A Breathless Prose Surreal Horror Story

I ask his name, the first question on the form, the easiest one, and he says he already told me, already answered, already signed, already checked the boxes, and my fingers tighten around my clipboard because he is wrong, I have never been here before, have never knocked on this door, have never met this man, but when I flip through my forms I find his name, his answers, his signature at the bottom of the page in my own handwriting, the ink still fresh, the paper still warm, and I do not understand, do not know how this is possible, because I know I just took this form from my bag, know I just checked the official records, know that when I arrived the house was not on my list, was not marked for a survey, was not supposed to be here at all, but now it is, now it has always been, and the man is still watching me, still waiting, smiling a little, polite but amused, like he has seen this before, like he has been through this conversation many, many times, and I clear my throat and say I must have made a mistake, a clerical error, that I will just verify the information and be on my way, but when I turn the page, the form is not blank, the form is filled, the form has all the answers already written out, including details I have not yet asked for, details I should not have access to, details that should be private, that should require a signature, a confirmation, but they are here, they are mine, they are in my handwriting, and my hands are shaking because I do not remember writing them, do not remember even reading them, but the ink is still fresh, still drying, and when I check the date, it is marked today, and I swallow hard, force a laugh, ask him if we spoke before, ask him if I have been here before, and he just shakes his head and says no, no, we have never met, but it’s all right, he understands, I am just doing my job, after all, just doing what the records tell me to do, and my stomach twists at the way he says it, at the way his voice is calm, knowing, resigned, and I try to change the subject, ask the next question, confirm his address, but when I say the street name he shakes his head, says no, that is not the name of this road, never has been, and I look at the form again and the address is different now, not what I just said, not what I wrote, and I cannot remember what I thought it was supposed to be, and my heart is pounding because this is wrong, this is all wrong, and I tell him I must have gotten confused, must have mixed up the forms, but he only nods like he already knows, like he has heard it all before, and he says I should come inside, says I should sit down, says I should rest for a minute, and I should not, I know I should not, but my feet are already moving, stepping over the threshold, stepping into the dim light of his house, and the moment the door closes behind me I feel it, feel the shift, feel the weight of something settling around me, and the air smells thick, old, like dust and ink, like paper that has been left in a drawer too long, and the walls are lined with shelves, with books, with files, with binders labeled with dates and numbers, and I step closer, squint at the spines, and my breath catches because they are census records, row after row of them, handwritten, bound, neatly stacked, and when I reach out and pull one from the shelf my fingers tremble, because the date on the spine is today, because the name on the cover is mine, because the ink is still fresh, and I flip the pages, skim the questions, and I see my answers, see my handwriting, see the ink dark and drying, and I do not remember filling this out, do not remember answering these questions, do not remember being counted, and my mouth is dry, my hands numb, because this is impossible, because this does not make sense, because I have been the one collecting data, I have been the one knocking on doors, I have been the one writing the names, but now I am here, now I am listed, now I am one of the counted, and I turn to ask him what this means, to demand an explanation, but my voice catches, my breath freezes, because he is not alone now, because there are others standing behind him, in the shadows of the room, figures half-seen, blurred, shifting, watching, and I know them, I know their faces, I have seen them in the records, in the surveys, I have counted them before, and they are still here, they are all still here, and I drop the book, step back, heart hammering, pulse racing, and I tell myself I need to leave, I need to get out, but the door is no longer where I thought it was, the walls are closer than before, the shelves taller, stretching upward into darkness, endless, endless, and the man smiles, tilts his head, says that this happens sometimes, says that some census takers never leave, says that once you have been counted, you are always counted, says that the records must be kept, must be updated, must be complete, and I shake my head, step backward, reach for the door that is not there, for the exit that is gone, and I understand now, understand too late, understand as the figures step forward, as the shelves close in, as the ink begins to write itself on a fresh new page, my name at the top, the pen moving as if held by an unseen hand, because the census is never finished, the count is never done, the numbers must always be updated, and now, now, I am part of the record.