"The Back Room":
I had just finished my evening routine at the warehouse where I worked as the night cleaner. It was a big, empty place out on the far side of the city limits, surrounded by nothing but fields and a few old factories that shut down years ago. Most nights, it was just me, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the echo of my footsteps on the concrete floors. I liked the quiet at first—it gave me time to think—but after a few months, that quiet started to feel too big, like it was hiding something.
That night, I arrived around ten, like always. My boss, Mr. Ramirez, had called me earlier in the day. "Elena, make sure you check the back storage rooms tonight," he said over the phone. His voice sounded tired, as if he had a long day. "Some boxes got moved around during the day shift. Just tidy them up if needed."
"Sure, Mr. Ramirez," I replied. "I'll handle it. Anything else?"
"No, that's all. Be safe out there. Call if you need anything." He hung up, and I didn't think much of it. The warehouse stored parts for machines, nothing valuable enough to worry about thieves, or so I thought.
I parked my car in the empty lot and let myself in with my key. The main lights were already off to save power, so I flipped on the ones in the front area. The place smelled like oil and dust, the same as every shift. I grabbed my cart with the mop, buckets, and cleaning supplies, and started in the office section. It was small, just a few desks and a break room. I wiped down the counters, emptied the trash bins, and vacuumed the thin carpet. Everything was normal.
As I moved to the main floor, where the shelves stretched high with crates and tools, I noticed the air felt thicker. Maybe it was the fans not running full speed, but it made me pause. I shook it off and kept going, mopping the aisles one by one. The warehouse had four big sections, divided by metal walls, and the back one was the farthest from the exit. That's where the storage rooms were, the ones Mr. Ramirez mentioned.
Halfway through the second aisle, I heard a soft scrape, like metal on concrete. I stopped the mop and listened. Nothing. "Probably just the building settling," I muttered to myself. These old places made all kinds of noises. I continued, but a few minutes later, it came again—scrape, then a faint thud. It sounded like it was coming from the back.
I pulled out my phone and checked the time. Midnight already. No messages. I thought about calling Mr. Ramirez, but what would I say? That I heard a noise? He'd think I was jumping at shadows. Instead, I turned on my flashlight app for extra light and headed toward the sound. The aisles seemed longer in the dim glow, with boxes stacked like walls on either side.
When I reached the back section, the door to the storage area was ajar. I remembered closing it last night—tight, because it stuck sometimes. My pulse quickened a little. "Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing off the shelves. No answer. I pushed the door open wider, and the hinge creaked loud enough to make me flinch.
Inside, the room was dark except for the light spilling in from behind me. Rows of shelves held spare parts, old equipment, and some forgotten crates. One box near the middle looked out of place, tilted like it had been shoved. I stepped closer, shining my phone light around. That's when I saw footprints in the dust—fresh ones, not mine. They led deeper into the room, toward the corner where the light didn't reach well.
"Who's there?" I said, louder this time. My hand tightened on the mop handle, like it could protect me. Silence, then a rustle, like fabric moving. From the shadows, a figure stepped out—a man, young, maybe in his teens, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and his eyes darted around like he was as surprised as I was.
"Hey, lady," he said, his voice shaky but trying to sound tough. "Don't freak out. I'm just... looking for something."
I backed up a step. "This place is closed. How did you get in here?"
He glanced at the door behind me. "Window in the back. It's broken. Me and my friend, we thought no one was here. We weren't gonna take much, just some stuff to sell."
"Your friend?" I asked, my mouth dry. That's when I heard another rustle, from the other side of the shelf. Another kid emerged, shorter, with a cap pulled low. He looked even younger, maybe fourteen.
"Yeah, him," the first one said. "Look, we don't want trouble. Just let us go, okay? We didn't break anything."
But something in their eyes didn't sit right. The shorter one kept shifting his weight, and I saw a bulge in his pocket that could have been a tool—or worse. The warehouse felt even more isolated now, miles from the nearest house. No one would hear if I yelled.
"Please," the shorter one added, his voice higher. "Our parents don't know we're out. We can just leave."
I didn't move from the door. "I'm calling the police," I said, pulling out my phone. My fingers trembled as I dialed 911.
