The Last Gaffer Tape

I never thought I’d see the day when the old Riverside Studios would feel like a tomb, but that’s exactly what it became after the renovation. I’m Marcus, a set designer, and I’ve spent the last fifteen years turning sketches into three-dimensional nightmares for the cameras. The place has been my second home, a labyrinth of sound stages, dressing rooms, and corridors that twist like intestines. But it wasn’t until the new extension was built—a sleek, glass-and-steel monstrosity grafted onto the original 1960s shell—that I started to feel like I was being watched.

It started small. Tools I’d left on a workbench would be moved when I returned from a coffee break. A gaffer tape roll would be found in the middle of a hallway, as if someone had dropped it. I’d chalk it up to the new interns, but they were the ones complaining about the cold spots and the faint sound of a typewriter clacking in the dead of night. I thought they were pulling my leg, until I saw it myself: a shadow slipping behind the props rack, too quick for a human, and it left a faint smell of ozone and old wood.

My office is in the old wing, a cramped room I’d papered with production notes and storyboards. One evening, when everyone had gone home, I found a new Post-it note stuck to my computer monitor, written in a neat, archaic hand: ‘The light is dying.’ I laughed it off, but the next morning, the main lighting grid in Studio B—the one I’d personally rigged the day before—collapsed during a rehearsal. No reason, just metal fatigue, the engineers said. But I knew better. I’d checked those chains myself.

I began to dig into the studio’s history, something I’d never bothered with before. The original building was a Victorian warehouse, repurposed in the 1960s for the BBC’s drama department. The old records mentioned a fire in 1973 that had claimed the life of a stagehand named Arthur Thistle. He was a legend, the kind of guy who knew every inch of the building, always humming old music hall tunes. They said he died rescuing a stack of scripts and a bust of Shakespeare from the blaze. I found his photo in the archive—a wiry man with a crooked smile—and I swear, in the corner of my eye, I saw him nod.

The noises grew louder. Footsteps in the catwalks above Studio A. A door slamming shut in the dressing-room corridor when I was the only one there. I started to piece together that Arthur wasn’t a sweet old ghost; he was a guardian, but of what? The studio had been threatened before—by budget cuts, by the threat of demolition, by a disgraced producer named Cecil Grant who’d been accused of embezzlement in the 1980s. Cecil had died a few years ago, and his son was now a bigwig at the network, trying to sell the building to developers. I felt like I was caught between two spirits, one protecting the old soul of the place, the other determined to tear it down.

One night, I stayed late to finish a model for a new show. The clock struck midnight, and the lights above my desk flickered. The temperature dropped. I heard a voice, raspy, as if from a throat full of ashes, say, ‘You’re one of us now.’ I spun around, but the room was empty except for the shadows. On my desk, a piece of paper had been placed—a list of personal grievances against Cecil Grant, written in the same neat hand. It detailed how Cecil had sabotaged the studio’s funding, had caused the fire that killed Arthur, had twisted the truth to bury him. My blood ran cold.

I thought about confronting the new manager, a slick woman named Priya who saw me as just a cog. I told her about the strange occurrences, hoping she’d believe me, but she smiled condescendingly and said, ‘Marcus, you’re overworked. Take a vacation.’ That night, as I packed my things, I heard a crash from Studio C. I ran there and found the entire lighting rig in a heap on the floor, and scrawled in dust on the soundproofed wall: ‘They’re coming to tear down the heart.’

I knew I had to act. I sought out an old electrician, a retired guy named Bill who’d worked here in the 80s. Over a pint at a grimy pub, he told me the truth: Cecil Grant had intentionally set the fire to collect insurance, using Arthur as a scapegoat. Arthur, in death, had become a poltergeist, defending the building from anyone who meant it harm. Bill gave me a key to a maintenance tunnel under the studio, where I found a hidden room. Inside, in a dusty trunk, was Arthur’s diary. He’d written about seeing Cecil pouring accelerant around the electrical panels that night. He’d tried to stop him, but Cecil had locked him in. The diary ended with a plea: ‘Let the world know.’

Armed with that diary, I went to the police. They reopened the case, but Cecil was dead, and his son had power. The network tried to hush it up, but the diary—and the ghostly evidence—leaked to the press. The public turned against the development plans. The studio was saved, but the building felt different. Arthur’s spirit seemed satisfied; the noises stopped. The cold spots vanished. I thought my troubles were over.

But they weren’t. A week after the hearings, I was cleaning out my office, ready to move to a new studio, when I found a brand-new gaffer tape roll sitting on my chair. I picked it up, and it was warm. I peeled back the edge, and written on the second layer were the words: ‘So there are other dark places. Good luck, Marcus.’

I looked around the empty room, and for the first time, I felt a chill that didn’t fade. Arthur was gone, but he’d left me a parting gift—or a curse. I realized that the studio’s secrets weren’t just buried in its walls; they were in me now. I had seen too much, and the other dead had noticed. As I walked out of the building for the final time, I heard a typewriter click in a far room, and I knew I wasn’t just leaving a job—I was leaving a part of my soul with the last gaffer tape that Arthur had touched.

Now, I work from home, but I can’t shake the feeling that something follows me. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps in my hallway, but no one’s there. And in my dreams, I see the studio’s dark corridors, and Arthur’s crooked smile, and he whispers, ‘You’re one of us now.’ I don’t know how long I can keep running before the dead find me again.