"After Hours":
I had just wrapped up my shift at the Oceanside build site but decided to linger that evening. Something about the place at night—the salt air drifting in from the ocean, the way the unfinished houses creaked in the breeze—kept me rooted there longer than usual. My buddy Jacob, the new apprentice learning plumbing, was staying over in one of the trailers. He lived way out in San Bernardino, and the drive was brutal during the week, so crashing on-site made sense for him. For me, as the foreman, sticking around after hours wasn’t unusual; I’d often check equipment, tie up paperwork, or just sip coffee in the office shack before heading home.
The whole development was a skeleton of a neighborhood—rows of framed houses, stacks of lumber, shipping containers with padlocks. At night it all took on a strange, abandoned look, like a half-built world forgotten by its creator.
Earlier, Jacob and I had grabbed food from the taco truck down the road. He’d sat on a sawhorse, burrito in hand, eyes darting around the darkening site.
“Hey, Tom,” he said between bites. “Ever feel like this job’s too good? Beach nearby, easy hours… but man, sleeping here alone creeps me out sometimes.”
I smirked, trying to put him at ease. “It’s fine. Lock the door, you’re good. Nobody comes around here at night—unless it’s some kids trying to tag the walls.”
We talked about the next day’s pipe installs, the boss pushing hard to get the block finished by month’s end. Jacob seemed eager—this was his first real gig after some rough years, and he’d been showing up early, asking questions, really trying. We split up around eight, him heading for his trailer at the far end of the lot, me to my truck to grab paperwork.
By sunset, I was in the office shack, sorting invoices under the low hum of the site lights. Their glow barely reached the edges of the lot, leaving pockets of darkness between the skeletal houses. Shadows stretched from scaffolds like fingers clawing across the dirt. Outside, loose tarps rattled in the breeze, and far-off cars hissed along the highway.
But around ten, something changed. A crunch of gravel—slow, deliberate. Not wind. Not an animal. My pulse ticked up. I stepped out, flashlight in hand, sweeping the beam across lumber piles, containers, trenches. Nothing. “Probably a raccoon,” I muttered, but even my own voice felt too loud.
Jacob’s trailer sat about fifty yards away, parked near the chain-link fence where the lot bled into an empty field. He’d mentioned keeping a small radio on low at night to drown out the silence. Sure enough, faint music drifted over now and then—until it stopped. Abruptly.
I checked my watch: 11:30. Maybe he’d turned it off to sleep. I tried to refocus on the paperwork, but unease gnawed at me. Then came a soft thump, heavy, muffled—like something shifting weight. I froze, ears straining. Metal creaked. The trailer door?
“Jacob?” I called softly into the dark. No answer.
I grabbed my keys and headed over, boots crunching on the dirt. In the dark, the construction site felt endless, each unfinished house a hiding spot. The trailer with the blue stripe loomed ahead. The door was ajar. Just a crack. Jacob always locked it.
“Jacob, you okay in there?” I whispered, nudging the door open.
The small lamp inside glowed dim yellow. His bed was a mess, blankets tossed aside. But no Jacob. Then my eyes caught on something at the floor—something dark spreading from under the frame.
Blood.
My stomach lurched. My breath hitched as I scanned the room. There he was—slumped against the wall, eyes glassy and wide, a deep gash across his neck. His shirt was soaked crimson.
“Oh God…” I backed up, hand on the doorframe, bile rising.
Movement flickered outside. A shadow slipping behind a stack of plywood—tall, broad-shouldered. Someone else was here.
I ducked back into the trailer, fumbling for Jacob’s phone on the table. It was smeared with blood, but I dialed 911 anyway. “There’s been an attack,” I hissed. “At the Windward Way construction site—my friend’s down, send help!”
Footsteps crunched outside. Slow, circling. Through the tiny window, I caught a glimpse: a man in dark clothes, face half-hidden, holding something that caught the light like a blade. He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening.
My hands shook. Robbery? No tools were missing. Why was he here?
He started toward the door. I slammed the bolt shut, backing into the corner, wrenching Jacob’s pipe wrench from the counter like a club.
The man rattled the handle. “Who’s in there?” His voice was low, calm—too calm. It crawled under my skin like ice water. I didn’t answer.
The door bent slightly under his push. Silence. Then a scrape from the side—he was trying the window. Glass cracked as he punched through. I swung the wrench, smashing his arm. He grunted and pulled back.
