The Last Call

It had been three months since the new distribution hub opened on the outskirts of Millbrook, a sprawling, windowless structure of corrugated steel and concrete that swallowed the night shift whole. I was a data processor there, spending my hours in a dim cubicle cave, the glow of my monitor the only sun I knew. My girlfriend, Lily, was back in our cramped apartment, and our late-night chats were my lifeline to a world that still had daylight. But that particular night, exhaustion hit me like a landslide. I’d been up for nearly thirty hours, and my eyelids were heavy as lead. At 2:15 AM, I typed a hasty ‘I need to crash for a bit’ and logged off, stumbling toward the men’s sleeping quarters at the back of the building.

The room was a vast, hollow space, lined with rows of double-decker bunks, maybe twenty in total. The only illumination came from the fluorescent hum of the adjacent washroom and the thin, cold light seeping through the crack under the door. I’d chosen the lower bunk closest to the entrance, a spot that felt like a refuge. I collapsed onto the thin mattress, and within seconds, I was sinking into a black, dreamless pit.

I don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was a change in the air, a subtle shift in pressure. I opened my eyes to the same darkness, but something felt wrong. The usual distant hum of the building’s machinery had ceased. The silence was absolute, thick as wool. And then I heard it: a soft, wet scraping sound, like something being dragged across the concrete floor, coming from the washroom. My heart hammered. I tried to move, but my body was a dead weight, as if the exhaustion had turned to stone.

The scraping grew louder, and a figure emerged from the washroom’s glow. It was tall, impossibly thin, with limbs that bent at angles that defied anatomy. It had no face, just a smooth, pale oval where features should be, but I could feel its attention on me, a cold, probing gaze. It moved toward the bunk, its head tilting as if listening. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying I was hallucinating, but I could hear it stop right beside my bed. The scent of rot and old metal filled my nostrils. A cold, wet hand—or what passed for a hand—brushed my cheek, leaving a trail of something sticky. My breath caught in my throat.

Then, it whispered. The voice was like nails on a chalkboard, but soft, almost intimate. ‘You can’t hide from the last call.’ The words echoed in my skull, and I felt a violent shudder. The hand withdrew, and I heard the scraping retreat back toward the washroom. I dared to open my eyes. The figure was gone. The silence returned, but now punctuated by a faint, rhythmic beeping from my watch. It was 7:02 AM. My shift had ended two hours ago.

I forced myself to move, my limbs trembling. I stumbled out of the sleeping quarters, into the main floor. The lights were off. The cubicles stood like silent tombstones. I made my way to the exit, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the outside. I fumbled for my phone, but it was dead. I was trapped in this mausoleum. Then, from the intercom system, a voice crackled to life, the same voice from my nightmare. ‘Last call for the night shift. All employees must report to the processing floor.’ I turned, and the floor lights flickered on, revealing that every cubicle was occupied by a faceless figure, all of them turning to face me in unison.

I ran. I don’t know for how long, through storage rooms, break rooms, up and down metal staircases, but everywhere I went, the voice followed, always the same message. And the figures multiplied, their scraping footsteps closing in. Finally, I found an emergency exit, kicked it open, and tumbled into the gray dawn. I ran until my lungs burned, until I reached the highway, where I flagged down a trucker. I never went back. The company tried to contact me, but I ignored every call. Later, I learned that on the night I fled, a gas leak had caused an explosion. The building was destroyed. No survivors. But sometimes, in the dead of night, my phone rings. The caller ID shows ‘Work’. And when I answer, I hear that scraping sound, and the voice whispers, ‘The last call is for you.’ I always hang up, but I know one day, I won’t be fast enough.