The next morning, I woke up with the hum still in my ears.
At first, I thought it was the refrigerator in my apartment — until I realized I was imagining it. The sound wasn't real. It had crawled into my head and stayed there overnight, like tinnitus made of memory.
I told myself it was nothing. New job stress. Night shift disorientation.
But deep down, I knew something wasn't right about last night.
Still, I showed up on time.
Second shift — 11:40 PM sharp. The same concrete corridors, the same pale lights.
And that same, faint vibration waiting to greet me when I clocked in.
"Back again, huh?" Saitō said, grinning tiredly. "You didn't quit after one night. That's impressive."
"Almost did," I said before I could stop myself.
He laughed, thinking it was a joke. "You'll toughen up. Everyone hates the first week. Just don't let your imagination get to you."
I wanted to ask him about Section F — about the radio, the missing box, the thing I'd seen moving in the dark — but I didn't.
Something about the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes told me not to.
By 1:00 AM, the warehouse was quiet again.
The scanner beeped in rhythm with my steps. Beep, scan, log, move on.
No flickering lights this time. No cold air. No misplaced boxes.
Almost peaceful — if you ignored the fact that the cameras above the aisles kept turning ever so slightly to follow me.
I noticed it when I stopped to stretch my neck.
One camera, then another, pivoted just enough to keep me centered in frame.
They weren't supposed to move like that. The motion sensors were automated and static.
I waved up at one of them, half expecting Saitō's voice to crackle over the radio.
Nothing.
The longer I stood there, the more I could feel the lenses watching.
There were at least twenty cameras in that sector alone — blinking red dots in the dark, like tiny eyes.
The hum deepened.
"Stop it," I muttered. "You're just tired."
But when I glanced at the terminal, I froze.
On the digital log, a new entry had appeared under my employee ID.
> [01:03 AM] — HN-1132F — Logged by: T. Arakawa
I hadn't logged that box. I hadn't even seen it tonight.
I scrolled back through the list — and saw that it was logged twice more, at 01:06 and 01:09.
Each timestamp a few minutes apart.
Each with my name.
That's when the overhead lights dimmed.
The scanner in my hand flickered off.
The hum rose again, swelling through the air like the building itself was breathing.
"Power outage," I said to myself, though the emergency lights were still on.
I radioed Saitō. "Hey, uh… systems are glitching again. You reading me?"
Static.
I started walking toward the break room, the only part of the warehouse with backup power.
Halfway there, a noise stopped me.
Not the hum. Not the taps.
A voice.
Faint, distorted, but unmistakably human.
Whispering my name.
"...Tomo...aki…"
My chest went cold. "Who's there?" I called out, shining my phone's flashlight down the nearest aisle.
A shadow moved just out of range.
Then another.
The shelves creaked softly, as if something was crawling across them — not walking, but clinging.
I took a step back, my breath fogging in the air again. The temperature had dropped fast, my skin prickling.
The flashlight flickered once, twice — and then died.
The whisper came again. Closer.
"...Don't log it…"
And then the lights came back on.
Saitō was waiting in the break room, staring at the CCTV monitor wall.
When I entered, he jumped slightly, then pretended he hadn't.
"Oh, you're here," he said too quickly. "Power flickered for a second. You okay?"
I nodded, trying to sound normal. "Yeah. Just… thought I heard someone in the aisles."
"Probably the vent system," he said, though his tone was tight. "It makes weird noises at night. Nothing to worry about."
He gestured at the monitors. One screen — the feed from Section F — was pure static.
"That one's been dead for weeks," he muttered.
But when I looked closer, I could swear there was movement behind the static — faint outlines shifting, like silhouettes flickering in the noise.
"Who was the last person to work here before me?" I asked suddenly.
Saitō didn't answer at first. He looked at the monitor again, then sighed.
"Guy named Nakahara. Left about four months ago."
"Why'd he quit?"
He hesitated. "Didn't say. Just stopped showing up one day. We found his uniform still in the locker."
"Did he ever mention—" I pointed at the screen "—Section F?"
Saitō gave a nervous chuckle. "You're really curious, huh? Forget that place. It's a junk zone. Nothing down there but old freight and rats."
But his hands were trembling slightly as he picked up his coffee mug.
And when he left the break room a few minutes later, he locked the door behind him.
After he was gone, I noticed something wedged between the monitor console and the wall — a small black notebook, half-covered in dust.
Curiosity won out over fear. I pulled it free.
The cover was plain. Inside, the first few pages were filled with neat handwriting:
> Nakahara's Log – Night Shift Records
My pulse quickened. I turned the pages carefully.
The early entries were ordinary — shipment counts, break times, occasional complaints about the coffee machine. But near the middle, the tone changed.
> April 11
Sector F lights came on again, even though power's cut. Thought I saw someone moving near the back row. Couldn't make out a face.
> April 18
Radio picked up whispering. It said my name. Saitō told me not to mention it in the reports.
> April 24
Found a box with no label. Inside was… something wrapped in fabric. Smelled like metal and ash. I told Saitō. He said to "repackage it."
I didn't.
> April 25
The cameras keep turning. They're watching me even when the power's off.
I think the hum is coming from below the floor.
The last entry was just one sentence:
> April 30 — If you find this, don't log 1132F. It logs you back.
My hands went numb.
I flipped the notebook shut just as the break room lights flickered again. The monitors glitched, lines of static rolling across the screens — all except one.
Section F's feed cleared for a split second.
And in that second, I saw the same box — HN-1132F — sitting on the floor in front of the camera.
Its lid was open.
Something inside was moving.
A hand.
Pale. Too long. Reaching slowly toward the lens.
Then static swallowed it again.
I backed away, nearly tripping over a chair.
The radio on the table crackled to life.
"...Tomoaki…"
The voice wasn't Saitō's this time. It was lower. Wet. Like words spoken through water.
I dropped the radio, heart pounding. It rolled across the floor, sputtering static.
For a moment, I thought I heard faint laughter on the other end.
Then silence.
The hum returned — softer now, like it was right beneath my feet.
And I realized something that made my stomach twist.
The vibration wasn't coming from the machines.
It was coming from below the warehouse.
When the morning shift arrived, I left without saying a word.
Outside, the sky was gray, the air heavy with the smell of salt from the docks.
As I walked away, I felt my phone buzz — a system alert from the warehouse app.
> New shipment logged: HN-1132F — Logged by: T. Arakawa
I stared at the screen.
I hadn't logged anything.
And yet, in the faint reflection of the phone's glass, I thought I saw something over my shoulder —
a pale, open hand pressed against the inside of the warehouse window.