I bolted for the door, shoved it open, and ran. My boots pounded the dirt as I sprinted for the office shack, heart hammering. Behind me, his footsteps thundered closer. “Stop!” he barked, but I didn’t look back.
The site was a maze of rebar piles and half-dug trenches. I stumbled over a hose, scrambling up again, lungs burning. He was gaining. I reached the fence, squeezed through a gap into the field. Thorns tore at my arms, but I clutched the phone like a lifeline.
Sirens wailed in the distance—finally.
I crouched behind a bush, peering out. The man stood at the fence, scanning the darkness. For a moment his eyes seemed to lock on mine, even through the night. Then he turned and slipped back into the site, vanishing like smoke.
Red and blue lights flashed as squad cars rolled up. I stumbled out, waving frantically. “He’s still here!” I gasped.
They found Jacob’s body exactly as I’d seen it. The man—Mikhail, they called him later—was caught the next day after confessing to his boss. Said he’d been hearing voices, some dark compulsion driving him.
To me, it was just nightmare.
I quit the job soon after. Even now, every night, I hear those footsteps, that calm voice at the door. What if I’d been the one in the trailer instead?
The site still sits unfinished. I drive by sometimes. The ocean air feels colder there. And I swear—if you look hard enough—you can still see shadows moving between the houses.
"Vista Ridge":
I had just wrapped up my shift as foreman at the new apartment complex going up on the edge of town. It was late—long past when most of the crew clocked out—but I liked sticking around to do one last walk-through. The site was unnervingly quiet at that hour, nothing but the hum of distant traffic and the occasional creak of scaffolding swaying in the night breeze.
Tom, a young plumber’s helper barely in his twenties, had been crashing in one of the unfinished units for a couple of weeks. He was going through a rough patch—no place to stay, no family nearby—so the crew looked the other way. That night he’d asked if it was okay to bed down there again.
“Sure, man,” I told him, handing over a spare flashlight from my truck. “Just keep it low-key. Boss finds out, we’re both screwed.”
He gave me a weary grin, eyes shadowed under the rim of his hard hat. “Appreciate it, boss. Been a long day. You heading out?”
“Yeah, soon. Got to lock up first.”
I watched him walk toward the skeletal shape of Building C, backpack slung over one shoulder. He was a good kid, always first to arrive, last to leave. Better for him to sleep here than on the streets, I figured.
I started my perimeter check, looping the chain through the gate and snapping the padlock shut. The string lights we’d strung up flickered like dying fireflies, but with temporary wiring that was normal. I shook it off and headed for my truck, already picturing a late-night coffee and the quiet of my own apartment.
Then I remembered my toolkit in the site trailer. I swore under my breath, turned around, and trudged across the gravel. The trailer sat at the far end of the lot, hemmed in by stacks of lumber and concrete mixers. I unlocked the door, grabbed the tools, and stepped back outside.
That’s when I heard it—a faint rustling, like footsteps on loose gravel. I stopped, listening. Nothing. Probably a raccoon. The dumpsters were practically a buffet for them.
“Tom?” I called quietly. No answer.
I started back toward my truck, but the sound came again, closer this time. A slow crunch of boots on dirt.
I swung my flashlight toward the noise. The beam slid over rebar, scaffolding, and shadows—then caught a flicker of movement behind a pile of steel rods. My pulse climbed.
“Who’s there?”
Silence. The kind that swallows sound whole.
I stood still, every sense stretched taut. Then I heard it again—deliberate steps, someone circling. My hand went for the radio clipped to my belt, but before I could key it, a figure stepped into the edge of the light.
Tall. Dressed in dark clothes. Face hidden under a hood. He just stood there, head slightly tilted, like an animal studying prey.
“Hey,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “This is private property. You need to leave now.”
No response. Just that slow tilt of the head.
A chill worked its way down my spine. I flicked my eyes toward Building C, where Tom was. If this guy meant trouble, he was far too close to him.
“I’m calling the cops,” I bluffed, pulling out my phone.
That broke the stillness. He lunged.
I dodged, phone slipping from my hand, and bolted toward the structures. “Help! Tom!”
His footsteps thundered behind me, fast and heavy. I ducked into the first unfinished building, weaving through a maze of plastic sheeting and exposed beams. My breath came loud and ragged. I ducked behind a stack of drywall, heart hammering so hard I thought it might echo.
The footsteps slowed. Deliberate. Searching.
I peeked out. He was moving deeper into the site—toward Tom’s unit.
No.
I crept after him, hugging the shadows. The site lights threw twisted shapes across the open frames, everything looking warped and wrong.
