The Nightshift Reel

During my tenure as a media liaison at the Government Communications Complex in the capital, I was one of several officers detailed to the old executive mansion adjacent to the main administrative building. Our office occupied the west wing of the Heritage House, a colonial-era structure repurposed for official functions, and our sleeping quarters were in the turret on the third floor.

On paydays, my colleagues Elena, Marisol, and I would sneak off to the nearby shopping district to catch a film and dine. We cherished these escapes, especially when we had the morning shift, allowing us to return around nine in the evening and sleep until dawn.

One such evening, we chose a new horror flick at the local cinema. The film was forgettable, but as we sat in the dark, Marisol’s phone vibrated. She glanced at it, and her face went pale. ‘It’s from the office,’ she whispered. ‘Emergency meeting at midnight.’ We groaned but left the theater, the neon lights outside painting long shadows.

Back at the Heritage House, the front gate was unusually quiet. The security guard, old Lito, wasn’t at his post. We let ourselves in, the heavy oak door groaning. The main corridor was lit only by dim emergency lights, casting a sepia glow on the photographs of past officials. Our footsteps echoed on the marble floor.

We reached the west wing and found the meeting room door ajar. The table inside was covered in dusty files and a single reel-to-reel tape recorder, a relic from the 70s. No one else was there. ‘Maybe it’s a prank,’ I said. Just then, the recorder clicked on, emitting a high-pitched whine, then a distorted voice: ‘Welcome. Your final assignment begins now.’

We exchanged nervous glances. Elena was already backing toward the door, but it slammed shut, and the lights flickered. The recorder spoke again: ‘You have been chosen to digitize our archive. The files on this table are classified. You must finish by 6 AM or remain forever.’

I thought it was a joke, but when I tried the door, it was locked. We had no choice. We sat and began going through the files. They were transcripts of old press briefings, but the names and events were unfamiliar, and some dates were in the future. Marisol pointed to a paragraph that detailed a scandal involving a former president, not yet public.

As we worked, the room grew colder. I felt a presence, like being watched. The photographs on the walls seemed to follow us. At some point, I looked up at the ceiling and saw a small, rusted vent. A faint scratching sound came from within.

Elena broke the silence: ‘What if these files are a record of things that haven’t happened?’ I dismissed it, but a chill ran down my spine. The recorder crackled: ‘Correct. You are now chronicling events that will occur. Once you finish, you will be erased.’

We panicked. Marisol tried to jam the recorder with a pen, but it was immovable. I tried the door again, but the handle was ice cold. The files kept regenerating, new pages appearing as we removed them. We were trapped in a loop.

Hours passed. We grew exhausted, but we couldn’t stop. The scratching from the vent grew louder, and soon a thin, grayish smoke seeped out, coalescing into a humanoid shape. It had hollow eyes and a gaping mouth, as if screaming silently. It drifted toward us, and I felt a cold pressure on my chest.

‘You must conclude the archive,’ it whispered. ‘Only then will you be free.’ But finishing meant our ‘erasure,’ whatever that meant. We fought to slow down, but exhaustion overcame us. As dawn neared, we completed the last file. The recorder let out a final click, and the entity vanished. The door swung open.

We stumbled out into the corridor, gasping. The sun was rising, and everything seemed normal. But when we looked back, the meeting room was gone. In its place, a solid wall. And our bodies felt hollow, as if something had been scooped out. We returned to our quarters, trying to sleep, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had become part of the archive ourselves, forever recorded in that room.

Months later, I learned that the Heritage House was demolished for a new parking structure. But sometimes, at night, I hear a scratching in the walls, and I know the files are still there, waiting for new names to complete them.