The Last Invoice

It was a Tuesday evening in late autumn when I realized I had been at my desk for nearly ten hours. I was a junior accountant at a small firm in Leeds, housed in a converted Victorian mill that had been split into offices. The building was a maze of narrow corridors, creaking floorboards, and oddly placed windows that let in slivers of cold air. I had always found it charming, the kind of place that had character, even if the heating was unreliable and the toilets were on the other side of the building.

That night, I was working on the quarterly reports, a tedious task that involved cross-referencing invoices and receipts, and I had finally reached the last one. It was a simple invoice from a local printer, but the numbers didn’t add up. I had been staring at the screen for so long that the words were starting to blur, and I decided to take a break. I stretched, rubbed my eyes, and glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9 PM.

The building was silent, save for the occasional groan of old pipes. I was the only one left, and I had grown used to the solitude. As I stood up to fetch a cup of coffee from the small kitchenette down the hall, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. It was the unmistakable click of a door latch, followed by the slow, deliberate creak of hinges. Someone was opening a door on the floor above.

I froze, my heart pounding. There was no one else in the building. I had checked the security log before starting my work, and the only set of keys had been in my drawer. I told myself it was just the wind, but the building was solid, and the windows were sealed. I forced myself to move, tiptoeing to the foot of the staircase that led to the upper floor.

The stairs were narrow and steep, with a worn wooden handrail. I looked up, but the landing was shrouded in darkness. I called out, ‘Hello?’ My voice echoed, but there was no reply. I told myself that perhaps a door had been left ajar and the draft had caused it to close, but I knew that was a lie. I had walked past every door on that floor earlier, and they had all been shut.

My coffee forgotten, I retreated to my office and locked the door. I tried to focus on the invoice, but my mind kept drifting back to that sound. I decided to call it a night and packed my things, but as I reached for the door handle, I heard it again: a door opening, then a footstep. This time, it was closer, on the same floor, down the corridor.

I pressed my ear against the door, straining to hear. The footstep was slow and heavy, as if someone was dragging their feet. It moved past my office, paused, and then continued toward the end of the hall, where the fire exit was. I heard the fire door creak open, and then a cold draft swept under my door. I waited, holding my breath, but the silence that followed was even worse.

I decided I had to leave. I unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped out. The corridor was empty, but at the far end, the fire door was ajar, swaying slightly. I walked toward it, my footsteps echoing, and pushed it closed. As I turned to head back to my office, I noticed something on the floor: a piece of paper, yellowed and crinkled, as if it had been there for years. I bent down to pick it up, and my heart nearly stopped.

It was the same invoice I had been working on. But it was dated twenty years ago, and the company name was different, a firm that had gone bankrupt in the late ’90s. I had never seen this copy before. I stuffed it into my pocket and hurried out of the building, not daring to look back.

The next morning, I told my manager about the strange occurrences, but he just laughed and said that old buildings have their quirks. He suggested I take a few days off to rest. I did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was unfinished. I started digging into the history of the building, and I discovered that it had once been the office of a textile company, and that the owner, a man named Harold Deane, had died under mysterious circumstances in that very building. The official report said he had fallen down the stairs, but the details were sketchy.

A week later, I returned to work, but I couldn’t concentrate. Every time I was alone, I heard the footsteps again. Sometimes they would stop right outside my door, and I would hold my breath, waiting for the handle to turn. One evening, I found the old invoice on my desk again, even though I had locked it in the safe. The numbers on it had changed, showing a balance due, as if it was waiting for payment.

I finally understood: the building was haunted, not by a ghost, but by an unfinished task. Harold Deane had died while working on the final invoice for his company, and his spirit was still trying to complete it. I decided to help him. I researched the old company’s records, found the correct amount, and printed a payment receipt. I placed the receipt on the exact spot where I had found the invoice, and I spoke aloud, ‘The debt is settled.’

That night, I slept peacefully for the first time in weeks. When I returned to the office the next day, the old invoice was gone, and I never heard the footsteps again. But sometimes, when I’m working late and the building creaks, I glance at the door, half-expecting to see a shadow pass by. And I always make sure to finish my work on time, because I know that some loose ends are meant to be tied.