The night shift guard and his invisible friend
The silence in a big office building at 3:00 a.m. is not really quiet. It is a thick, physical thing that presses against your eardrums until the pressure becomes unbearable. After six months on the graveyard shift, I had learned that true silence doesn't exist; it is just a backdrop for the building’s own personality. It’s the settling of steel beams, the rhythmic clicking of cooling pipes, and the relentless, high-pitched hum of fluorescent lights that seem designed to drain your soul. My life had become a repetitive loop: the heavy thud of my rubber-soled boots against the linoleum, the jingle of my master key ring, and the tedious ritual of shining a flashlight into rooms that hadn't changed since the previous night. I was a ghost haunting a skyscraper, patrolling empty hallways and checking doors that were already locked tight. It was lonely work, but I had gotten used to the isolation until that day. The fourteenth floor was currently undergoing major renovations, which meant the usual polished aesthetics were gone. Instead, there were bare concrete floors, skeletal drywall frames, and a fine layer of gray dust that coated everything, turning the moonlight into a hazy, muted glow. The air up there felt different—thinner, colder, and smelling vaguely of damp plaster and old paint. I was halfway through my route, moving slowly to conserve energy, when I heard it. At first, I thought it was just the wind whistling through a gap in the plastic sheeting covering the windows. But the sound stayed consistent, melodic, and strangely rhythmic. It sounded like someone humming a low, tuneless song, accompanied by the distinct clink of a ceramic mug against a hard surface. My breath hitched in my throat. I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand instinctively dropping to the heavy maglite on my belt. Every muscle in my body coiled tight. I knew for a fact that no contractors were scheduled for the night, and my partner was stationed at the main entrance downstairs. I crept forward, keeping to the shadows of the support pillars. Every fiber of my being wanted to turn around and run back to the elevators, but the duty was ingrained in me. I rounded the corner, bracing myself for a confrontation with a squatter or a thief. What I found instead was far more unsettling. There was a man sitting at a makeshift desk—a slab of plywood resting on two sawhorses. He wore a standard guard uniform that looked identical to mine, though it was slightly frayed at the cuffs. He was sitting in a sturdy office chair that had clearly been salvaged from the trash heap. In his right hand, he held a chipped white coffee mug. He was leaning back, gesturing with his free hand toward the empty, dusty plastic chair across from him. He was talking, his lips moving in a steady, relaxed rhythm, and then he would pause, tilting his head slightly as if listening to a long, complex story. He looked entirely at ease, completely oblivious to the cold, dark, and skeletal surroundings. It was an image of domestic comfort placed in the middle of a construction site nightmare. I took a step forward, and despite my best efforts, a loose floorboard groaned under my weight. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. The man stopped mid-sentence. He didn't jump, and he didn't look startled. He turned his head toward me, his expression softening into a polite, weary smile. He looked like he had just been caught reading a book in his living room. Oh, sorry, he said. His voice was smooth, lacking any jagged edge of panic. I didn't see you there. I am just talking with Gary. I stood frozen, my flashlight beam wavering as my grip loosened. I scanned the empty room, looking for another person, but there was nothing but shadows and piles of lumber. Who is Gary? I managed to ask. My voice sounded thin, alien to my own ears. The man didn't hesitate. He gestured casually toward the empty chair, his eyes lighting up with a brief spark of genuine warmth. Gary. He works in accounting, he said, nodding as if introducing a coworker at a lunch break. He has been here for years. He is a bit of a bore, honestly. He loves to talk about tax audits and the intricacies of the quarterly budget reports. He laughed softly, a sound that sent a cold shiver racing down my spine. A dark, sinking feeling took root in my stomach. I knew the personnel file of every single person who worked in this building. I knew the cleaning staff, the late-night executives, and every other guard on the roster. There was no Gary in accounting, and there definitely was no one authorized to be on the fourteenth floor. I looked closer at the man. In the harsh, flicking light of my torch, I saw the true extent of his fatigue. His skin was sallow and pale, and there were deep, bruised-looking circles carved under his eyes. He wasn't insane, and he wasn't trying to trick me. He was just a man who had been eaten alive by the solitude of the night shift. He was staring at that empty chair with a desperate kind of longing, projecting a soul into the silence because he couldn't handle the crushing weight of it anymore. The room suddenly felt suffocatingly small. It was a private, tragic sanctuary built out of sheer, hollow desperation. I realized then that if I challenged him, if I tried to tell him that the chair was empty, it might be the thing that finally broke him. I didn't want to be the one to shatter his illusion. I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. Right, I whispered. My voice was tight. I kept my gaze fixed on the man, avoiding the empty chair as if it were radioactive. I will leave you two to it. Carry on. The guard nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to the empty space, resuming his one-sided conversation about ledger balances. I backed away, step by slow step, until I hit the hallway wall. Then, I turned and walked—then jogged—toward the stairwell. I didn't look back. I didn't stop until I reached the security booth in the basement. I collapsed into my swivel chair, my heart still hammering against my ribs. I turned on all the cameras, scanning the fourteenth floor through the grainy, flickering screens, but all I saw was a dark room filled with construction materials and an empty chair. I sat there for the rest of the night, listening to the hum of the computers and the distant, lonely sounds of the building. I couldn't help but wonder if that was my future. How long would it be until the silence became too much for me? How long until I found my own Gary waiting in the dark, ready to talk about nothing at all?