All my life, I have wanted to do nothing other than create.
I have spent many years here pursuing that simplistic goal, building levels and spinning yarns of the tales that take place within them, watching each and every wanderer that happens upon my craftsmanship and waiting intently for their subsequent reactions.
So it is true that I have made so much within the Backrooms during my limited time inside of it. Perhaps that is why they call me the Maker.
Though the history that that name carries with it is far too vast to summarize, I can tell you that it all started when I first began to use my powers. My initial creation was not grand in nature— no enormous corrupted cities or strange infinite forests— but rather a simple white room.
Stepping into the almost transcendent alabaster palace which sat waiting for you behind a simple door in a hallway filled with copious other copies just like it, you are taken aback by the immaculate scenery of the space.
Although there are many nooks and crannies within the Backrooms which manage to entrance and enthrall, this newest example is perhaps the most powerful of all you have encountered. The milky whites of the walls, floors, and ceilings communicate a sense of security and sanctuary within that is often lacking in levels similar to it. If this room were a person, you may be inclined to trust her with your life and to spill all of your well-kept secrets.
Treading carefully from the entrance over to the fine white piano which rests in the center of the serenity, you glide your fingertips across its case in a respectful show of appreciation. The instrument is in such fine condition that you wonder if it has ever been played, though the thought of such pristine keys never getting an opportunity to sing their melody saddens you somewhat.
Looking away from the grand device of symphony and back over to the door you had just closed, you see that it has since disappeared, leaving no way of returning to the mundanity of the remaining Backrooms— not that you'd ever want to in the first place.
…No, you are far safer and far happier in here.
As some time and much contemplation passes, the door returns and a man donning a slick suit as white as snow steps through, closing it behind him and sealing the two of you into the area yet again. He moves over from the entrance point and crouches right next to you, seemingly pondering the piano in much the same way as you are.
Though you initially do not wish to disturb his quiet consideration, you feel an urge to converse with him regardless. Is it possible that he too appreciates this place as much as you do, taking an equal amount of joy out of its fine intricacies and sleek interior?
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Your question hangs amidst the air for a moment. The expression on the man's face is nigh unreadable, a swirling mixture of sadness and regret yet satisfaction and perhaps even entertainment all battling each other simultaneously with no clear victor taking hold.
"Yes it is. I wish I had never made it."
His raspy voice penetrates the wind, cutting one head off of the question hydra and leaving many more to take its place. What did he mean by that? Was this the artist whom you had been lauding for such a long time now, hidden in plane sight right in front of you?
Yet before he can answer your barrage of inquiries, the man stands up and moves over to a newly-reconstructed doorway with a clear intent to leave. As his hand twists the knob and the light of the outside world breaks the illusion of the white room, you manage to belt out one final question at him:
"Did you make this? What are you?"
He looks over his shoulder and down in your direction, a tired smile spreading across his thin lips.
"Whatever you think I could be."
But when I look at this white room now, and with it recall the numerous other liminal spaces with which I have cast into being, I feel a strange melancholy sense that had not inhabited my mind previously.
To put it into words, I often find myself asking why I have decided to make these things— why I have devoted all of my time and effort into spawning worlds that I will never fully be satisfied with, areas I never truly connect to in any deeper sense.
But maybe I already know the answer as to why. It could be that build these levels because I am the Maker, and because I am the Maker I must always make…
…After all, what would they call me if I didn't?
