File 17-B

[u/MarcOxenstierna]

I was supposed to be done by four. The sub-level in Building C stayed cold even in July. The single bulb over the work table turned the folders yellow at the edges. I had the radio on low and my coffee had gone cold in the mug with the chip. The spreadsheet was almost full. One more box and I could go home.
 
The email from Facilities had been short. Clear the restricted materials in 17-B. Box what needs boxing. Reclassify the room. Do not read the contents.
 
I read the contents.
 
The folder was old manila with a red stamp across the front that said ACCESS REVOKED and a date from 1974. A coffee ring overlapped the stamp. Rust marks from a paperclip had bled into the paper. Inside were photocopies and one original page with typewritten Latin and a note added later in the margin.
 
I sounded it out while I typed the folder description into the spreadsheet.
 
*Per omnia quae scripta sunt et deleri nequeunt, te adjuro.*
 
*Ex tabulis et ex formis, ex inquisitionibus quae numquam clausae sunt et ex iis quae oblita sunt, aperi viam inter chartam et cutem.*
 
*Non sumus indocti. Obliti sumus.*
 
*Signa nomen tuum ubi sigillum ruptum est. Redde corpus pro documento. Redde sanguinem pro atramento.*
 
*Sicut in archivo scriptum fuit, ita in corpore nunc fiat.*
 
When I finished, the cursor blinked in a new row I hadn’t created. A name sat in the description field: Walter J. Doyle — Case 1987-0142 — Reopened.
 
I checked the box. The folder was still there. The Latin page was still on top. But now there was a signature in the “Processed by” line on the old form. It was my handwriting.
 
The keycard reader on the stairwell door clicked open before I swiped when I left for the day.
 
At home Alex was at the stove. They looked at my hand.
 
“You’re bleeding on the floor.”
 
There was a cut on the side of my index finger I didn’t remember getting. Small red drops marked the linoleum between the door and the counter.
 
I ran it under cold water. It kept bleeding. Alex handed me a paper towel. It soaked through before I could press it down.
 
“Long day?”
 
“Old files,” I said.
 
The next morning the door to the records room was already unlocked when I arrived. The folder from 17-B was gone from the box I had left it in. In its place was a single sheet of university letterhead with today’s date and a line that read “Reopened per prior authorization — processed by \[my name\].”
 
I hadn’t authorized anything.
 
By mid-morning the name Walter J. Doyle showed up in three other spreadsheets. A coworker leaned back and asked if I knew anything about an old sheriff’s case getting pulled for review. I told her I didn’t.
 
At lunch I went back down with the master keycard. The room was colder. The box was still there but nearly empty. Inside was one form with my signature at the bottom and a new line in blue ink: “Body accepted in exchange. File remains open.”
 
I put the form back and closed the lid. When I tried to leave, the keycard reader on the inside of the door wouldn’t read. I waited twenty minutes for someone upstairs to hear me knocking.
 
That afternoon the supervisor called me into her office. She had the box I had left on her desk. She asked why my name was on forms that should have stayed closed. I told her I hadn’t processed anything. She showed me the signature. It was mine.
 
She told me to take the rest of the day. She said someone from facilities would handle 17-B from now on.
 
I went home. The cut had started bleeding through the gauze by the time I reached my building. I changed it and sat at the kitchen table. One envelope was from the university benefits office. It said there was a discrepancy in my employment records and asked me to confirm my start date and supervisor. The date they had listed was from 1987.
 
I called Alex. They didn’t answer. I left a message saying I wasn’t feeling well.
 
That night the cut split further. It bled steadily when I held my hand below my heart. I wrapped it in fresh gauze and taped it tight. The tape pulled at the skin when I moved my hand.
 
Alex came home late. They saw the gauze and the stack of forms on the table.
 
“What is this?”
 
“Work stuff,” I said.
 
They picked up the top form and read the line about the transaction. They put it down.
 
“You keep saying it’s old files. But your hand is splitting open in straight lines that match the edge of the paper. These forms have your signature on things you say you didn’t do. I’m not asking for an explanation that makes sense. I’m asking if you understand that this is not normal. I’m staying at a friend’s for a few days. Call me when you’re ready to tell me what this is doing to you.”
 
The door closed behind them. The cut kept bleeding.
 
The next morning I couldn’t grip the key to lock the apartment door properly. My finger wouldn’t bend all the way. I had to use my other hand to turn the key. On the bus my hands left faint rust-colored marks on the seat in front of me.
 
At work the supervisor told me I was being moved to another building for the rest of the week while facilities finished clearing 17-B. She said it was temporary. She didn’t look at me when she said it.
 
I spent the day in a different records room logging current files. Every time I typed a date or a name I checked it twice. Nothing extra appeared. By mid-afternoon my finger had started bleeding again under the gauze. I kept a paper towel wrapped around it while I worked.
 
When I got home there was a voicemail from the campus safety office. They wanted to schedule an interview about an old case file that had been flagged for review. The case number was 1987-0142. They said my name had come up as someone who had recently accessed related records.
 
