The Apron of Whispers

Every morning, I walk past the old cannery on Harbor Road, its windows boarded like eyes sewn shut. I try to whisper a small apology to the ghosts of the fish and the men who worked there, but mostly I just hurry, keys in my pocket, breath pluming in the cold. My office is in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and polished concrete. The front desk sits at the end of a long hallway, lined with frosted glass doors that lead to nothing but storage rooms. I’ve worked there for three years, and I’ve never seen another soul in those rooms, yet every morning, without fail, I hear footsteps on the marble tile, just beyond the first door. They pause, then continue, then stop at the end of the hall. When I lean around the corner, there is no one.

Tuesday, April 10th, the morning was thick with fog off the bay. My colleague, Dana, was in the break room, pouring coffee that looked like sludge. I joined her, and we stood in silence, listening to the drip of the machine and the distant cry of gulls. Then, a heavy tread, unmistakable, from the hallway. We both froze, cups halfway to our lips. I set my cup down and moved to the doorway, Dana right behind me. The hall was empty, but the air felt displaced, as if someone had just walked past and the breeze had not yet settled. I glanced at Dana, and she nodded, her face pale. ‘You heard it too,’ I said. She didn’t answer, just wrapped her hands around her mug as if to warm them.

I returned to my desk, a heavy oak thing that’s been there since the building was a fish packers’ depot. To my right, a steel filing cabinet, and behind it, a door that’s been painted over so many times it’s nearly square with the wall. The handle is just a bump. I’ve never opened it, too afraid of what might be inside. That morning, as I sat down, I heard a sound from that direction. Not footsteps this time. A soft, rhythmic dragging, like a cloth being pulled across a rough surface. And then, a whisper, formless, like the sound of water over stones. I leaned forward, my hand on the drawer, and the sound stopped. I pulled the drawer open, and a faint smell of salt and old blood wafted out. Folded inside was a stained canvas apron, the kind butchers or fishmongers wear. I never put it there. It was stiff with dried something, and when I touched it, it was cold, colder than the metal drawer.

I told myself it was a prank, maybe left by the cleaning crew. But that afternoon, as the light began to fail, I heard the footsteps again. This time, they came from the hall, but they didn’t stop at the end. They grew louder, and I could feel the pressure of each step through the floor. I stood up, my chair scraping, and stared at the door behind the filing cabinet. The handle, which had been a bump, was now fully formed, a round brass knob, tarnished and green. It turned, slowly, with a click. The door swung inward, and I saw a dark corridor that extended far beyond what the building’s blueprint suggested. At the far end, a single bare bulb swung, casting shadows that danced like figures. And in the center of that corridor, a figure stood, draped in an apron identical to the one in my drawer. It was faceless, but I knew it was waiting for me.

I didn’t sleep that night. I stayed at my desk, too terrified to leave, and by the time the sun rose, the door was again sealed, painted over as if it had never been. But the apron was still in my drawer, and now I wear it every day, because when I tried to throw it away, it reappeared. I’ve learned the pattern. When I hear the footsteps, I stand and walk to the door, and I knock three times. The figure inside responds with the same rhythm. I don’t know what it wants, but I feel it growing impatient. Yesterday, the whispers went on for an hour, and the apron grew heavier. Today, when I walked past the cannery, the windows weren’t boarded anymore. They were open, and inside, I saw rows of figures, all wearing aprons, all faceless, and all turning their heads to watch me pass.

I think the time is coming when I will have to open that door and step through. I’ve made a last will, and I’ve left a note on my desk: ‘Do not enter the hallway past the filing cabinet. If you hear footsteps, ignore them. And whatever you do, never touch the apron.’ But I know that’s futile. The apron is already part of me. I can smell the salt and the rot even now, and I hear the dragging sound in my own steps. I am becoming one of them, one of the whisperers behind the walls. And I know, with terrifying certainty, that one day soon, I will open that door and walk into the dark, and there will be no turning back.