Zora Grizz

     The year was 2007 - the year our culture collectively made fun of Britney Spears for being a person, in case you’re struggling to place it in your memory.

     I was an undergraduate student worker - whiling away the few free hours I had between my classes, two other jobs, and learning all about drinking games at night - by cataloging archaeological miscellany for a university's archeology professors. 

     I worked in an old, basement-level, archaeology lab. After I recorded what each item was, I had to go into this closet that I swear to god stretched on for a half mile (most of the items were actual, literal, dirt. I had to sort their dirt samples, which is very weird and tedious. But I’m not gonna lie: I was kinda into the rote muscle memory of it. I could let my mind just wander).

     The closet had an obscene number of shelves, lining the walls at odd increments and disappearing into the shadows and dark towards the back.

     There were weird breaks in the shelves with just sunken sections of wall with nails sticking out. The whole place was lit by one dim light bulb at the front, nearest the only door.

     I hated going into that closet. I worked alone and there was this terrifying fucking vibe in there. Like something was watching me. The endless closet was full of crates and decades upon decades of archaeology detritus that they didn't know what to do with but didn't want to throw away.