There is a distinct, quiet horror in realizing that the world doesn’t operate by the rules we’ve assigned to it. For centuries, humanity comforted itself with Euclidean geometry and Newtonian physics—predictable, mathematical frameworks where parallel lines never meet, distances are fixed and a room's interior accurately reflects its exterior. We like things that make sense.
However, lately our collective cultural anxiety has found a strange new playground where these natural laws are entirely subverted. If you’ve spent any time online recently, you’ve likely encountered, or heard of, the YouTube series and record breaking movie The Backrooms or indie gaming hits and movies like Exit 8 and Vivarium or TV shows like Severence and Pluribus . These forms of media are not just cheap jump-scares, rather they are modern manifestations of an ancient architectural vertigo updated for the digital age. They trap us in endless, looping, non-Euclidean corridors where the familiar becomes deeply uncanny.
The Glitch in the Architecture
Why have these impossible, shifting spaces captivated our imagination right now? I do not think that this is a random trend but a reflection of how modern science has subtly altered our psychological baseline.
As concepts like multiverses - alternate worlds much like out own - string theory -which posits hidden, curled-up dimensions far beyond our perception -and dark matter - the invisible scaffolding holding the universe together - have trickled into popular consciousness, they’ve disrupted our sense of reality. They remind us daily that what we perceive as "solid ground" is actually a fragile illusion.
This scientific uncertainty feeds directly into deeply ingrained human worries about our place in the cosmos. When the rigid rules of Euclidean space melt away, they take our existential certainties with them. We are left looking into the endless, fluorescent-lit expanse of a digital maze, wondering if we completely alone in an uncaring universe with no architect, no god, and no grand design.
Liminality in the Wild
To understand the emotional weight of these theoretical spaces, we have to look at the concept of the liminal space - that eerie, transitional threshold between the "before" and the "after." While internet horror manufactures this vibe, real life occasionally serves it up unprompted.
I experienced this architectural vertigo firsthand during the pandemic. I can recall walking through Heathrow Airport, usually a bustling international hub, and finding it transformed into a desolate void. It felt less like a transit gateway and more like an abandoned shopping center on a rainy Tuesday afternoon (or Vicarage Fields in Barking on any given day). With duty-free shops shuttered and a solitary coffee vendor serving lean fare, the familiar, comforting structure of global travel became uncannily hollowed out. Even the social distancing markers on the floor served as a rigid, strange reminder that the normal geometry of human interaction had been entirely upended.
But the true, almost supernatural "Backrooms" flavor of my experience emerged in a sequence of unsettling mishaps upon landing in England. Whilst following my wife in her car, I was separated on an A-road because a delivery van blocked my sight. This caused me to accidentally follow the wrong silver Kia. Shortly after, my phone battery died just as my car sputtered to a halt in the car park of a closed roadside diner. I was stuck without a phone charger or working vehicle.
That sequence was the epitome of a liminal trap. It was that exact moment where the reliable physics of modern life—GPS, combustion engines, predictable motorway exits—glitched out, leaving me untethered in an unfamiliar landscape where the usual rules of navigation no longer applied.
The Literary Labyrinth
This subversion of space and natural law has a rich literary pedigree. It directly channels Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves, a masterpiece exploring the breakdown of Newtonian laws where a house's interior is inexplicably larger than its outside dimensions. Like the shifting walls in Danielewski's labyrinth, Exit 8 forces us to scrutinize every minor anomaly in a mundane subway station just to find an escape. It turns the everyday environment hostile by refusing to let it remain static.
When the physical layout of our world becomes non-linear, our choices begin to warp as well. A split-second decision at a roundabout to follow a mistaken vehicle echoes Jorge Luis Borges’ classic short story, The Garden of Forking Paths. Borges envisioned time and destiny not as a straight line, but as an infinite, dizzying web of divergent possibilities and parallel timelines determined by the decisions we make. Every turn opens a completely different universe.
Yet, even within these terrifyingly vast networks of possibility, we are never truly isolated. As David Mitchell explored in Cloud Atlas, there is a profound interconnectedness binding us across eras. Our actions, no matter how small or seemingly lost in the void, ripple out through time and space, fundamentally reshaping the future.
Walking Forward in Hope
Ultimately, our fascination with The Backrooms, Exit 8 and liminal anomalies is a way of processing cosmic dread. It is a safe sandbox in which to confront the fear that the universe might be indifferent and non-linear. Yet, as the journey home to the verdant hills of Devon reflects, the antidote to this architectural vertigo isn't to stop moving.
Humanity thrives on forward momentum, on the sense that we are improving: becoming better, smarter, deeper, and more understanding as a species. We must look forward and walk the path of hope, trusting that it sustains us when the darkness comes... as it inevitably will.
Whether we are navigating a non-Euclidean digital maze, an empty lockdown airport, or a confusing detour on an English road, we have no choice but to keep walking forward. Ideally, at least two meters apart.
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