The Backrooms

The last time I ever touched the piano was almost seventeen years ago.

I was still a kid, but entering my teenage years, around fifteen or so. Like many of my colleagues had when they were younger, I was forced by my parents to learn an instrument. "It's good for you," they said, "it'll be a skill you have over other people," they told me, repeatedly, as though they were some kind of mechanical toy, forced to repeat the same phrases over and over and over with no intent to stop till the day the sun burned out. I had already been on the piano for nearly nine years by then, and I would be lying if I didn't admit I was getting rather tired of their rhetoric.

In particular, my mother. She emphasized my need to do well in this specialty because she learned the piano herself when she was younger, and probably wished for me to carry on at least some of that legacy, even though she never explicitly told me so. Whenever I asked why she plays the piano, she just told me dismissively that her mother had her play because everyone else was doing it. Now she's bringing that with her, so she could pass that on to me. A part of me never quite believed that story, knowing her mother was a piano teacher as well and probably had similar wishes of legacy, but I decided not to push it too far out of fear that I might be yelled at for asking personal questions. While my mother still sent me to a teacher, yes, much of what I learned was more or less her way of doing things. There's a certain melancholy I feel reminiscing on that fact — the fact that she told me I have to keep my wrist up, using only the force of my fingers and playing with my fingertips. I was told that was the natural way of doing things, the correct way, and as my mother, I couldn't really rebut her expertise, so I listened obediently.

Yet, I can't talk about the piano without bringing up the violent trauma that scarred my youth. My mother often told me a terrible story of a girl who got gutted for their fingers just barely grazing the keys a half step higher. Their practice regiment lasting 10 hours a day as their delicate black and white keyboard grew tainted with blood from abuse, and their sheet music became tattered with stains of children's tears. That story terrified me and kept me in line, believing my mother's practice methods were reasonable. But still, my mother nitpicked at my every inconsequential mistake, scolded me for not reading the sheet music, and embarrassed me in front of acquaintances even when I was trying my best. Every day, I just couldn't avoid getting my hands slapped down against the keyboard for "not playing properly," and while I tried to cry, complain, and argue to her in futile attempts of rebellion, she never seemed to consider anything I brought up, or be satisfied with anything I played, for that matter. The scars on the piano still ended up digging themselves into me deeper than my bloodline had.

I have tried moving on, but that's still probably what bred a kind of nervousness within me whenever I come across a piano. These seemingly insignificant but lingering moments that ingrained themselves in my childhood, living rent-free in my head, as both the temptation of playing something and the fear of making a mistake clash. It's just seven hours a week, yet it consistently returns as a staple of my history. My mother, fortunately, hasn't sucked enough joy out of the art for me to completely avoid it, but I diverted my attention away from anything music-related the older I got. I'm still not sure if that's what she wanted…

I didn't get another chance to play the piano again. My journey on the keyboard was flipped on its head as high school rolled around. My parents planned it such that we would have immigrated to a better place right when I was about to graduate from primary school. We couldn't take the piano with us, so we left it where we formerly lived. While we still tried to fit something musical into my schedule, between the summer programs and the honors classes I preferred over the piano, we decided it would be best to phase the lessons out completely. We couldn't afford a new keyboard anyway. Three years quickly rolled by, then five, then seven. College followed high school, graduate school followed college, and then my job, and then my date. As time flies, my touch for the piano slips further and further. Occasionally, I would be reminded of my former affinity for this instrument, but every time I tried to sit down and play something, something else was there to pull me away, and that last something else ended up being the Backrooms…

I was making a routine exploration through Level 5, in accordance with the contract that I have with the Major Explorer Group. It was supposed to be a standard expedition, nothing too extraordinary. An investigation into a newly reported entrance into Level 5. I was meant to bring my team with me, as per protocol, but Jared said that he was overdue on his paper assignments, and Sahara was on paid leave, traveling to see her family on Level 11, and, well, god knows where Anthony could be; he's always disappearing without notifying anyone.

