gets almost academic here, analyzing how the environment itself messes with your head. He discusses the psychological impact of the humming lights in Level 0, the disorienting symmetry, the claustrophobia-inducing low ceilings in some areas versus the agoraphobia-inducing vastness of others. He talks about the colour palettes – the maddening yellow, the sickly greens, the sudden, jarring splashes of incongruous colour that feel like visual jump-scares. "The Backrooms don't just contain fear," he argues, "they are built of it. Every element, from the texture of the walls to the ambient sounds (or lack thereof), seems calculated to fray the nerves, undermine certainty, and foster a state of perpetual unease." He includes diagrams analysing sightlines in common Level layouts, showing how they often lead to dead ends or force the wanderer into exposed positions. "It's paranoia-as-a-service," he concludes grimly.
The final chapters offer coping strategies, leaning heavily on dark humour, mindfulness (or "voidfulness," as K.M. calls it – accepting the buzzing emptiness), and finding small, achievable goals. "Organize a shelf. Brew some almond water tea. Draw a map that you know will be useless tomorrow. These aren't solutions, but they are anchors in a sea of unreality." He stresses the importance of connection, however fleeting, with other wanderers, not for safety in numbers (often irrelevant here), but for sanity. Sharing the absurdity makes it slightly less crushing. The book ends not with a promise of escape, but with a shrug. "You're here. It's weird. Try not to die screaming. Good luck. – K.M."
I gently close the book, my brain feeling like it's been marinated in paradox and dread, yet strangely… lighter. Putting a name to the weirdness helps. "Existential Dread in Infinite Space" is going back on the shelf, but its cynical wisdom feels like a necessary tool.
My stomach rumbles, a mundane anchor. Time for a transition. I wander towards one of the alcoves where a Librarian entity – tall, impeccably dressed in a grey striped suit, face indistinct but radiating calm professionalism – is overseeing a small trading post. I exchange a few oddments I salvaged from Level 11 (a working pen, a slightly crumpled but intact map fragment of a city block that probably doesn't exist anymore) for standard rations: a bottle of lukewarm Almond Water and two protein bars that taste faintly of cardboard and existential compromise. Back in my chosen reading nook, I eat slowly, savouring the blandness. It's predictable. It's real. The silence here is a balm after the constant hum or unsettling noises of other Levels.
After eating, I feel the urge to impose some small order on the chaos. I spend maybe half an hour tidying the shelf near my seat. Realigning spines, grouping similar (and equally bizarre) Backrooms Books together, carefully moving a stray Frontroom Book – a dusty copy of Orwell's 1984 – to a more appropriate section. Its stark, familiar warnings feel almost quaint compared to K.M.'s guide to navigating reality's nervous breakdown. A couple of other wanderers drift past, offering nods. One pauses, noticing the K.M. book I just finished. "Good one, that," he mutters, his eyes scanning the shelves. "Bit bleak, but honest. Read 'The Geometry of Fear' yet? Makes K.M. look like a stand-up comic." We chat briefly about the weirdness, the shared relief of finding this place, the constant low-level thrum of 'what now?'. It's nice. Simple. Human.
As the unchanging lantern light persists, signalling another arbitrary cycle's end, I retreat into one of the suspended "reading booths" – cozy little wooden rooms accessible via request from a Librarian. Inside, plush leather sofas, a small table, and more shelves lined with magazines I don't recognise. It feels secure. Safe. I settle down, not to sleep exactly – circadian rhythms are a Frontroom luxury – but to rest, process, and let K.M.'s bleak wisdom settle before diving into whatever geometric nightmares await me next. The Library enfolds me in its quiet embrace, a haven of documented madness.