The first kid's face changed, hardening. "Don't do that. Come on, put it down." He took a step forward, and the shorter one mirrored him. "We said we don't want trouble, but if you call..."
The operator picked up. "911, what's your emergency?"
"There's intruders in the warehouse where I work," I said quickly, giving the address. "Two young men. I'm alone here."
The first kid lunged for my phone, but I twisted away, dropping the mop. It clattered loud. "Give me that!" he shouted, grabbing my arm. I yanked free and ran back through the door, slamming it behind me. I heard them banging on it, yelling, "Open up! You're making this worse!"
I sprinted down the aisles, my heart racing so hard I could barely breathe. The main door seemed so far. Behind me, I heard the storage door burst open—they must have forced it. Footsteps echoed, getting closer. "Stop! We just want to talk!"
I reached the front, fumbled with the lock, and burst outside into the night air. My car was there, but I didn't stop—I ran to it, locked myself in, and waited. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. When the police arrived, they went in and found the two kids hiding in the back. They had tools for breaking in, and one had a knife. Turns out, they were part of a group hitting warehouses in the area, looking for easy steals. One got away that night but was caught later.
I quit soon after. Now, when I think back, it's the way they tried to talk me down, like they were planning something worse if I didn't listen. That warehouse still stands out there, empty most nights. I wonder if the new cleaner hears those scrapes too.
"Willow Creek":
I always liked the quiet of night shifts. No bosses breathing down my neck, no crowds to dodge. That's why I signed up as the overnight cleaner at Willow Creek Mall, way out in the countryside where the nearest town is a thirty-minute drive. The place was old, built back in the seventies, with long empty corridors and stores that shut down early. Most nights, it was just me, my mop bucket, and the hum of the fluorescent lights. But one shift in mid-October changed everything.
I started at ten that evening, like always. The security guard, an older guy named Frank, handed me the keys before heading home. "Lock up tight when you're done," he said, his voice gravelly from years of smoking. "And don't wander too far. Some folks say they've heard noises after dark." I laughed it off. Frank was full of tall tales about the mall's history—abandoned shops, shady deals in the parking lot. I figured it was his way of passing time.
The mall felt bigger at night, with all the gates pulled down and the main lights dimmed to save power. I began in the food court, wiping tables and sweeping crumbs. The echo of my footsteps bounced off the walls, making it sound like someone else was there. Around midnight, I moved to the east wing, where half the stores sat vacant. Dust gathered in those spots, and the air smelled stale, like forgotten boxes in an attic.
As I pushed my cart past the old toy store, something caught my eye. The metal gate was halfway up, not locked like it should be. I stopped, listening. A faint rustle came from inside, like fabric brushing against shelves. My first thought was a raccoon or stray cat had slipped in. It happened sometimes in these rural spots. I grabbed my flashlight and lifted the gate a bit more, calling out, "Hey, anyone in there? Mall's closed."
No answer. I stepped inside, shining the beam around. Shelves were bare except for a few dusty boxes. The rustle came again, from the back corner. I moved closer, heart beating a little faster now. "If you're hiding, come out. I don't want trouble." Still nothing. Then, from behind a counter, a figure stood up slowly. He was tall, wearing dark clothes and a mask—like those from the movies, with glowing eyes and a twisted grin. In his hand, a long hunting knife glinted under my light.
I froze, the flashlight shaking in my grip. He didn't move at first, just stared. Then he raised a finger to his lips, shushing me without a word. My mind raced— was this a prank? Some kid messing around? But the knife looked real, sharp enough to slice through anything. I backed up a step, saying, "Look, man, put that down. This isn't funny."
He tilted his head, like he was considering it, but then took a slow step forward. The mask hid his expression, but his body tensed, ready to lunge. I turned and ran, my cart crashing behind me as I bolted out under the gate. My shoes slipped on the polished floor, but I caught myself and kept going, yelling into my radio for Frank. No response— he was long gone. I grabbed my phone from my pocket, dialing emergency as I sprinted toward the main doors.
"911, what's your emergency?" the operator asked, calm as could be.
"There's a guy in the mall with a knife! He's wearing a mask, broke into a store. I'm the cleaner— I'm alone here!" I gasped, fumbling with the keys to the exit.