I wasn't quite in the mood to travel with anyone anyway, and I didn't feel like getting reprimanded for falling behind on assignments, so I decided to venture out on my own. A strange disposition for me, since it was against my training, but I must admit I was never much of a people person to begin with, so I didn't mind too much. And sure, I was breaking a core tenet of venturing the Backrooms, but I'm feeling experienced enough at this point to where I can probably wrestle a hound and man-handle a deathmoth or two. It wasn't like I had to go through the Boiler Rooms or anything. Being completely honest, had it not been my duties as the dominant explorer for the 7th team of Outpost "Housekeeping," which confines me to at least three bodyguards that I'm constantly training, I would've done more solo trips. There's something pleasant about being alone in such a vast space of semi-familiarity, and, yeah, things in the Backrooms are still only semi-familiar to me, even when I've been here for… something like five years. I still ponder my past frontroom life from now and then, wondering what that could've become had I not carelessly tripped on the staircase during that last urban exploration trip before my new life.

I made sure to pack everything I needed — Ten essentials, some firesalt, deathmoth repellent, a camera, and a hiking stick for beating up… whatever it is I need to beat up — before leaving a note on the desk of my hotel room regarding my departure. Heading out from the outpost, which was near the main entrance, I journeyed past the Main Halls. Samantha was there, begging for tribute as always, and after giving her some chicken, she gave me a reading that I didn't pay much attention to. Something something, you're about to have a great time in a room of bleak and gloom, so on and so forth. She rambled on for a bit, and while my mind slipped on the nitty-gritty, I did catch the fact that she said something about me being on a device of refined black and white. The thought of a piano flashed before my mind at the time, but it's been over fifteen years, and music wasn't carrying the weight it used to for me, so I didn't think about it too much. I nodded to her wisdom and absentmindedly carried on towards the direction of the ballrooms, a nexus of Level 5 and the route towards the supposed new entrance.

At that moment, I must've taken a wrong turn somewhere, because I had found myself quickly entangled by a swarm of deathmoths. It was a strange disposition, and admittedly an embarrassing one considering my supposed familiarity with Level 5, but, to be frank, you're not a Backrooms explorer if you hadn't entangled yourself in a completely avoidable mess. There were initially only five moths, but it was still an unusually high number for an area that was supposed to be cleared out and safe for wanderers. It was not wise to fight so many alone, so I turned and fled from the scene. Per procedure from my training, I pulled out a knife and marked the walls so I have something to retrace my steps with later on as I scanned for the next safest accessible room. My hopes sank as five minutes of running yielded nothing that appeared remotely trustworthy, and my lungs began to sting from exertion. Many of the doors in this area were either silk-bound or marked with a red X, and when I eventually found a couple that appeared to work, they were locked, and I was forced to keep running.

I looked over my shoulder as five moths had become seven. I'd curse to myself at that moment of how I had encountered a hive had I not been too busy looking for an escape. My adrenaline surged, and I started beelining — A left turn, followed by two rights, I think, then a couple more lefts. I don't recall the details. I was unsure of how long I had been running, but soon enough, I eventually found myself staring at a dead end. The red and brown of the hallway and carpets closed in and became unforgivably taunting. The reality of the situation dawned on me as I realized I could no longer run and had to put up what could have been the last fight of my entire life. I readied my moth spray, a feeble canister of incense compared to the endless trail of moths, swarming en masse and casting the shadow of a thousand armies.

Perhaps this would've been the end of my story, had a strange door not manifested before me at the end of this closed hallway.

A piano looking door, kind of like this.

It was the one trustworthy door I could see at this point, better than facing the moths anyway, so in a Hail Mary play, I accelerated towards the door before colliding my body against it, forcing the door open before scrambling to bar it behind me…

I leaned heavily against the door, taking a deep breath as I listened to the pandemonium outside rise intensely, the dull impacts of the moth's body ramming against the door. My heart nearly skipped a beat as a loud thud shook the door, and I quickly strained myself to barricade the door against that rising threat. But, eventually, the sounds outside wound down and the room soon became dead silent. I presumed the moths lost my scent, but I decided it was better if I didn't find out. I was breathing hard by this point, exhausted from the fact that I barely scraped by with my life, but I nonetheless still had to plot a proper escape. I searched for any form of communication with the outer world, but quickly realized that, crap, I left my radio back at home base. I couldn't call for help, and had thought to myself then, "Ah, well, someone will find me eventually." I definitely wasn't going to head out the same door I just came in from, not yet, at least, not when there's potentially a whole camp of moths waiting for me. It was a big bet to make to survive in a foreign environment like this, but whatever, I had enough rations to last me a little over fifteen days.

