The Inventory of Hushed Hours

The task was simple: retrieve the backup drives from the mapped drives in the records room. My name is Elias, and I’ve worked at the Selkirk Municipal Records Annex for eight months, a job that mostly involves digitizing deeds and property files. The annex, a squat, red-brick building from the 1960s, sits at the edge of the industrial district, far from the main municipal offices. It’s a place people avoid, and not just because of the outdated heating system.

The records room, where the drives were stored, was a long, narrow space with floor-to-ceiling metal shelves crammed with manila folders and ledgers. The fluorescent lights hummed and flickered, casting a jaundiced glow. I had been in there before, and I always felt a pressure building behind my eyes, a sense of being watched. My coworkers, a rotating cast of temps and interns, all spoke in hushed tones about ‘the cold spots’ and ‘the smell of old cigarettes.’ I’d felt a cold spot once, near the back corner, but I’d dismissed it as a draft.

Today, I had to retrieve the backup drives for the annual audit. My supervisor, a woman named Mrs. Albright, had insisted I do it alone. She claimed everyone else was too busy, but I saw the way she avoided my eyes. I swallowed my pride and took the key.

As I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the air hit me like a physical weight. It was colder than it should have been, and there was a faint, almost imperceptible hum, like a distant conversation just below the threshold of hearing. I walked toward the back where the drives were kept in a locked cabinet. Halfway there, I crossed the cold spot. It was like stepping into a freezer. The hairs on my arms stood up, and my breath misted. I quickened my pace.

I found the cabinet and fumbled with the keys, my fingers numb. As I opened the door, I heard it: a sound like paper rustling, but not from the papers in the room. It came from the far end of the aisle, behind a stack of dusty boxes. I froze. The rustling grew louder, more insistent, and then it was accompanied by a dry, rhythmic tapping, as of a finger on a desk. I knew I wasn’t alone.

I grabbed the drives and turned to leave, but the door at the end of the aisle, the one I came in through, was now closed. It had been open, I was sure of it. I felt a surge of panic. I walked toward it, trying to keep my steps steady, but the tapping followed me, matching my pace. When I reached the door, I turned the handle. It was locked. I rattled it, but it wouldn’t budge. The tapping stopped, and then a voice, low and muffled, as if from inside a wall, said, ‘You’re in the wrong place.’

I spun around. The aisle was empty. But I could see my breath pluming in the cold air, and the lights above swayed slightly, as if someone had brushed against them. The voice came again, this time closer, almost at my ear: ‘The inventory is not complete.’ I felt a hand, cold and dry, press against the back of my neck.

I yelped and lunged for the door, but it remained sealed. I pounded on it, shouting for help, but my voice echoed in a way that didn’t sound right, as if the room were absorbing my words. The tapping resumed, but now it was coming from everywhere, from behind the shelves, from above, from within the floor. The lights flickered, and in the darkness I saw a figure at the end of the aisle, tall and thin, with shoulders that seemed too sharp. It took a step forward, and the sound of its footsteps was like the crinkling of thousand of pages.

I don’t remember how I got out. The next thing I knew, I was in the hallway, the drives clutched to my chest, the door clicking shut behind me. My heart was racing, and I was sweating despite the cold. I didn’t tell anyone what happened. I just filed the drives and went home, but that night, I dreamt of ledgers filled with names I couldn’t read, and the constant, rhythmic tapping, as if someone were counting something. The next day, Mrs. Albright asked me if I had found everything. I said yes. But as I spoke, I saw her glance at the records room door, and for a moment, her eyes held the same fear I felt.

I have not been back to the records room since. I requested a transfer, and I got it. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear the tapping, and I know that somewhere in that room, someone is still counting, waiting for the inventory to be complete.