"Stay on the line. Where are you exactly?"
"Willow Creek Mall, east wing. Hurry, please!"
I locked myself in the security office, barricading the door with a chair. From the cameras, I scanned the feeds. There he was, slipping out of the toy store, knife still in hand. He looked right at one camera, that grin mocking me, before vanishing down a side hall. Minutes felt like hours. I heard distant banging, like he was testing doors. Was he looking for me? Had he seen where I went?
Finally, sirens wailed outside. Two officers arrived, guns drawn. I let them in, pointing to the monitors. "He was right there. Check the toy store— he trashed it or something."
They searched the place top to bottom. The gate was down now, like nothing happened, but inside the store, shelves were knocked over, boxes ripped open. No sign of him, though. One cop, a sturdy woman with a no-nonsense face, asked me, "You sure about the mask and knife? Could've been a reflection or shadows?"
"I saw him clear as day," I insisted. "He shushed me, like he didn't want me calling out."
The other cop nodded. "We've had reports of break-ins around here. Rural malls like this are easy targets— no one around for miles. Could be a drifter or local punk testing his luck."
They took my statement, dusted for prints, but found nothing useful. By dawn, they left, advising me to quit the night gig. Frank showed up early, looking worried. "Told you about the noises," he muttered. "Last year, a guy got jumped in the parking lot. Never caught who did it."
I didn't sleep that day. Every creak in my apartment made me jump. The next night, I went back— needed the paycheck— but I stuck to the lit areas, radio on full volume. Around two, I heard it: a soft scrape, like metal on tile. I shone my light down the east wing. Nothing. But when I checked the cameras later, one feed glitched, showing a shadow slipping past.
Weeks passed, and the cops closed the case—no leads, no more incidents. But I knew better. I'd catch glimpses on the edges of the feeds, hear faint footsteps when no one was there. One shift, I found a note tucked under my cart: "Quiet next time." No mask, no knife, but the message was clear. He was still around, watching from the dark corners of that empty mall.
I quit soon after. Moved to the city, took a day job. But sometimes, when it's quiet, I remember that grin, that silent shush. Out in those remote places, you're truly alone— until you're not. And that's when the real fear sets in.
"Quiet Work, Dark Woods":
I took the job at Cedar Lodge because I needed the quiet. The motel sat right on the edge of Yosemite, miles from any real town, with nothing but trees and mountains stretching out forever. As the front desk clerk on the evening shift, I handled check-ins for hikers and families coming through the park. It was simple work, mostly. Hand out keys, point people to their rooms, and listen to the river rushing nearby at night. That's how I met Cary, the handyman who kept the place running. He fixed leaks, mowed the grass, and cleaned up after guests left. Everyone called him the janitor behind his back, but he did more than that. He was always around, quiet and steady, with a toolbox in one hand and a polite nod for anyone who passed.
My first real talk with him happened a couple weeks in. I was locking up the office around midnight when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. I looked up and saw Cary standing there, his face half-lit by the porch light. He had this way of showing up without a sound, like he moved on purpose to avoid notice.
"Evening, Tom," he said, using my name even though I hadn't told it to him yet. "You hear about that group checking in tomorrow? Three women, mother and two girls. Sightseers from out of state."
I nodded, wiping down the counter. "Yeah, the Sunds and their friend. Nice folks, from what the reservation says. You need something?"
He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes drifting off toward the dark woods. "Just thinking. This place gets lonely sometimes. All these people come and go, but no one stays long. Makes you wonder what they'd do if something happened out here, so far from help."
His words hung there, odd but not enough to worry me then. I laughed it off. "Well, that's why we have phones, right? And you to fix things if they break."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sure. I fix things."
The next day, Carole Sund arrived with her daughter Juli and their friend Silvina Pelosso. They were excited, chatting about hikes and photos. I gave them room 509, one of the quieter ones at the end of the row. Cary was nearby, sweeping the walkway. He watched them unload their car, his broom moving slow. When they went inside, he turned to me.
"Pretty girls," he said softly. "Bet they don't know how easy it is to get lost in those woods."
I shrugged. "They're careful. Park rangers give maps."
He just nodded and kept sweeping.