I looked around. It appeared as though I had entered an antechamber of some kind. The walls were a dark blue, painted to mimic the color of the night sky with specks of white as stars. I'm not sure why it was this way, but it felt dreamy, almost like sleeping on a silk cloud. The darkness, while beautiful, was still quite unnerving, however, and staring down the hall of the room behind the door made me realize how unusually desaturated and cool the room was. Such anomalies further drew on my interest in the room, past its vestibule and towards the wider, seemingly naturally lit chamber at the end. I've never seen a room on Level 5 with an interior such as this in the three years I worked at Housekeeping, so I decided to venture further in. Perhaps there was another exit or a no-clip location within the greater chamber. I made sure the door behind me was truly secured, and, just in case, I sprayed the door with that moth repellent I was holding — I wasn't up to take risks at that moment — before venturing further in. The room was almost uncomfortably silent, but the light at the end of the tunnel called to me. My training told me to yield and await rescue here, where it's safe so far, yet my temptation compelled me forward. Cautiously, I approached the light as I held my breath and stepped into the greater room.

The end of this antechamber's hallway opened up to a study. Looking around, there didn't appear to be anything too out of the ordinary. There were shelves of books on the wall, a single sofa facing towards a coffee table, and even a fireplace. But my eyes quickly rested on, perhaps, the single most defining feature that stood at the center of this small world…

The Piano

Look at this beauty

I had known that pianos existed within the Backrooms; there were one or two that MEG is currently tracking in Level 11, but to call them a luxury would be an understatement. They were never common among the labyrinth of corridors in many Backrooms levels, and even in levels with wide open spaces, they either didn't spawn or weren't functional when they did. Sure, one could try to repair or build a piano, but the tools and resources required to build one were rare, and those with the skills to maintain it were even rarer.

It was at that moment that I was reminded of my younger self. Irresistibly, I set aside my supplies against a leg of the piano and took a seat. I carefully opened the piano, the lid creaking as it was lifted. The foreign, yet familiar, black and white keys revealed themselves, shimmering off the natural lights that peered through the curtains as gold from an unearthed treasure. I looked around rather nervously, to make sure there wasn't anybody watching, before returning to the piano once more, examining it carefully. Looking at the labels, I gave a quiet gasp. It was not just that this was a functional grand piano in the depths of the Backrooms, but specifically that this was a Steinway and Sons, a coveted piano brand I've only seen from afar. I have no idea what it was doing in this room, but an excitement washed over me as I now have a chance to touch one, something that I never thought I would do in my life, for the legendary status of this piano I've only heard of on television. I placed my shaky right hand and set it on the white keys. Almost immediately, my middle finger played a note, but just as quickly, I pulled my hands away, fearing that I would both damage the piano and attract something with the noise. I waited in anticipation for a few moments, but it appears that, still, no one was watching.

At that moment, I let out a sigh. Nobody was in that room with me, and nobody came in. I sat for a moment, contemplating whether it would be better for me to continue on my journey. Yet, I couldn't bear leaving the bench, my heart seating me down against my will. It would be a shame if I had not played the piano at least once here, because god knows when I'll be coming back — if I'll ever even be able to get back. I weighed my options, trying to justify my departure with fear that someone or something might catch me in the act, but, strangely, these fears gradually slipped my mind as I looked up at the piano again. There was just something enchanting about this room, this piano, that had drawn me to meddle with its keys. I finally convinced myself to play the first thing that came to my mind, Chopin's Winter Winds Etude. Opus 25, no 11. It was the last thing that I was taught, the last thing I practiced, and the piece I performed at my last recital before I moved away. I wasn't sure at the time if I still remembered how to play, but I decided I wanted to make a recording anyway as a treat for myself to savor the sounds of a Steinway and Sons Grand piano back at home base. So I carefully set a recorder pen onto the sheet music stand…

And then, I began.

