The Cinder Room

I’ve worked the night shift at Nexus BPO for six years now, ever since they opened the sprawling complex in the industrial district of New Kerava. The building was a marvel then—glass and steel, with a sleek lobby and floors of humming workstations. But the glamour faded fast, especially for those of us on the graveyard shift. We were the ghosts of the building, moving through the empty corridors while the city slept.

There was a sleep room on every floor, a perk that sounded luxurious but was really just a utilitarian space with bunk beds and a few lockers. Most agents ignored them, preferring to nap at their desks or in the break room. But I found solace in the quiet darkness of the sleep room on the 18th floor. It was rarely used, and the far corner bunk had a power outlet near the pillow, perfect for charging my phone while I caught a few hours of rest.

One night, after a particularly draining shift, I decided to stay until dawn. The area around the building had a reputation for muggings, and the security guards were useless. So at 3 AM, I dragged myself to the sleep room, hoping for a couple of hours of oblivion before the first train ran. The room was empty, as usual. I chose the middle bottom bunk, plugged in my phone, and closed my eyes.

I must have drifted off quickly, because the next thing I knew, a cold draft swept over me. The air in the room was still, but this breeze was sharp and carried a faint metallic smell, like burnt copper. I opened my eyes, but a thick darkness had settled over the room, deeper than the usual gloom. My phone screen was dark, even though I’d set an alarm. Then I saw it—a blurry figure, not quite solid, racing from my left side to the right. It was fast, a smear of grey against the shadows, and it left a faint trail of ash in its wake.

I sat up, my heart hammering, and fumbled for the light switch. The fluorescents flickered on, buzzing, and the room was empty. The bunk beds stood in neat rows, the lockers closed. I told myself it was a dream, a trick of exhaustion. I lay back down, but I couldn’t shut my eyes. I watched the corner where the figure had vanished, but nothing moved. After what felt like an hour, I finally fell into a restless sleep.

When I woke, the room was dim with early morning light. I checked my phone—it was dead, despite being plugged in. The outlet had a scorch mark on it, fresh, as if something had shorted. I dismissed it as a faulty wiring and went back to work. But the incident stayed with me, nagging at my mind.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed changes. The sleep room on the 18th floor developed a musty, burnt smell that no amount of cleaning could remove. Agents who used that room came out with headaches and strange, vivid nightmares. A colleague named Priya told me she saw a man crouched in the corner of the room, muttering, but when she turned on the light, he was gone. Another, Tomas, said his phone battery drained from 80% to zero in ten minutes while he was there.

I tried to avoid the room, but fate had other plans. One night, my regular nap spot on the 15th floor was occupied, so I trudged up to the 18th. The room was empty, but the air was thick, like a held breath. I lay down on the same bunk, but this time I didn’t charge my phone. I just closed my eyes, listening to the hum of the building. Just as I was about to drift off, I heard it—a soft, rhythmic scratching, like nails on metal. It came from under the bunk above me.

I froze, my breath shallow. The scratching stopped, and then a voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ It sounded old, tired, and close to my ear. I sat up, but there was no one. The room was empty. Yet the voice had been so distinct, so real.

I scrambled out of the sleep room and didn’t return for a month. But the building seemed to pull me back. My shifts always ended near the 18th floor, and I found myself staring at the door to that room, my skin prickling. Finally, curiosity and a strange sense of duty made me investigate. I dug into the building’s history, what little there was. The complex was built on the site of an old metal foundry that had burned down in the 1980s. The fire had killed a night watchman, a man named Elias Vance, who had been checking the furnaces. They never found his body.

I read old newspaper clippings online, grainy photos of the blaze. In one, I thought I saw a figure in the window, but the resolution was too poor to be sure. The foundry had been demolished, but the company that owned the land had sold it to a developer, and Nexus built their tower on top. The sleep rooms were on the floors that corresponded to the foundry’s main floor.

I started to piece it together: the burnt smell, the ashes, the drained electronics—they were all signs of a lingering presence, one that fed on energy and was bound to that spot. The scratching was probably Elias, trying to claw his way out of some forgotten pit. And the figure I saw that first night—it must have been him, racing to warn me away.

But why me? I kept going back, not out of bravery, but because I felt a strange kinship with the restless soul. I started leaving small offerings—a glass of water, a burned candle, a scrap of paper with a message: ‘I know you’re here. I won’t tell anyone.’ The next day, the water was gone, and the paper was scorched to ash.

One night, I decided to confront him. I sat on the floor of the sleep room in the dark, my back against the bottom bunk, and spoke aloud. ‘Elias Vance, I know you’re here. I know what happened to you. You were trapped, weren’t you? The fire—they didn’t look for you.’ The temperature dropped, and the air filled with that metallic smell, so strong it made my eyes water. The scratching started again, faster this time, right beside me.

I forced myself to stay still. ‘I can’t bring you back, but I can give you peace. Tell me what you need.’ For a long moment, there was silence. Then, a faint, ghostly whisper: ‘The coal. The coal. It’s still burning.’

I didn’t understand. I looked around the room, at the blank walls and the linoleum floor. Then I noticed a small hatch I’d never seen before, near the corner, covered by a threadbare rug. When I lifted it, there was a narrow shaft, descending into blackness. A cold draft rose up, carrying the scent of soot and ash. I knew I had to go down.

I told no one. I borrowed an industrial flashlight from the maintenance closet and, on my day off, I returned to the building. I slipped into the sleep room and opened the hatch. The shaft was narrow, just wide enough for shoulders, with rusted metal rungs leading down. I climbed for what felt like minutes, the walls pressing in, the air growing warmer. At the bottom, I found a brick tunnel, half-collapsed, leading to a vast underground chamber.

The light of my flashlight revealed a nightmare: a giant coal furnace, ancient and rusted, its door ajar. Inside, the embers still glowed, a deep orange, as if they had never gone out. The heat was immense, and I felt sweat dripping down my face. There, slumped against the furnace, was a skeleton wearing a tattered security uniform. A heavy iron key hung from a lanyard around its neck.

I understood then: Elias had been locking up the furnace when the fire started, and he’d been trapped. The company had built their tower right on top of him, not knowing—or not caring—that his remains were below. The sleep room was directly above that furnace, and his ghost was a manifestation of his unfinished business: the fire that never died, the coal that kept trying to burn.

I took the key, climbed back up, and closed the hatch. That night, I went to the police station, but I didn’t know how to explain without sounding insane. Instead, I called a local TV station and pretended to be an anonymous tipster, giving them the exact coordinates of the chamber. The next day, a news crew and forensic teams descended on the building. They found the remains, and the story broke—the forgotten watchman, the decades-old mystery solved.

The company was forced to close the 18th floor for investigation, and the sleep rooms were eventually decommissioned. I transferred to a different floor, but the memory of that night never left me. Sometimes, at 3 AM, when the building is quiet, I smell the faint scent of burnt copper, and I know Elias is at peace, but also that he’s still there, watching. And I wonder if I ever truly left that room, or if a part of me is still sitting on that bunk, waiting for the dawn.