The Hollow Night Concierge

At seventeen, Marcus had worked the night shift at the Melvin & Co. distribution hub for six months. It was a monotonous job, packing boxes of industrial lubricants and listening to the hum of fluorescent lights. The 4 AM knock-off was always the same: the company cab, a battered silver Toyota, would ferry the North-bound workers home. Marcus always sat in the back, staring at the rain-slicked streets, the last one left in the cab as the driver turned into his quiet estate.

That Wednesday night, the cab driver, a man with a perpetually tired face and a name tag that read ‘Raj’, slowed down at the entrance to Marcus’s block. ‘Is it okay if I drop you at the block entrance? The lift lobby is a bit of a walk, but it’s only about three minutes,’ Raj said, his voice almost apologetic.

Marcus squinted through his uncorrected vision. He was supposed to wear glasses, but he hated them. They made his face look strange, and he’d never gotten used to contact lenses. Everything beyond a few feet was a blur of shapes and smudges. He glanced at the unlit path leading to the lift lobby, a concrete walkway lined with overgrown hibiscus bushes. ‘Yeah, sure, that’s fine,’ he said, stepping out.

The cab’s taillights receded, and Marcus was enveloped in the heavy Singapore night. The air was thick with humidity and the faint, sickly scent of jasmine. He walked slowly, his sneakers scuffing the pavement, his mind half-occupied with the day’s fatigue. Then, ahead of him, a shape materialized—a woman’s figure, pale and indistinct, standing just outside the glow of a distant lamppost. His heart jumped for a moment, then relaxed. He wasn’t alone. Perhaps a neighbor, also returning late.

He quickened his pace, not wanting to seem rude, but as he drew closer, the figure didn’t move. It stood perfectly still, almost statuesque. Marcus was about ten meters away now. He could see she was wearing a white dress, the kind that flowed down to her ankles. Her hair was long and dark, cascading over her shoulders. But something was off. She wasn’t looking at him; she was facing the lift lobby, as if waiting for something.

‘Good morning,’ Marcus said, his voice echoing in the quiet. No response. The woman remained motionless. He slowed down, a flicker of unease creeping up his spine. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes, to discern more details. Her dress seemed too white, stark against the dark green of the bushes. And her feet—her feet were not touching the ground. They hovered, about an inch above the concrete.

Marcus stopped mid-step. His breath hitched. He blinked again, hoping his blurry vision was deceiving him. He took a step back, and a faint, high-pitched static began to buzz in his ears. Then, the woman turned her head, a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to crack the silence. He could now see her face—pale as chalk, with hollow black eyes that seemed to suck in the light. Her mouth opened, but instead of a scream, a low, rattling whisper emerged, a sound like leaves skittering across the pavement.

‘You’re late,’ it said.

Marcus’s mind raced. Late for what? He took another step back, his heart thundering. The figure began to float towards him, her motions ethereal, gliding without a sound. He turned and ran, his feet pounding the concrete. He didn’t look back. He didn’t stop until he reached the lift lobby, slamming his palm against the button. The lift doors opened with a ding, and he dove in, pressing the button for his floor repeatedly until the doors slid shut.

He leaned against the cool metal, gasping for air. He tried to rationalize it. His vision was bad. He was tired. It was just a trick of the light. But the image of the hovering woman, the whisper, lingered. The lift began to ascend, and Marcus closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.

When the lift reached his floor, he stepped out into the corridor. It was empty, silent, the only sound the faint hum of the building. He walked to his apartment, fumbling for his keys. As he inserted the key, he heard a soft rustle behind him. He spun around. The corridor was empty. He shuddered, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, locking it firmly behind him.

He turned on the lights, checked every room, found nothing. He sat on his bed, finally allowing himself to breathe. He decided to tell himself it was a dream, a hallucination from lack of sleep. He lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come. The image of that face, those hollow eyes, engraved itself in his mind.

Hours passed. He checked his phone. 6:30 AM. Still dark outside. He got up, needing a glass of water. The kitchen was at the other end of the flat. As he walked, he noticed something odd on the floor near the front door. A faint, wet trail, leading from the door to the kitchen. He followed it, his heart racing again.

The trail ended at his kitchen sink. And there, on the counter, was a single white flower—a jasmine, fresh, as if just picked. He’d never had jasmine in his apartment. He backed away, his hand covering his mouth. He turned to the window, the one overlooking the corridor. And there she was, standing on the other side of the glass, her face pressed against it, her hollow eyes staring directly at him. Her lips moved, forming silent words.

The jasmine on the counter, her whisper, ‘You’re late’—it all coalesced into a horrifying realization. She hadn’t been waiting for anyone else. She had been waiting for him. And now, she had followed him home.

Marcus screamed, stumbling back, knocking over a chair. He ran to the front door, unlocked it, and fled down the corridor, not daring to look back. He ran down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the early morning gloom. He kept running, not knowing where to go, only that he had to get away. But as he ran, he could feel her presence closing in, a chill in the air, a whisper at his ear.

He never reached his next destination. The last thing he saw was a pair of white high-heeled shoes, hovering just above the ground, in front of him. And then, everything went black.

When morning came, his body was found in the estate’s garden, beneath the jasmine bush, a peaceful expression on his face. The incident made the papers, but the story was hushed up. The police called it a heart attack. But the residents of Block 27 knew better. They began to notice that every Wednesday night, at 4 AM, a woman in white could be seen standing by the path, waiting. And those who crossed her path would never be seen again. The locals took to calling her ‘The Night Concierge,’ though not out of affection. And they always made sure to tip their cab drivers to drop them off right at the lift lobby door.