That night, I couldn't sleep after my shift. The motel felt too still, the kind of quiet that presses in on you. Around 2 a.m., I heard a car door shut softly outside. I peeked through my curtain—staff quarters were behind the main building—and saw Cary's blue truck pulling out, headlights off until he hit the road. Strange, but maybe he had errands. I went back to bed.
The women didn't check out on time the next morning. Their car was gone, but no one saw them leave. The manager called it in, thinking maybe they skipped the bill. Police came, asked questions. Cary was there, helping search the room. He looked calm, wiping down the sink like it was any other day.
"Did you see anything?" an officer asked him.
Cary shook his head. "Nothing. Quiet night."
But I remembered his truck. When the police left, I pulled him aside in the supply closet.
"Cary, you went out late last night. Hear anything unusual?"
He paused, his hand on a mop handle. "Why you asking, Tom?"
"Just wondering. Those women vanishing like that—it's weird."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "People vanish all the time out here. The park's big. Bears, cliffs, rivers. Or maybe someone helps them along."
My mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"
He chuckled, but it sounded forced. "Nothing. Forget it."
Days turned into weeks. The news picked up the story—missing tourists, last seen at Cedar Lodge. Guests canceled bookings; the place emptied out. I started noticing little things about Cary. He'd stare at the empty room 509 for too long, or hum to himself while polishing tools that looked sharper than needed. One afternoon, I found him in the laundry room, washing sheets with red stains that he said were from rust. But rust doesn't smell like that.
"You okay?" I asked.
He folded a towel neatly. "Better than ever. You know, Tom, I've been here years. Seen all kinds. Some people think they're safe because they're on vacation. But out here, no one's watching."
His words stuck with me. I started avoiding him, taking different paths around the motel. But in a place this small, it's hard. One evening, a new guest checked in—Joie Armstrong, working for the Yosemite Institute. She was friendly, asked about trails. Cary was fixing a light nearby, listening.
"Be careful out there," he told her as she walked to her cabin. "Woods can turn on you."
She laughed. "I'll manage. Thanks."
That night, I was on desk duty when the power flickered. I grabbed a flashlight and stepped outside. The air was thick, the kind that makes sounds carry far. I heard a distant thump, like something heavy falling. From the direction of Joie's cabin. My pulse quickened. I walked over, telling myself it was nothing—a branch, maybe.
The door was ajar. I pushed it open a crack. "Hello? Everything all right?"
No answer. Inside, the bed was rumpled, a lamp knocked over. Then I saw blood on the floor—fresh, spreading. I backed out, heart racing, and ran to call the police. But before I could, I heard footsteps behind me.
"Tom?" Cary's voice, calm as ever. He stood there, toolbox in hand, a streak of something dark on his shirt.
"What happened here?" I stammered.
He glanced at the cabin. "Looks like trouble. Better not touch anything."
I nodded, but inside, pieces clicked. His late-night drives, the stares, the odd comments. "You know something about this?"
He set the toolbox down, his face expressionless. "What if I do? What would you do about it, out here alone?"
I froze. The motel was empty; no guests, no help for miles. He took a step forward, and I bolted, running toward the office. He didn't chase—at least, not that I saw. I locked myself in and dialed 911, babbling about the blood, the missing woman, and Cary.
Police arrived fast. They found Joie's body nearby, and linked it to Cary's truck seen at the scene. When they questioned him, he confessed everything—the Sunds, Pelosso, Armstrong. He'd targeted them because they were vulnerable, alone in this remote spot. He'd watched, waited, and struck when no one was looking.
I quit the next day. The isolation that drew me there now terrifies me. Cary seemed so normal, just a janitor doing his job. But under that, something dark waited. Every time I hear a footstep in the quiet, I wonder who's really watching.
"The Grate Below":
I got the job at the old movie house right after high school, figuring it would give me some cash while I sorted out what came next. The place sat on the edge of town, surrounded by empty fields and a few scattered farms, far enough from the main road that hardly anyone drove by after dark. Most nights, I handled tickets and popcorn during shows, but my boss trusted me enough to let me clean up alone afterward. He handed me the keys one evening and said, "Just lock up when you're done. Don't forget the back rooms." I nodded, eager to prove I could manage it.