The door to Tom’s unit was ajar. The simple latch he’d rigged was broken. A dim lantern glowed inside.
I heard Tom’s voice—sharp, startled. “What—who are you? Get out!”
Then a scuffle. Grunts. Something crashing.
“Stop! Please!”
I burst through the doorway.
Tom was on the floor, the man straddling him, arm raised, knife glinting under the weak light. Blood already darkened Tom’s shirt.
“Get off him!” I roared, snatching a loose pipe from the ground and swinging hard.
The man turned, eyes wide and empty. He slashed at me—blade grazing my arm, a searing streak of pain—but I swung again, catching his shoulder. He stumbled, knife clattering to the concrete.
Tom gasped, clutching his side. “Run… get help…”
The man snatched the knife again, rising to his feet.
I backed up, tripping over tools, falling hard. He loomed above me, knife poised. For a heartbeat, everything slowed—the sweat beading his face, the strange calm in his eyes. This wasn’t robbery. He was enjoying this.
I kicked out, catching his knee. He grunted, buckling. I scrambled up, shoved him hard into a window frame, glass shattering around him. I grabbed Tom under the arms, dragging him toward the door.
“Stay with me, buddy. Come on.”
He was heavy, weakening fast. Blood smeared across the floor as we moved.
The man got up, shaking off shards. His voice came out flat, his first words. “You can’t escape.”
We stumbled outside. The site was dead quiet, no one around for miles. My truck was too far. I dragged Tom into another building, barricading the door with a wooden pallet.
Inside, I pressed my jacket against his wound, my hands slick with blood. “Hold on, Tom. I’m calling now.”
By some miracle, my phone was in my pocket. I dialed 911. “Please, send help. Vista Ridge construction site. My friend’s been stabbed. The guy’s still here.”
The operator’s calm voice asked questions. But outside, the man was there. Banging. Splintering wood.
Tom’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why… why us?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking.
The banging stopped. Silence.
Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.
Then a crash—the door gave way. He stepped in, knife dripping, eyes alight with something unhinged.
I stood between him and Tom, pipe clenched tight. “Stay back.”
He smiled—a thin, twisted thing. “It’s too late.”
But the sirens were on top of us now, red and blue flashing through the half-built windows. He hesitated, then turned and melted into the darkness.
Paramedics arrived minutes later. They worked on Tom, but it was too late. Too much blood lost.
I sat there, numb, as police swarmed the site. They caught the guy later that night, blocks away, covered in blood. A veteran, they said, but the courts ruled he knew what he was doing.
I quit the job after that. Couldn’t step foot on a site without hearing the echo of footsteps, the wet sound of blood, seeing that empty stare. Even now, every night, I check my locks twice, wondering if someone’s out there, waiting for the right moment.
"The Inspector":
I’d just wrapped another long day at the hospital expansion project when the boss called me over. “One more favor,” he said. “Double-check the wiring in the new wing before you go.” It was already past nine. The site had gone mostly silent—no jackhammers, no shouting foremen—just the faint hiss of wind slipping through the half-finished corridors. A few guys were still packing up on the upper floors, but for the most part I was alone.
Scaffolding climbed the walls like giant skeleton ribs. Stacks of drywall and steel beams crouched in shadows. The temporary lights along the hallways flickered, buzzing like angry insects. I grabbed my toolbox, flipped on my flashlight, and started toward the east stairwell.
Halfway up, a sound stopped me cold—a faint scrape, boots on concrete, echoing in the emptiness. I held still, listening, heart ticking in my throat. This building amplified every noise; it could’ve been anything. I forced myself to keep climbing.
When I reached the third floor, I saw him.
At the far end of the hallway stood a tall, thin man in a white shirt. He held a blue tube—the kind we use for blueprints—tucked under his arm and was scribbling in a small black notebook. He had no hard hat, no vest, nothing but pale skin and wide, unblinking eyes.
“Hey,” I called, walking toward him. “You can’t be up here without safety gear.”
He looked up, smiled—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just checking the plans,” he said, voice low and steady. “Making sure everything’s in order.”
“You with the architect?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
He slid the notebook into his pocket. “Something like that. Structure looks solid. You’ve done good work.”
Something about him unsettled me. His questions—how many floors, what kind of load-bearing columns, even which areas were most heavily wired—felt more like probing than curiosity. “What’s your name?” I asked.
He hesitated, then said softly, “Call me the inspector.” And before I could reply, he turned, disappearing down another stairwell.