Slowly and carefully, I touched the first few notes with softness, uncertain of what might happen next. The first keys rang, then echoed back through the chamber as I continued to fight myself internally, the nervousness of my trauma slowly creeping up towards my fingertips, freezing me temporarily. I was deliberating, then, whether I had learned anything from my mother or had forgotten all of it after so long. I doubted I could perform anything meaningful outside this first part. Seventeen years was plenty enough time to forget, after all.


Yet clearly, my doubts were unjustified.


Thinking back, I think I just made one of the best decisions of my life. To describe what happened next as a miracle would be an injustice. Almost like magic, my fingers waltzed across the keyboard as if no time had passed since my last performance. Every movement was smooth, unrestricted, free-flowing, and dynamic, yet every chord was powerful in just the right way. Every note came to me by memory, arranged itself in front of my eyes, and splayed out in the midnight sky, guiding each step of my virtuosity. Despite the lack of sheet music, the lack of practice, and the lack of guidance for seventeen years, I managed to play everything perfectly. It was second nature, like the thousandth time I've practiced this piece. All was as familiar as my right hand.

I could not stop myself then. Lost was I in the trance of the music and the performance. All my worries, stress, concern of my competence and my surroundings dissipate. I played, as I had never played before, and as if I could never play again. My energy at that moment, dedicated purely to the execution of my performance. I had no audience, yet somehow the result of what I played felt as though it still mattered, and as I progressively approached the coda, the memories of my younger self struck back. A time of indifferent punishment from my mother for my mistakes, sure, but also a time when I was most capable. A time when I was never told how capable I truly was.

What happened next may have been nothing more than a euphoric illusion, but I promise that it happened. My memories began to blend with reality. The background of the simple piano room phased from the greenish grey study to a concert hall. I looked towards the audience, and saw my mother again, in the front row, but this time, I didn't see a face of disappointment. Instead, I saw pride. A tear glimmered from the corner of her eyes under the stage lights as she held onto my father. Something I don't think I've ever noticed from her before. Time slowed down a bit between us as I nodded to her, and she nodded back, seemingly giving me the approval to conclude. As I turned back to the keys again, with the might of my determination, I pushed through the end. My body with all its force, masterfully playing each and every note crystal clear, and on the last note of the chromatic, I felt liberated. Everything was done; the years of the torture I endured culminating in this climactic moment as I questioned why I ever feared to begin with. The crowd erupted in a standing ovation as my piano teacher rushed on stage to congratulate me, and my acquaintances began giving me hugs and flowers. My father cheered at me, so loudly that his voice pierced through the crowd and became the single voice I was able to focus on. I was so moved myself that I hadn't even realized I was tearing up, until my mother brought herself in front of me and wiped it off with a handkerchief. I looked at her, and she looked back. I didn't see the usual anger or disappointment she had whenever I played the piano anymore, but instead I saw her face lit with a rare, exhausted smile that conveyed pride. At that moment, I couldn't hold back anymore, and I leaned into her shoulders, crying, not sure how to receive it all. She lowered herself in front of me and gave me a kiss on the forehead, whispering, "I always knew you had what it takes. It's your moment now, take it all in, dear." With confidence soaring at an all-time high, I faced the audience once more and took a bow…

Just as quickly as the uproar began, it ended. I was snapped back into reality, back into the study, where everything was silent again. There were no monsters, no audience, no parents. Then I remembered I was in The Backrooms, and the hotel that's safe to the extent you paid attention, and I looked around the piano, still a little bit entranced in a half-dream state, trying to figure out what just happened. As far as I could tell, it was still the seemingly normal Steinway, the seemingly normal desaturated study, and my seemingly normal self — well, as normal as the Backrooms get at least. I looked at my hands again, which were still resting in a wrist-up position, as my palms sweat bullets from the sheer ecstasy of my performance. A single drop of tear hit the back of my hand, which woke me up enough for me to realize I was still sobbing, so I wiped my face off against my shirt and took a deep breath. My self-esteem returned to a low, and I thought back on the euphoria of my performance. If only this had actually happened, and I had something to show for it.

