The Night Shift
Heather, a woman in her twenties, applied for a job at an agency. When she started her shift, mysterious occurrences unfolded as she panicked and tried to escape the building.
Heather sat in the lounge, waiting for her name to be called at the human resources department. She scanned the area, trying to make sense of the people passing by. They were sullen, their eyes darting across the semi-polished tiled floor, as though their only destination was the dark hallway.
“Heather Marshall!” called a woman with a raspy voice from inside the office.
Heather stood up, wearing a wrinkled chiffon blouse and faded trousers. She yanked her shoulder bag up and clutched a thick envelope to her chest as she inhaled nervously. When Heather reached the door, she saw a woman in her forties, a bob-haired brunette wearing full glam makeup, staring at her. The woman raised an eyebrow, eyeing Heather as she stood in front of the door.
“Uhm, Ms. Marshall, I suppose?” The woman pointed a bony finger in her direction, her eyes piercing.
She felt more nervous than before as she moved the metal chair and sat down.
“Yes, ma’am,” Heather whispered.
The cold air from the AC sent shivers down Heather’s spine. She pulled the sleeves of her blouse down to cover her pale arms.
“Cold?” asked the woman.
Heather nodded and cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I read in the post that you were looking for a night shift worker for your data collection team?”
The woman paused a moment, still looking at her. “Yes,” she muttered, fixing her spectacles.
“You must be three hours early. Arrange the documents in the storage room. Do you have experience with computers?” she continued.
“Yes, ma’am,” Heather answered.
“On your way out, please let Mrs. Dwight assist you with your corporate ID and uniform, yes?” she instructed.
Heather felt uneasy that the woman did not even bother to introduce herself. Her office smelled of dried paper, mixed with mold and coffee. A dying cactus was carefully displayed among books and piles of crumpled papers. The only lighting in the room came from an old Baroque lampshade.
When Heather was outside the human resources office, she was greeted by a very enthusiastic woman with short curly hair and a gentle smile.
“Ms. Marshall?” she asked.
“Yes,” Heather mumbled.
“Here’s your ID and uniform. You may report immediately today.”
The woman abruptly turned around without hearing Heather’s response.
Three hours early, Heather returned to the office. But the people who walked sullen, hunched figures were gone. The human resources office was also closed; no one was in sight except for the man at the reception area. He was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed man with a thin build, a pointed nose, and thinning lips. Heather greeted him with a wave and a smile, but he never once turned his attention toward her. He stood there with his arms resting on the counter and his eyes staring outside. But as she left the ground floor, the man turned his head, his gaze following her.
Heather shook her head as she boarded the lift. When she arrived at the seventh floor of the building, the lights flickered, and the smell of smoke, almost like burning flesh, lingered. She turned around, but there was no one in sight.
Meanwhile, at the data collection office, Heather sat in front of the computer and organized her desk. She had forgotten to arrange the documents in the storage room.
On the computer, certain folders lined the desktop neatly as she clicked through each one of them, they were empty. Heather scratched her neck, confused.
“What’s this? What am I going to collect? Where are the files?” she muttered. Heather continued to navigate the computer but found nothing helpful. No browser, no documentation, and no manager to seek assistance. She was alone in the office, surrounded by a large number of cubicles.
Heather stood up, intending to leave the office, but when she turned the knob, it was locked.
“Hey! Someone’s here! I’m on the night shift!” she yelled, pounding on the door.
“Sshh!” hissed a voice behind her.
The sudden sound startled her. Heather turned around once again, but there was no one there. She pulled out her phone to call for help, but there was no signal in the building. Her chest pounded as she ran to the door and banged it repeatedly until her body ached.
Desperate, she threw a chair at the glass window and continued trying to break it. Heather was breathless from the wasted effort. Then suddenly the knob turned, and the creaking sound of the door slowly echoed through the room. Heather quickly hid behind a cubicle. A flashlight illuminated the room as it swept across the space, and the jingle of keys grew nearer and nearer to Heather.
“What are you doing here, miss?” the guard asked.
Heather was flabbergasted by the man wearing a mask. Her eyes went agape and her mouth hung open. She stared back at the room, but it was a mess, filled with dust and the smell of smoke.
The guard nudged her shoulder to get her attention. Heather flinched at the touch, stepping aside as she lowered her head, trembling. She remained stunned for a moment before finally understanding the situation.
“I work here,” she whispered.
“Sorry, what?” the guard asked in disbelief, taking her arm. “Come on, miss. This place is not safe for you to be wandering around.” The man radioed someone while escorting Heather outside the dilapidated building.
Heather looked around. There was nothing but bushes and large trees. The man instructed her to rest for a while while he called emergency services.
“Miss, what are you doing here?” he asked again, wiping his forehead. “I’m a guard here, and this place is restricted.”
Heather looked down, then turned when someone pinched her arm. When she checked, there was a shadow standing behind the wall of the building, its eyes staring directly at hers.
A week later, Heather woke up from the same nightmare.
But when she opened her eyes, she did not feel relief.
The eyes were already in the room, waiting for her.
Image by: Dasha Yukhymyuk
I like the way you put me in shoes of your character and make me feel her timidity and dread. Horror writing is so bound up with dreaming and dream logic…and this made me feel like I was dreaming while I was reading it.