The Night Audit

Marta had worked the night audit at the Sunrise Motel for three years. The job was simple: check in late arrivals, balance the books, and keep the coffee fresh for the early risers. The motel was a two-story L-shaped building with a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a trapped fly. The parking lot was a cracked expanse of asphalt, dotted with the occasional rusted sedan or semi-truck. Marta had seen it all: drunks who couldn’t find their keys, couples arguing in the lobby, and the occasional trucker who swore he saw something in room 114. But Marta didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in cold, hard facts, and the fact was that the motel was just old and drafty.

Tonight was slower than usual. The clock on the wall read 2:47 AM, and the only sound was the hum of the soda machine outside. Marta was propping her eyes open with a lukewarm cup of coffee when her phone buzzed. A text from her friend Derek, a night owl like her, who worked as a security guard across town. She unlocked it and read the message, half-expecting a meme or a funny link. But instead, the text said: “Marta, I need to tell you something. Don’t freak out, okay?”

Marta raised an eyebrow and typed back: “What is it? You’re being weird.” A few seconds later, her phone buzzed again. Derek had a habit of sending long rambling texts, but this one was different. It read: “I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve always been able to see things other people can’t. It runs in my family. My dad had the gift, though he tried to suppress it. Tonight, I’m on a security gig at the old mill on Route 9. And I swear to God, Marta, I just saw a man in a white suit standing right behind you, watching you work. He’s been there for the past ten minutes. Just standing. I didn’t want to scare you, but I had to tell you.”

Marta felt the coffee turn to ice in her stomach. She laughed nervously and typed, “Very funny. You’re probably seeing things on those security monitors. Go back to work.” But Derek replied immediately: “I’m serious, Marta. He’s wearing a white suit, and he’s just staring at the back of your head. He’s not moving. He’s… I’m sending you a photo.” A moment later, a photo came through. It was a grainy image from Derek’s phone, presumably taken of his own screen, which was showing the motel’s lobby feed. Marta recognized herself from behind, hunched over the desk, but behind her, unmistakably, was a tall figure in a white suit, his face obscured but his posture rigid, like a mannequin.

Marta’s blood ran cold. She dropped the phone, her hands shaking. She spun around in her chair, half-expecting to see the man, but the lobby was empty. The chairs were empty, the potted plant was still, and the stale air was thick with silence. But the photo was real. It had to be. Derek wouldn’t lie about something like this. She picked up the phone with trembling fingers and typed, “You’re lying. This is a prank.” But even as she hit send, she felt a draft slither down her neck, as if a door had opened somewhere. She turned again, her eyes scanning every corner, but there was nothing.

Then the phone buzzed again. Derek had sent another text: “He’s moving now. He’s walking towards you. Marta, for the love of God, get out of there.” Marta’s heart hammered. Her breath caught in her throat. She pushed back from the desk, the chair scraping against the linoleum. The lobby lights flickered, just for a second, and in that flicker, she saw it – a reflection in the glass of the front door. A figure, long and thin, in a white suit. It was nearer now, just a few feet away, and she could see that its face was a hollow void, not quite human, but something that mimicked a man.

Marta ran. She didn’t care about the register or the keys or the early shift. She just ran. She burst through the front door, the bell above it jingling loudly, and she stumbled into the parking lot. The cold night air hit her like a slap, but she didn’t stop. She fumbled with her car keys, her hands clumsy with fear. She glanced back at the motel, and through the glass door, she saw the figure now standing in the doorway, watching her, its head tilted as if curious. Marta jumped into her car, locked the doors, and started the engine. She didn’t look back as she sped out of the lot, the neon sign fading in her rearview mirror.

She drove aimlessly, her mind a hurricane of panic. How was this possible? Was it a prank? Maybe Derek had photoshopped the image. But why would he do that? And the draft, the flicker, the reflection – they were all too vivid. She pulled over on a dark back road, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she tried to catch her breath. Her phone was still in her hand, and she saw a new message from Derek: “Marta, I’m still watching the feed. He’s not following you. He’s just standing in the doorway. But I think he knows you saw him. Please, be careful.”

Marta threw the phone onto the passenger seat, her fingers trembling. She didn’t know where to go. She couldn’t go home, not alone. She called her sister, who lived about an hour away, and drove there, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror the entire time.

The next morning, Marta arrived at her sister’s house, exhausted and on the verge of tears. She told her sister everything, but her sister just laughed it off, saying it was probably a prank or a trick of the light. Marta wanted to believe that, but the image of that hollow face was burned into her mind.

A week later, Marta quit her job at the motel. She couldn’t bear to walk back into that lobby, let alone work the night shift. She moved in with her sister for a while, leaning on her for support. She called Derek, but he wouldn’t pick up. He later texted that he was quitting his job too, that he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man in white was still watching, not just the motel, but him.

Months passed, and Marta tried to bury the memory under work and routine. But then, one night, she was washing dishes in her sister’s kitchen, and she happened to glance at the window. The reflection of her own face stared back, but behind her, just for a split second, she saw a tall figure in a white suit, standing in the kitchen doorway. She spun around, the glass slipping from her hand and shattering on the floor. The doorway was empty. But as she looked down at the shards, she saw the figure reflected again, this time at the window, its head tilted, as if mocking her.

Marta knew then that she would never be free of it. It had followed her, perhaps always would. She tried to reason with herself, but there was no logic in a thing that shouldn’t exist. She began to write everything down, every detail, every sighting, in the hopes that maybe someone would believe her, or that she could somehow exorcise the memory. But each night, as she tried to sleep, she would feel a cool breath on her neck, and she would open her eyes to see nothing, yet know that he was there, watching, waiting for her to look again.

And so she kept looking. Every day, every night, she searched for him in reflections and shadows, in mirrors and windows. And sometimes, when she least expected it, she would catch a glimpse of white out of the corner of her eye, just the hem of a coat or the pale of a sleeve, and her heart would stop. But when she turned, there would be nothing, just her own frantic breathing and the overwhelming certainty that she was never truly alone.