“Hey John, what’s that door lead to?” I blubbered through a mouthful of fries.
I jabbed my finger at a massive iron door at the far end of the breakroom. John paused mid-chew. He glanced down at the remnants of his lunch for a long, uncomfortable moment before resuming.
“That goes to the basement. No need to go down there. I hear it’s just a bunch of old records and cobwebs.”
I released the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Sounds creepy. I’ve always kind of liked stuff like that, honestly. Feels like urban exploring without-”
“Darren, look me in the eyes and promise me you won’t go down there. The basement is off limits.”
John’s icy stare sent a shiver rippling up my spine. I’d only known the man for a week, but he’d always requited my incessant questions with pleasant friendly answers. This break in character was… unsettling.
“I promise,” I muttered, quickly averting my gaze.
“Good. Now, start wrapping it up. I need to teach you how to process invoices.”
John and I inhaled the remainder of our Big Macs before reluctantly returning to his desk. Time crawled past and I soon found my mind drifting back to the basement door. Why had John been so adamant about staying away from it? My curiosity had been piqued. I determined that I had to know what was down there. But I’d need to be cautious. I couldn’t risk John or the big boss catching wind of my antics. Not this early.
I passed the breakroom on my way out the door. I hesitantly crept up to it. Pins and needles prickled my back and sweat beaded atop my brow. I anxiously raised my fist. To this day I don’t know what compelled me to do it. Heart in my throat, I knocked three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I waited, pressing my ear up to the cool metal.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Someone answered my call. Someone on the opposite side of the door.
I nearly leapt out of my skin, tearing through the hallway like a madman. I didn’t stop running until I reached my car. I sat in the driver’s seat, hyperventilating. I attempted to steady my palpitating heart as the adrenaline diffused from my system. What the hell was that? Surely someone had been pranking me. Perhaps a little hazing for the new guy. That had to be it.
I drove home, pushing the incident to the furthest recesses of my brain. The next day at work, I found myself back in the breakroom at lunch time. John had a meeting that day, so he wouldn’t be joining me. I took the furthest seat from the door. I avoided making eye contact with it to the best of my ability, but something about it tugged at my psyche.
I threw my empty wrappers in the trash and shuffled up to the gray looming frame. Curiosity gnawed at me like a piranha. Trepidation settled in my gut as I gathered my courage. If someone was really playing a joke on me, I was going to get to the bottom of it.
In a quivering, unsteady voice I whispered, “h-hello?”
Hello, Darren.
A malevolent predatory bellow emanated from just beyond the entrance. I bolted back to my desk, quaking in my chair as I struggled to regain my composure. It knew my name. How did it know my name?
I tried in vain to ease my mind, telling myself that it really was just a cruel trick. That seemed to quell my anxiety somewhat, but I failed to eradicate the thought completely. Why was somebody doing this? But more importantly, who was doing this?
I needed answers. I decided to press John about it when I found a window. Later that day, my golden opportunity presented itself.
“Hey John, we’re going to have lunch with Dick Schwartz. He retired right before you started. Don’t let this one get too crazy while we’re gone,” Mark said, shooting me a wink.
“No problem, boss. I’ll keep an eye on this hooligan for you,” John quipped, grinning at me.
I watched as my coworkers intermittently scooped up their jackets and shuffled away, leaving John and me to hold up the fort. This was my chance. It was now or never.
“So, uh, John, do some of the older guys ever screw with the new hires? You know, like try to scare them or something?”
John pondered for a moment, brows furrowed in thought.
“You mean like change the screens on their monitors? Or maybe jumble up their papers a little bit? Yeah, they get a kick out of stuff like that every once in a while.”
I pursed my lips, choosing my next words carefully.
“No, I mean like trying to freak them out. Like really get under their skin.”
John turned to me. I distinguished concern in his stern visage.
“Darren, is someone messing with you? Tell me who it is and I’ll put a stop to it. You’re starting to worry me, kid.”
“No, no one’s messing with me. Well, maybe. I don’t know. I’ve been hearing… noises. From the basement. I haven’t gone down there, but it’s been creeping me out lately.”
John stared at his feet, then locked eyes with me.
“No one goes down there, Darren. The door is always locked. Just stay away from it, okay?”
I nodded, deciding to heed his advice, and John continued with my training.
I muddled through the rest of the work week, opting to eat at my desk so as to spend as little time around the door as humanly possible. When I did need to pass the breakroom, I sprinted past it, keeping it at a healthy distance at all times. I attempted to keep my head down and focus on my work, desperate to gain a bit of mental clarity. It didn’t help.
Everywhere I went, I could swear people were laughing at me. Mocking me. Poking at my fears and insecurities like I was a proverbial punching bag. Like I was just a puppet in their sick game with some unknown force dangling the marionette. It began to take a toll on me.
