The Thing in Lot B
I have worked as a security guard at the Riverside Office Park for about three years now. It is a massive place, sprawling over fifty acres of concrete and glass. By 6 PM, the last of the corporate employees have swiped their badges, packed up their lunches, and headed home to their families. That is when my shift begins. I like the solitude of the night shift. It gives me time to think, listen to podcasts, and cruise around the grounds on my golf cart. The silence is usually comforting, like a heavy blanket that keeps the rest of the world at bay. Everything changed about two months ago when I started noticing the black sedan in Lot B. Lot B is the furthest point from the main gate, tucked behind a thick row of overgrown pine trees and a crumbling brick maintenance shed. It is a dead zone for our security cameras. I noticed the car for the first time on a day. It was a nondescript black sedan, the kind that looks like a smudge against the asphalt. It was parked right at the very edge of the lot, almost touching the fence that marks the property line. I figured it was just an employee who had worked too late and crashed in their back seat, or maybe someone looking for a quiet place to take a nap. I ignored it for the first few days, but then it became a ritual. Every night at 2 AM, I would drive my cart toward the back of the lot. The headlights of the cart would cut through the dark, but the car never moved. The windows were tinted so deeply that they looked like solid black ink. I tried shining my high-intensity LED flashlight through the glass, but the beam just died against the surface. It was like the car was absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. The air around the vehicle always felt strangely still, as if the wind itself was afraid to touch it. By the second week, the situation began to weigh on me. My heart would start thumping against my ribs as I approached the lot. I kept telling myself it was nothing, just a car, just a person, just a job. One night, the silence felt heavier than usual. The crickets had stopped chirping, and the distant hum of the highway seemed to have vanished. I pulled the cart up right next to the driver-side door. I sat there for a long moment, listening to the hum of my own breath. I decided I had to know what was going on. I stepped off the cart, my boots crunching loudly on the gravel. I walked up to the door and gave it a firm knock with my knuckle. The sound was flat and dry. I waited for a stir, a voice, anything. Nothing. I knocked again, much harder this time, bracing my hand for the impact against the glass. But the sound that came back was not the metallic ping of a car door or the shatter of window glass. It sounded like a dull, hollow thud against heavy, rotted wood. My stomach dropped. I stepped back, reaching for the radio on my shoulder to call for backup or a supervisor. As soon as my finger touched the button, a blast of static ripped through the earpiece. It was deafening, a screeching, high-pitched whine that felt like it was drilling directly into my brain. I dropped the radio, clutching my ears, gasping as the sound tore through the air. In that moment of intense pain and confusion, I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I felt eyes on me. It was not just one person; it was an entire crowd of them. I slowly tilted my head back, looking up at the massive, dark silhouette of the office building. I gasped aloud. Every single window of that four-story structure was filled with faces. Dozens of people were standing pressed against the glass, looking down at me in the lot. They were motionless, their features blurred by the distance and the lack of light, but I knew they were watching. They looked like statues, all of them standing perfectly still, ignoring the fact that the building should have been completely empty. I did not wait to see if they would move or come down to the lobby. My adrenaline spiked, and I scrambled back into the driver seat of my cart. I didn't even check the mirror. I slammed the pedal to the floor and sped across the asphalt, the tires skidding on the loose gravel. I did not stop until I reached the security gate at the front entrance, my hands shaking so badly I could barely unlock the booth. When I finally found the courage to look back toward the lot, the black car was gone. It had vanished completely. I looked at the spot where it had been sitting, and my heart stopped. There was no tire tracks, no oil stains, nothing. The patch of asphalt where the car had been parked looked like a dark hole in the ground, a patch of shadow that was darker than the surrounding night. I quit the job the next morning. I did not even go back to collect my remaining personal items from the locker. I have moved on to a new job, one that keeps me inside during the daylight hours, but the fear has not left me. Sometimes, when I am driving home late, I see a black sedan in my rearview mirror. It is always there. No matter what speed I drive, no matter what turn I take, it stays the exact same distance behind me. It never passes me, and it never slows down. I do not look in the mirror anymore. I refuse to acknowledge it. I just keep my eyes locked on the white lines of the road, counting the seconds, waiting for the first grey light of morning to wash the sky so I can finally feel safe again.