The next night, I was back for more overtime. The site was even emptier—just me, my buddy Tom, and a new guy named Alex who’d started that week. Alex was quiet but eager, the kind who handled tools with careful hands. We were installing panels on the fourth floor when I spotted him again.
The thin man stood outside the perimeter fence, staring up at the building. The floodlights threw his shadow long across the gravel.
“See that guy?” I muttered to Tom during our break.
“The one with the tube? Yeah. Been hanging around. Probably some engineer.” Tom grinned. “Why?”
“No badge. No hard hat. I talked to him yesterday—he dodged my questions. Gives me the creeps.”
Tom laughed it off. “You’re paranoid. Come on, let’s finish this section.”
But every time I glanced out through the window openings, I caught flickers of movement below—someone slipping between stacks of equipment. Even Alex noticed. “Is someone supposed to be walking around down there?” he asked quietly.
I leaned out. The man was inside the fence now. But the gate had been locked for hours.
“Stay here,” I told them, grabbing my flashlight. “I’m going to see what he’s up to.”
The stairwell echoed like a drum as I descended. The air felt thicker, and all the familiar noises—the hum of generators, distant traffic—seemed muted, like the world was holding its breath.
“Hey!” I called at the ground level. “You’re not authorized to be here after dark!”
He stepped out from behind a stack of steel beams, wearing that same paper-thin smile. “Evening,” he said. “Just taking notes. The night shift is when the real details show up, don’t you think?”
“Show me your ID,” I demanded, keeping my flashlight on him. “If you’re legit, fine. Otherwise, leave now.”
He chuckled. “ID? I don’t need that. I’m here to fix things. The hospital… it took something from me. Now I’m making it right.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What do you mean, fix things?”
He popped open the blue tube and pulled out papers—not our blueprints, but hand-drawn schematics laced with red marks and scribbled notes. “Weak points,” he murmured. “A little adjustment here, and the whole wing comes down.”
I stepped back. “That’s sabotage. Who are you?”
His smile faltered. “My wife died here. During surgery. They expanded, got bigger, but couldn’t save her. Now everyone pays.”
Before I could move, he lunged—a flash of metal in his hand, a utility knife. I dodged, shouting for help. “Tom! Alex! Call the cops!”
He slashed again, grazing my arm. I grabbed a loose pipe and swung, catching his shoulder. He grunted, backed off, and melted into the shadows. By the time I ran after him, he’d vaulted the fence like a wraith.
Heart hammering, I bolted back upstairs. Tom met me at the door, eyes wide. “What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No ghost,” I panted. “That guy attacked me. He’s insane. Where’s Alex?”
Tom glanced around nervously. “He went to the east stairwell to grab more tools. Said he’d be right back.”
We ran to the stairwell. The temporary bulb had been smashed; the space was drowned in darkness. My flashlight beam cut through and froze on a shape at the bottom of the stairs.
Alex lay in a spreading pool of blood, throat slashed open.
I felt my stomach drop. “Oh no… he got to him first.”
We called the cops. They swarmed the site with flashing lights, cordoning everything off. I told them everything—the weird questions, the blueprints, the attack.
Later, detectives searched Alex’s apartment. The walls were plastered with drawings—not just of the hospital, but of our homes. Notes about the color of my front door. A crack in Tom’s window. The man had been stalking us, mapping every detail, planning to bring the building down with us inside.
They learned he was a former patient—his name was Mikhail something—blaming the hospital for his wife’s death. He’d hidden explosives near the foundation. If we hadn’t spotted him, the whole structure might’ve collapsed.
They caught him a week later in an abandoned warehouse. The trial was quick. He pled insanity; the jury didn’t buy it. Now he’s locked up for life.
That night changed me. I quit the job, left town. Even now, I check my windows before bed, scanning the dark for movement. The new hospital wing stands complete, bright and bustling, helping people. But when I drive past, I see blood on the stairs, a too-wide smile, and a man who said he was “fixing things.”
Some dangers don’t shout; they slip through fences and walk your hallways. You don’t see them coming until it’s too late.
"The Operator":
I started that job back in the late 1960s, running heavy equipment on the new freeway builds out in Southern California. The pay was steady, and with mouths to feed, I took whatever shifts they offered—even the overnight ones. Most nights it was just a skeleton crew: a few of us scattered across acres of dirt, floodlights buzzing overhead, machines growling like distant thunder. We were carving up hillsides, pouring gravel, raising overpasses out of nothing. It felt important, like we were building something lasting. But those night shifts… they had a way of making the world feel hollow. Beyond the light poles, it was nothing but blackness, like the rest of the world had disappeared.