The building itself had seen better days. Built back in the forties as a stage theater, it got turned into a two-screen cinema decades ago, but the updates stopped there. The walls held faded posters from old films, and the floors creaked under every step. The second screen was the worst—dim lights, seats sticky from years of spills, and a big metal grate under the screen that led to some forgotten storage space below. I usually started there, vacuuming rows and wiping down armrests, the hum of the machine the only sound breaking the quiet.
One Friday, after the last show let out, I decided to tackle the seats with a steam cleaner I'd borrowed from my uncle. It was late, around midnight, and the lot outside was empty. I flipped on the work lights, which buzzed faintly overhead, and got to scrubbing the front rows first. The steam rose in warm clouds, filling the air with a clean, soapy scent that almost covered the musty odor clinging to the place. As I moved backward up the aisle, row by row, the machine's noise drowned out everything else. I paused now and then to empty the dirty water, glancing at the screen where shadows played from the flickering bulb.
About halfway through, I thought I caught a faint rustle from behind the screen. I shut off the cleaner and listened. Nothing. Probably just the building settling, I told myself, or maybe a mouse in the vents. I turned the machine back on and kept going, but the sound came again—sharper this time, like something scraping metal. I stopped once more, staring at the grate. It was bolted down, or so I assumed, covering a drop to the old stage foundation below. "Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing off the empty seats. No answer. I shook my head, figuring my mind was playing tricks from being alone too long.
I finished another row and moved closer to the screen, the steam cleaner whirring steadily. The scraping grew louder, unmistakable now, coming from right under the grate. I knelt down, peering through the slats. Darkness stared back, but then—a shift, like movement in the black. I backed up a step, wiping sweat from my forehead. "If that's you, Randy," I muttered, thinking maybe my buddy from school had snuck in to mess with me. We'd joked about it before. I grabbed my phone and dialed him quick. "Hey, man, you in here somewhere?" I said when he picked up.
"What? No, I'm home watching TV. Why?" Randy sounded confused.
"Nothing, just hearing stuff. Forget it." I hung up, feeling foolish, but the unease lingered. I turned the cleaner on again, louder this time to block it out, and scrubbed harder. The grate rattled suddenly, like pressure from below. I spun around, dropping the wand. The metal bent upward slightly, then popped loose with a groan. A hand emerged—pale, dirt-streaked fingers gripping the edge. I stumbled back, knocking into a seat. Another hand followed, then a head: stringy gray hair matted with grime, eyes wide and glassy, fixed right on me.
It was a woman, or what looked like one, crawling out slowly on her elbows. Her skin hung loose, covered in filth and what seemed like dried blood smears. She wore ragged clothes, torn and stained, and as she pulled herself fully through the hole, she let out a low, guttural wheeze. I couldn't move at first, my mind racing to make sense of it. Was she hurt? Lost? But her gaze held something wrong—hungry, almost. She started toward me, not standing, but dragging herself along the floor, her nails scratching the carpet. The wheeze turned into a ragged laugh, echoing in the empty room.
I bolted then, leaping over the steamer and sprinting down the aisle. Her scraping followed, faster than I expected, thuds against the seats as she pulled herself after me. I hit the exit door to the lobby, slamming it shut just as a hand slapped against the other side. The knob rattled violently. I backed away, breath coming in gasps, and ran for the front doors. Outside, the cool air hit me, but I didn't stop until I reached the police station two blocks down. "There's someone in the theater," I panted to the officer at the desk. "She came out from under the screen—chased me."
They took my keys and went to check. I waited there, calling my boss. "What happened?" he asked, voice groggy from sleep.
"I don't know. Some woman was hiding down there. She came after me." I described it as best I could, my words tumbling out.
"Stay put. I'll meet you at the station."
The cops came back an hour later with her in custody. Turns out she was a local drifter, hooked on drugs, who'd pried open a side vent days earlier and made a nest under the screen. They'd found needles, stolen food from our concessions, and signs she'd been watching people—watching me—during cleanups. She confessed to sneaking in to stay warm, but the drugs made her paranoid, aggressive. When I showed up that night, something snapped; she thought I was there to drag her out.
I quit the next day. The theater shut down soon after, boards over the windows now. But sometimes, driving by, I wonder if anyone else hears scraping in the dark.