I can't escape Hennings!

I’m trapped somewhere deep within the bowels of Hennings. I think I’ve been down here for four days, but time has lost all meaning.

Hennings opened in 1947 as the Physics building. It was renamed in 1963 after the construction of a new addition, where I think I am. The bathrooms on the lower level were remodeled in 2017, and now malevolent urinal spirits scream at me. Today, the building hosts many classes across a variety of disciplines.  

But I just wanted to go to my CHEM 223 class, so why am I trapped? 

There should be a way out. I tried to get to the roof, but I’ve gone up at least seven stories and couldn’t find the top. And I know for a fact there are like three stories, tops, in this building. There’s nothing out the windows but an endless black void through which I can see stars that don’t form the constellations I’m used to. No exit signs either.

Four days. I’ve spent four days trapped down here. Or up here. If I go up, I can feel myself going down, then slightly sideways. I went up a set of stairs from the top level two days ago and found myself in the basement. I’ve subsisted on nothing but Gatorade and granola bars since I entered this place. At least the vending machines still take UBCcard down here. So it beats Buchanan.

The higher/lower I go, the narrower the hallways become and the weirder the professor nameplates on the doors get. I’m pretty sure there isn’t actually anyone on the UBC faculty named “ß̸̤̪͋œ̴͍͖̑≈̵̬̟̊͒µ̶̡̭̚͝˚̶̼͇͐͊∆̵̭̀̇̀˜̷̦̥͈̎µ̸̢͓̕ the ∂̵͈̳͑ƒ̵̠̮̀̚≈̵̗̿ç̶͓̬͊√̶̗̾, He Who Waits Below √̶̱̟̃͐ç̴̖̌͛∂̸̡̻̀ß̵͎̣̇´̸̢̣̑.” Group portraits with glowing red eyes stare at me from an endless darkness along the walls, and they’re all captioned “Eng-Phys class of 1521.” 

At the time of writing, I find myself on what claims to be the seventh floor, though the number is upside down. The rooms don’t have numbers anymore. Instead they all refer to unpleasant events in my life. The vending machines now demand irrational quantities of long-dead currencies. Still beats Buchanan.

This isn’t happening. HENN 200 has twisted into a horrific eldritch geometry. HENN 201, meanwhile, has a more traditional layout with rows of forward-facing seats.

I can hear them now — the voices. An endless dissonant chorus of former STEM students, doomed forever to wander these wretched halls.

The receptacles on the ground floor of the building held lockers until 2017, but now they hold only yawning chasms through which I can see the infinite abyss of time and space. Did you know there’s a skywalk on the third floor that goes to HEBB? 

Oh, what’s that on the ground? Ooo one of those old calc—I COMMAND THE POWER OF A THOUSAND SUNS AND I WILL USHER IN A NEW AGE OF DARK—oh, there’s my classroom! Silly me, I must have taken a wrong turn.

Wait, why is everyone chanting in Latin?