That’s when I met Jack. He was an older operator, quiet type, didn’t joke around much. He handled bulldozers and excavators like they were extensions of his body—steady, precise, never rushed. Everyone said he’d been on crews for years, working straight for the state. Family man too—wife, kids, even horses out back. The kind of guy who looked like he belonged in church on Sundays.
We didn’t talk much until one night, first week in. We’d just finished compacting a pit when he came over, wiping sweat from his brow.
“You’re new here, right?”
“Yeah. Tom,” I said.
He stared off at the half-finished overpass. “These sites get lonely after dark. You hear things sometimes. Wind. Coyotes. Maybe worse.”
I laughed it off. “I’m too busy trying not to mess up the grades.”
But he didn’t smile. He just said, “Keep your eyes open. Things go missing around here. And it’s not always thieves.”
That line stuck with me. I chalked it up to old-timer stories, but as weeks passed, I noticed things. Fresh dirt piles in places we hadn’t worked. Trenches filled in ahead of schedule. Once I saw Jack running his dozer far from the lights, engine low, headlights off like he didn’t want to be seen.
Then one night, near Thousand Oaks, things came to a head. It was just four of us—me, Jack, and two others, Bill and Frank. Around midnight, while we fueled up, Bill leaned in and whispered, “You notice Jack’s been sneaking off?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Why?”
“He’s gone for hours. Comes back covered in mud. And last week, I swear I saw him talking to some kid out by the fence. Fourteen, fifteen maybe. Jack said it was a neighbor. Who brings a kid out here at midnight?”
I tried to shrug it off, but Bill’s eyes told me he wasn’t joking.
Later, while digging out drainage, I thought I heard something—thin, like a muffled cry. I killed the engine and listened. Nothing but the wind pushing through the beams. My hands stayed slick on the controls anyway.
At break, Jack sat with us, unusually cheerful.
“Good work tonight,” he said, crunching into an apple. “This road’s gonna last forever. You can bury all kinds of things under it.”
Frank laughed nervously. “Like our mistakes, huh?”
Jack looked at me. “More than that. Secrets. Things nobody needs to find.”
The way he said it made my stomach twist.
Afterward, heading back from the portable toilet, I took a detour past a compaction hole Jack had been filling. Something caught the light. I crouched, brushed away loose dirt. A shoe—small, kid-sized, laces torn. My chest tightened. What the hell was that doing here?
I slipped it in my pocket. Then I heard footsteps crunching behind me.
Jack. Standing ten feet away, shovel in hand, expression flat as stone.
“What are you doing, Tom?”
“Just walking. Found this.” I held up the shoe, trying to keep my voice even.
He stepped closer and plucked it from my hand. “Trespassers. Kids sneak in sometimes. I’ll take care of it. Get back to your rig.”
I did. But the weight of his stare followed me the rest of the night.
The next evening, I got there early. Bill was smoking by his loader. I told him about the shoe. His face went pale.
Before we could say more, Frank walked up. “You hear? Kid went missing yesterday. Thirteen years old. Vanished walking home from school.”
My stomach dropped. We didn’t waste time. Before Jack arrived, we headed to that pit. Fresh fill, still soft. Bill grabbed a spade. Within minutes, we hit denim. Small legs. A child.
We barely had time to breathe before a voice behind us said, “What are you boys doing?”
Jack. Calm as ever, but his hand rested on the knife at his belt.
“Checking the fill,” Bill stammered. “Looked uneven.”
Jack’s smile was thin, almost amused. “Does it? Let me see.”
He started toward us. Frank bolted, yelling for help that wasn’t coming. I snatched up a length of pipe, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Stay back, Jack. We know.”
He lunged—faster than I’d thought possible. The knife flashed, nicking my arm as I swung. The pipe cracked against his shoulder, dropping him to one knee. Bill tackled him, and together we bound him with straps from the truck.
The cops came fast once we called. They dug deeper, pulled out the boy. And that wasn’t all. Over the next weeks, Jack confessed—dozens of times. Years’ worth. Kids he’d lured, killed, buried beneath the roads he helped build. Said it made him feel like the highways were his, eternal.
I quit soon after. Couldn’t stand the sight of those sites again. Even now, driving at night, I can’t help but wonder. Every overpass, every lonely stretch of asphalt—what else lies buried just beneath our wheels?