I looked up at the piano stand again, and realized that my recorder pen was still there, the red light that indicated record was still on. I scrambled frantically to check whether or not it had picked up any of the things I played at that moment and, sure enough, it was all there. I sat, stunned as I listened to each immaculate note I just played once more, the music, though of an audibly hindered quality, still echoed through the room beautifully. I slowly teared up again at the beauty I had just accidentally produced, and with a slight chuckle to myself, I had to admit I never realized how emotional I can get sometimes. The recorder recorded exactly what I played, which was the very thing I couldn't believe I had just played, and as the recording came to a close, I took a moment to recollect myself as I reminisced on my performance, the anemoia which had just struck me, and the feeling of confidence that began to surge through me once more.

As stunned as I was, time eventually came for me to carry out my standard duties. I wandered the room a bit, getting ready to find an exit. Looking down at my hands, then looking out the window, I was thinking about who I really played for in that moment. Did I really play for an audience or did I perform for my peers? Perhaps I played for my parents, whom I'll never see again. Maybe I was being compelled to play the piano by the force of nature that is this room, or maybe the audience was but a facet of my imagination manifested by the magic of the music resonating off the walls. Or maybe it was just my own temptation that channeled my talent within. I don't know. I don't even know if I really had control over the situation, to be frank. It certainly felt as though I wasn't fully in control of myself. My hands felt like my own, as does my mind, yet what I've played cannot have been possible with my present abilities. I then looked back at the piano again, but this time the piano appeared to look back, encouraging me to do another piece…

So, I stayed. What's the harm, I told myself.

I found a few books of music on the shelves on the opposite end of the piano. It was amusing, now that I think back on it, that music from revered Frontroom composers was there, but I didn't put much thought into it at the time; I was concentrated on playing Chopin and Bach. Some pieces I still recall fondly, my muscle memory driving much of my performance, others that were far beyond my skill level, yet strangely, I had no problems playing. I remember being surprised when I saw Chopin's Ballade there on the shelf. My mother loved Chopin, and I've tried practicing Ballade No. 1 quite a few times, so perhaps as an homage to her, or just a desire to be starstruck by the feeling of home again. I tried to play it, and I ended up performing perfectly. It was a shame I had not made a recording of it, but I don't think a recording would've captured why it was dear to my heart anyway.

…

A corner for rest

I think I stayed for an hour or two in the Piano Room. Between the euphoria of music and the nostalgia-filled solitude, I couldn't recall. I do remember myself shuffling between sitting at the armchairs, playing the piano, and walking around to try and find an exit that didn't require me to go through the same door that I came in from. The fireplace led nowhere, and still had half charred wood placed in its center; the windows couldn't be opened, but a row of Cypress trees blocked the view beyond the outer perimeter of the property; the shelves had no secret doors behind them, though they did have some tea ware — not that I had the ability to brew any tea in that situation. It was, truly, just a normal study room, which, ironically, made it all the more usual to me. I eventually gave in to my exhaustion and passed out on one of the armchairs.

The last thing I remember from this trip was waking up in the hallways of the hotel, where I was cornered, with the deathmoths all dispersed now. I'm not sure when or how I left. I presume I came out the way I walked in, but when I looked back in search of the black and white door behind me, it disappeared as though it never existed, and I was facing a wall of red and brown wallpaper. I was still confident that I saw this room at that time, as I still had my photographs and my recordings. That evidence sufficiently proved to me… it wasn't a dream, and it was all real. I did play on a piano in the Backrooms, and I did see myself do it. I ended up leaning against the wall for a good while. My mind, still in that cozy study, thinking about the short time I had in that Piano Room, incredibly grateful it was there to save my life, but a little sad I wasn't there to spend more time documenting it. No matter, it was that room's way to tell me my journey today was over, and I had to head back now.

From there, with a heavy but content heart, I followed my marks I left back to base, towards home, where I began my journey…

13th of May

Re: Check in

To Stephen Owling
Outpost "Housekeeping" Supervisor,

Hey Owling,

Thanks for your concern. I've made it back to my room now, and I'm doing alright. I wasn't aware I've been gone for nearly five days at this point. For me, it felt like it's only been five hours since I journeyed out, more or less. I'm fine now, really, I'm just glad to be back home again.

P.S.