The Cold Room at Brandt Tower

In 2003, I was a night security guard at the Brandt Tower, a twenty-story monolith of glass and steel in the heart of the city. The first floor was a marble lobby, floors two through seven were parking garages, and the rest were office spaces. The twelfth floor had been vacant for years, a gray area no one wanted. Even in the August heat, the corridor on that floor was always cold.

My trainer, a grizzled veteran named Frank, told me we were going to inspect the floor. He said he wouldn’t tell me anything about it, just to see how I’d react. As we stepped off the elevator, the cold hit me like a wave. The air was thick, and my breath fogged. I felt a heaviness, like something was pressing on my chest. We walked down the hallway, and I was drawn to a specific door at the far end. I stopped and told Frank, ‘Someone died here. A woman, I think. And there’s anger, not sadness.’

Frank’s face went pale. He opened the door with a passkey, and we stepped into a small office. The room was bare, except for a few dusty chairs. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I knew I was in the right place. Frank then told me the story: a woman named Eleanor and her husband, Roger, had worked this floor in the late ’90s. Roger was jealous, convinced Eleanor was having an affair with a colleague. One night, he shot her in this very room, then turned the gun on himself. They found their bodies the next morning, and the floor had been empty ever since.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still there. Over the next few months, I began to see things on my rounds. A shadow that flickered at the edge of my vision, a cold draft that seemed to follow me. Sometimes, I’d hear a faint piano playing from that floor, even though no one was there. My colleagues joked about it, but I knew the truth. The spirits were restless.

One night, I decided to confront it. I took a flashlight and went up alone. The door to the office was ajar, and I could hear a woman sobbing. I pushed it open, and the room was bathed in an eerie blue light. There, in the corner, stood the ghost of a woman in a white dress. She turned to me, her face twisted with sorrow and rage. ‘He didn’t believe me,’ she whispered. ‘I never betrayed him. He killed me for nothing.’

I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. She pointed to the window, and I saw a man outside, looking in, his face hollow. It was Roger, trapped in his own guilt. ‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘He must know.’ I understood then that their souls were bound here, reliving the same night. I felt a surge of pity, and I whispered, ‘I’ll tell him.’

As I said that, the temperature rose slightly. The ghost smiled, a faint, sad smile, and then both spirits faded away. I stood there, shaking, until the normal cold returned. I never told anyone the full story, but I know what I saw. The Brandt Tower’s twelfth floor remains cold, but now I understand: it’s not just the air. It’s the memory of a love turned sour, a trust broken, and a truth that was never spoken.