The Hollow Cube

The night shift at the Mercer Data Center had a rhythm, a pulse of its own. I, Dana, had grown attuned to its hums and sighs, the flicker of a fluorescent tube, the distant groan of the HVAC system. Tonight, though, the rhythm felt off, like a record skipping in the dark. The silence between keystrokes was heavier, and my skin prickled with an unnamable dread.

I was in the breakroom, nursing my third cup of bitter coffee, when the weight of the loneliness pressed in. The windows showed only the black void of the industrial park, and the reflection in them was my own tired face, hollow-eyed. I checked my phone for the time: 3:17 AM. I’d been praying for the clock to move faster, but now I dreaded the minutes ticking by.

As I set the mug down and headed to the restroom, a sudden, irrational certainty slammed into me: something is going to happen. I hurried my steps, my heart starting to thud against my ribs. The restroom was empty, the white tiles gleaming under the harsh lights. I washed my hands, the water ice-cold, and as I dried them, the air seemed to drop ten degrees. The mirror showed nothing behind me, but I felt a presence, a pressure against my back. I spun around—nothing. But the feeling lingered, like cobwebs on my skin.

I forced myself to walk back to my station, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the cavernous server room. The rows of blinking server lights seemed like a thousand tiny eyes watching me. I sat down and put on my headset to focus on the task at hand: entering endless strings of data. The phone on my desk rang, shrill and jarring. It was a colleague, Marcus, calling from his post across the building. We chatted about trivial things while I typed, and I saw him leave the restroom and drift toward the outdoor balcony, talking on his cell, a ghostly silhouette in the glass doors.

I tried to ignore the growing knot in my stomach. I needed to pee again, but I resolved to wait until Marcus came back. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. He was still out there, pacing, his back to me. My bladder screamed, and I finally stood, intending to shuffle past him to the restroom. But as I approached the balcony doors, I saw something that turned my blood to ice: Marcus’s reflection in the glass. He was not on his phone. He was staring directly at me, a wide, unblinking grin splitting his face. But his body was facing the parking lot, his back to me. The reflection was wrong—it was reversed, like he was facing me through the glass, but his body didn’t match.

I stumbled backward, and the reflection wavered, then snapped back to a normal mirror image of him hunching over, phone to his ear. I blinked, and he was gone. The balcony was empty. A cold draft swept through me, and the door to the restroom slammed shut on its own. My stomach dropped.

I crept into the restroom, the silence deafening. The lights flickered. The hum of the ventilation seemed to pulse. I did my business as fast as I could, avoiding the mirror. As I washed my hands, I glanced up out of the corner of my eye—and saw my own reflection moving a half-second late. It was smiling. I didn’t smile. The smile widened, revealing teeth too numerous, too sharp.

A shrill scream echoed from the server room—Marcus’s voice. I ran out, my heart in my throat. The hallway was empty. The scream came again, but from inside my own head. I clutched my ears, and when I lowered my hands, I was standing in front of my desk. The clock read 3:17 AM. I was holding a mug of coffee, and the warm liquid sloshed over my hand. I hadn’t moved. The entire sequence—the restroom, Marcus, the reflection—had been a loop, a trap.

I put the coffee down, trembling. The phone rang. I picked it up. It was Marcus’s voice, but distorted, layered with static: ‘Dana, don’t go to the restroom. Please, don’t…’ The line went dead. I looked up, and saw Marcus standing at the far end of the room, waving at me, a normal smile on his face. He headed to the balcony, phone in hand. I didn’t move. I watched his reflection in the glass. It was normal, but as he stepped outside, his reflection stayed one beat behind, then snapped into sync.

My bladder ached. I needed to go. But I was paralyzed. I looked at the clock: 3:17 AM. Again. The second hand wasn’t moving. I looked back at the balcony—Marcus was gone. The glass door was open, a gaping black void. A voice, sweet and coaxing, floated from that direction: ‘Dana, come see what I found.’ It was my own voice, but wrong, too high, too sweet.

I gripped the edge of my desk, knuckles white. The fluorescent light above me buzzed and died, plunging me into darkness. The server lights blinked faster, frantic, like a heartbeat. The darkness in the hallway began to coalesce into a shape—a tall, thin figure with too many joints, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. It had no face, but I felt it grinning.

It took a step toward me, and the floor beneath my feet seemed to tilt. I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes, praying for it to be a dream. When I opened them, I was standing in the restroom again, staring at my reflection. It was me, but my eyes were black, and my smile was wide and knowing. The lights buzzed. The air was cold. I looked down at my hands—they were gripping the sink, and the porcelain was cracked.

I backed away, shaking my head. ‘No, no, no…’ But my reflection didn’t move with me. It leaned forward until its face was inches from the glass, pressing against it. I saw its lips move, and though I couldn’t hear it, I read the words: ‘You’ve been here for hours. We’ve been waiting.’

I turned to run, but the door was gone. The walls of the restroom were slowly closing in, inch by inch, the tiles growing darker, wetter. I screamed, but no sound came out. The lights went out, and in the darkness, I felt hands on my shoulders, cold and numerous, pulling me backward.

I woke up on the floor of the server room, the morning sun streaming through the windows. Marcus was shaking me, his face worried. ‘Dana, you passed out. You were screaming.’ I tried to speak, but my throat was raw. I looked at my hands—they were covered in dust, and the floor was cold. He helped me up, and I glanced at the clock: 6:00 AM. The night shift was over.

I never went back. I quit that day. But sometimes, when I look in a mirror, I see a flicker of movement behind my own eyes. And when the bathroom light is off, I swear I can hear a humming sound, a rhythm, like a heartbeat, from the other side of the glass. I know now: the Hollow Cube isn’t a building. It’s a mouth, and it’s always hungry. And it hasn’t forgotten me.