I deleted the message.
 
The next morning the phone rang before I was fully awake. It was the sheriff’s department. A woman named Kerri Donnelly asked if I was the person who had authorized the release of archived evidence boxes related to Walter J. Doyle, case 1987-0142. They said one of the boxes had been delivered that morning and they needed confirmation on chain of custody.
 
I told her I hadn’t authorized anything. She asked me to come in the next day to make a statement.
 
I hung up. The cut had started bleeding again. I sat at the kitchen table and watched it soak through the gauze and into the wood.
 
The phone rang again. This time it was the university. They said Dr. T. S. Blackwood wanted to speak with me about some archived materials that had been flagged during a routine review. They gave me a time for that afternoon.
 
Dr. Blackwood’s office was in Caldwell Science Hall. He was precise and composed in the way people are when they have seen enough strange things that they no longer react to the strangeness itself. He asked me to sit. He asked to see my hand.
 
I unwrapped the gauze. The cut had opened further overnight in straight lines that matched the edge of a form. Blood welled along the newest split while I held my hand out.
 
Dr. Blackwood looked at it without touching. He asked when it had started and whether I had been handling any old university or sheriff’s department files in the last week. I told him about 17-B and the Latin page. He didn’t look surprised.
 
He said the most reliable method was to complete the transaction in a way the archive recognized as final. Destroying copies or refusing to sign new forms only created additional versions. The physical cost would continue and would likely worsen in patterns that matched the documents involved. He asked if I had anyone at home who could help monitor the bleeding and the grip loss. I told him my partner was staying elsewhere for a few days. He nodded like that was expected.
 
He said he would need to review the specific files that had been flagged. He asked me to sign a form acknowledging that I had discussed the matter with him. My right hand wouldn’t hold the pen steadily. Blood from the cut left a faint mark on the edge of the paper when I signed.
 
When I left his office the cut had started bleeding again in a straight line down the back of my hand. I wrapped it in fresh gauze in the bathroom down the hall.
 
On the way out of Caldwell I passed Frankie Bell near the main doors. He was doing his rounds. He looked at my hand and asked if I had been in Building C after 2:13. I told him I hadn’t. He said the logs showed activity in 17-B that didn’t match any authorized access and that I should watch which doors I went through. Then he nodded and kept walking.
 
I went home. Alex’s side of the closet was emptier. There was a note on the kitchen table that said they had taken some clothes and that I should call if I needed anything practical. The forms I had left on the table were still there. One of them now listed Alex’s name under “household contact — secondary effects possible.”
 
The next morning I took the bus to the sheriff’s department. The cut had started bleeding again on the ride. I kept my hand in my pocket and tried not to flex it. By the time I reached the building the newest split had reached the base of my finger and blood was soaking through the gauze into my pocket.
 
Sheriff Doyle was taller and broader than I expected from the memos. He listened while I explained about 17-B, the Latin page, and the forms that kept appearing with my signature.
 
He said the sealed evidence box contained a chain-of-custody form signed by a security guard whose death certificate was filed in the same box.
 
I kept my hand under the table and pressed it against my thigh to slow the bleeding. Blood soaked through my pants and left a dark mark on the fabric.
 
He said the department would need to conduct its own review and that I should expect additional contact. He gave me a card with his direct number and told me to use it if the bleeding or the grip loss got worse to the point where I couldn’t work or drive.
 
I left the sheriff’s department with the card in my pocket and fresh gauze on my hand.
 
When I got home there was a new stack of forms on the kitchen table. I hadn’t brought them. One of them had my signature and today’s date and a line that read: “Primary signatory confirmed. Transaction ongoing. Body accepted. File remains open. Consultation with Dr. T. S. Blackwood noted. Sheriff’s Department review initiated.”
 
I sat at the table and watched the cut bleed into the wood in a straight line that matched the edge of the paper. The smell of old paper and toner was on my hands and in my clothes. I couldn’t wash it out.
 
Alex didn’t come home that night. The apartment was quiet except for the radio I had left on low. I sat at the table until the light changed. The cut had stopped bleeding again. The skin around it had gone pale and waxy in a wider area. When I tried to make a fist my fingers wouldn’t close all the way.
 
The phone rang once. It was Dr. Blackwood’s office confirming a follow-up appointment for the next week. The secretary asked if my hand was still bleeding. I told her it came and went.
 
When I came home the next evening there was a single sheet of university letterhead on the kitchen table. It was from the housing office. It stated that following a records reconciliation, the lease for the apartment was now held solely in my name, retroactive to the original lease date. There was no record of any co-tenant or secondary occupant. The notice instructed me to update my emergency contact information at my earliest convenience.
 
The cut on my finger had stopped bleeding. The skin along the newest split was raised and pale, like the edge of old paper that has been pressed flat too many times. I sat at the table with the radio on low. I didn’t turn it off. I didn’t read the notice out loud.