I Am The Thing That Stalks The Corridors

I was pretty sure I was going to be a veterinarian when I grew up. That, or a rich actress.

At 39 I haven’t exactly had a “career”, jumping around between working at banks, a library, and various management roles instead. I’m working on finishing up two degrees so I can hopefully pursue a masters in library sciences (just in time for Trump to shut down library funding, whee!), but for now, I find myself working as the general manager of an indoor storage facility.

It’s a lot like working in a library, actually. It’s a big building, pretty quiet, and the occasional folks who come to my desk are nice. I’ve got ample reading time, get my daily steps in, and I’m paid pretty well for someone that considers it a huge success when I sell something over on Itch.io (this is my shameless urging for you to support me by buying a $1 short story). I get a lot of writing done, too, which is nice.

One of my degrees has a graduation requirement of writing a novel that’s at least 55,000 words. It seemed obvious to me to write a horror story set in a storage facility. It seemed obvious to others, too. I get asked a lot “Aren’t you scared, working there by yourself?” The consensus amongst friends and family is that they’d be terrified to work in a big, “empty” building where the lights shut off if you stand still long enough. I get it, I do. Plenty of strange things have happened in my building.

There’s a motion-activated faucet that will go off even if you’re not standing near it. It seems to happen most often when I talk to the building (you deal with isolation your way, I’ll deal with it mine) at times when you would expect a reply if you were talking to a person. I try not to engage it too often; I’d hate to run up the water bill.

The security cameras frequently detect motion moving through the corridors, but checking the security dashboard confirms I’ve been alone in the building the past several hours.

When I do my daily walkthroughs, checking to make sure all is well, I sometimes see an impossibly long, thin shadow of a man walking down the corridors opposite me.

Sometimes when it’s especially quiet, I’ll hear the gentle strings of an orchestra start up, playing high above me.

These things can all be explained away, but I understand how they might alarm some people. I’m a believer in spirits, myself, but I’ve never felt threatened by the building and whatever else might be in here with me. I’m currently the longest serving general manager here since it’s opened, and I like to think the building appreciates me sticking around and tending to it.

I moved around a lot as a kid, so I never developed a strong attachment to a particular place I’ve lived in. With as many hours as I’ve spent here at work, though, and being as isolated as I am (apart from the occasional person with a unit drifting in and out), I think it makes sense that the building and I have bonded, though. It might strike some as a scary place, but with my purple hair and Pagan practices, maybe I’m scary to some folks, too.

I like to think that I am the thing that stalks the corridors here, that I’ve become as much a part of this place as it has me. It’s kept my family fed, kept us housed, and given me a quiet, peaceful place to work. In return, I greet its customers, tend to what ails it, and when it’s just the two of us sometimes I like to tell it the stories I’m working on.

There are worse ways to make a living in worse places.