When he first awoke upon the plain wood floor, it was very dark, and as he shivered through his somewhat torn shirt, he realized it was also very cold.
Where was he? He looked at his surroundings and with whatever flicker of light that remained, he saw a small enclosed room, the ceiling rather short, and from the sheer amount of dust and cobwebs that hung from the corners, it was also very, very old.
Rising to his full height, he carefully positioned himself forward, as to not strike his head on the ceiling, and began to walk, drifting through the sea of cobwebs that hung before his eyes.
With every step he made, the floorboards creaked. Every time he breathed, he could feel his heart beating against his ribcage, sending warm blood against the coldness that had enveloped his body.
It's okay, he clenched his fists. No one's there, no one but me.
And yet, as he stepped from the empty room into the long hallway, there was always something in him, something that doubted his resolution, an instinct that urged him to be wary, and to be scared. He ignored those thoughts and continued on down the hall, slowly trekking on the wooden floorboards, until he came to a halt at the door.
Like the floorboards that surrounded it, the door was old and wooden. The frame had been heavily worn from the ages, and as he raised a hand to feel the surface, it was immediately retracted, as the splinters dug right into his palm. Instinctively, he kicked at the door with his old sneakers, bringing the withered block down with a loud crash.
He was angry, and that was good. With anger, he could focus on the rage instead of the cold. And with rage, he could crush the doubts in his head and find a way out. With rage in his mind, he then entered the room, his hands balled into fists of apprehension.
The walls of the room were made entirely from stone, and completely bare except for  three doors on each remaining side of the wall. In the center was a table, upon that table, there was a single medium sized flashlight, and under that flashlight, was a note. The note, neatly hand-written, read:
If you are reading this, then you are awake.
Hurry along now, for it is too.
Well, that explained much. He took the flashlight, flicked the switch experimentally a few times, pocketed the note and stepped right to the doors. From what he could tell, there was nothing much different between the doors. Each was gray with a brass doorknob at the front and looked as worn as the door he had smashed down previously. But he had to choose. He had to select the door that could be the difference between remaining relatively unscathed, and being horribly mutilated. Now what door would he choose?
Silently, favoring his right arm, he stepped into the corresponding door, and into the darkness of that ensued.
He strode across the corridor, this time a little more poised with the flashlight in his hand. It was intended to give him light, but in his hands, it could also be an improvised club. However impractical, he had a weapon in his hands now, and however little, he was more prepared for whatever was to come.
With his flashlight shining in the darkness, his mind had cleared and his senses had refocused. He stepped into the room confident and poised, only to be greeted with another table and another note. This one read:

The Right Choice is not always the right choice,
Game Over.
You are dead..

He felt himself falling then, right through the floorboards, and into darkness. His lungs gasped for air, and he tried to scream, but in the darkness, no help came. There was only the emptiness, and the utter silence that ensued.
It was not clarity, the darkness. It was not muddled either. Instead, it was only the cold, silence indescribable only to another who had felt the same. He screamed and thrashed there, until he felt his senses grow dim, and his mind slowly falter. A hand reached in desperation, for an escape from the frozen prison in which he had fallen within…and he suddenly awoke with a start.
He was on a very familiar wooden floor, shivering through his torn shirt. Tears that had been frozen in time were suddenly now rushing loose, unbridled and pressured. He was still alive, he didn’t know how, but he was still alive.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, lying in the cold, dry air of the room. Every breath he took became a whiff of bliss, and suddenly even the chill that had plagued his nerves from so long had vanished, crushed under the sheer relief that he now felt.
It was strange, that the fragments of wood that had been previously imbedded into his skin had vanished completely, as if it had never been there in the first place. Instead, his skin was smooth and dry, as it had been before he had touched the door.
But then, where was his flashlight? He remembered the feel of the smooth handle, flicking the plastic switch back and forth, so vividly, that it couldn’t have been anything but real. But where was it? In fact, why was he still in the room? Surely, he had stepped across the creaky floorboards, and journeyed beyond the unmoved cobwebs and strands of dust. Right?
Was he hallucinating? Was it all a dream? Was it an endless loop playing across his mind as he sat in a mental institution? Or was it something...something else…
He slowly turned his head to face the door. The chill had spiked and while it had previously been very cold, it paled in comparison to what he now felt, running through his nerves and freezing his very blood within. His eyes widened as they turned upwards to regard the dark figure, the specter of shadow and ice that now stood before him.
It was here.

He awoke again on the plain wood board, shivering through his plain woolen shirt...
He awoke again on the wood board, shivering through his shirt...
He awoke again on the board, shivering through...
He awoke again...
Again...