Did Vince just shoot me a knowing smirk? Was he in on this? No, certainly he was smiling at someone else. Was Sherry giggling at me from across the room? Surely, someone just told her a funny joke. Did John seriously ask me if I heard the voices too? No, no, he was just wondering if I was done updated the Excel spreadsheet. Apprehensive thoughts joggled in my mind day in and day out, causing me to question my sanity. Just when I thought I’d reached my breaking point, I saw it.
For once, I had succeeded in clearing my conscious of the door, diligently burying myself in my work. John was handing me more and more responsibilities, and it was beginning to pile up. I was sedulous, aiming to work ahead so that I could coast into the weekend. When I glanced up, everyone was gone. I was completely alone.
I trudged past the breakroom, eager to plop down in bed and finish the Netflix series I was binging. I peered at the door, expecting to find it towering inconspicuously amongst the forlorn tables as per usual. But this time was different. The door was hanging wide open.
My heart began jackhammering against my ribcage. I trembled as I warily approached the gaping maw before me. It was as if the darkness was calling to me. Beckoning me forward with its deceptive promises to sooth my bleary mind. Only the sound of blood pounding in my ears was audible amid the deafening silence. I had to go down there. I had to know.
“H-hello?”
My call was swallowed by the dark, echoing through the ominous void. I received no response. My quivering legs mindlessly edged me closer. I begrudgingly took the plunge. I whipped out my phone, the meager light it produced guiding my path. I found myself shrouded in inky black as sweat pooled beneath my arms. I vainly attempted to silence my footfalls, but each step sounded loud as thunder in the eerie stillness. I pressed onward, eventually reaching the bottom step.
I scanned my flashlight around the expanse of the cavernous basement. Thick concrete columns dotted the terrain, casting baleful shadows upon the dusty linoleum. Dozens of cardboard boxes littered the floor. Some contained manila folders, but most lay on the ground in a discarded heap. Rows upon rows of blocky metal file cabinets lined the walls.
I gravitated toward them, floating to the rusted silver bodies like the moon orbiting the earth. I illuminated the faded yellowing tags stuck to each, soaking in their hardly legible letters. Each one had a name: Kathy Benson, Jim Garrick, David Kim. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes grew wide as the light shone upon a fresh, newly printed label. Darren Miller.
The cabinet creaked open and I began shoveling through files like a maniac. I plucked one from the bunch and read its title: Darren Miller - The Forest Incident. I hurriedly skimmed the article. It detailed the time that my childhood best friend, Harry, and I were playing in the woods behind his house, when I playfully thwacked him in the ankle with a stick. Harry ended up in a cast, but he hadn’t snitched on me. And I never told a soul. I grew lightheaded and I gripped the top of the cabinet for support. How did they have this information? And why?
I frantically rummaged through papers: my first kiss, my third speeding ticket, the time I stole a bouncy ball from Target. It was all there. Every last detail. Cold sweat enveloped me and I felt as though an icepick had impaled my chest. I didn’t feel safe anymore. Existential dread erupted through my body like wildfire. And then, I heard it. A shallow wet cough directly beside my ear.
I froze as hot musty breath cascaded down my neck. A putrid sour stench assaulted my nostrils. Slowly, I turned and directed my beam behind me. The light radiating from my phone fell onto the wiry emaciated frame of a man.
His eyes were wild, pitch black pupils darting back and forth, angry red veins spider webbing through sickly yellow scleras. Uneven patches of scraggly gray hair sprouted from his head, rough bald spots encompassing his scalp. He grinned wider than the Cheshire cat, brown decaying teeth emitting a horrible acrid odor. But the thing that kicked my brain into overdrive wasn’t his frightening appearance. It was the razor-sharp machete clutched tightly in his grasp.
I did the only logical thing that my addlepated mind could think to do at that instant. I discreetly grabbed a wad of assorted papers, and I chucked them at his face. The momentary chaos allowed me a crucial three second head start. I launched myself up the stairs, hoping, praying, that somehow I would make it out of there in one piece. I burst into the breakroom and tore through the corridor, never once glancing back. Only when I’d made it to the safety of my car did I allow myself a glimpse at the office building.
As I furiously stomped on the gas, I saw the man standing at the door I had just exited. He beamed at me and waved, still maintaining a deathgrip on the glimmering silver blade.
I sped along the interstate like a man possessed, swerving through traffic and nearly crashing on multiple occasions. Somehow, I arrived home without a scratch.
I quit my job the next day. I’ll be late on rent, but I don’t care. My ex-coworkers keep trying to contact me. I’ve blocked them on everything, but they still find a way. Random numbers barrage my phone at all hours. I’m at my wit’s end. But the nail in the coffin, the crushing bone-chilling reason that I fear I’ll lose my sanity, is the letter I found tucked beneath my doormat. Scrawled in haphazard barely legible writing, it simply read:
Darren,
It was a pleasure to meet you the other day. You’ll be seeing me again very soon.
Yours truly,
X