The Paper Trail

I started at Meridian Imports on the first Monday of autumn, the air still clinging to summer’s warmth. The building was a converted Victorian house, all creaking floorboards and high ceilings, a charm that belied the hum of fluorescent lights and the clatter of keyboards. My desk sat in the open-plan area to the left of the entrance, a neat row of five workstations facing the wall, while the showroom sprawled to the right, a bright, welcoming space full of polished antiques. To my left, a doorway led into the dimmer mid-section of the showroom, and further down the hall, the owner’s office and a small kitchen. Past that, a gate sealed off the storage area, a caged section for high-end exports on the left, and a toilet at the very end, always in shadow.

The job was good, the team was friendly, and I felt a sense of belonging I hadn’t expected. But by the end of September, a week into my fifth week, I began to notice something off. It started with the faintest sensation, a prickle at the back of my neck, as if someone were standing just behind my chair, reading over my shoulder. I’d turn, expect to see a colleague, but the space was empty. At first, I chalked it up to the old building’s drafts, the way the floorboards shifted. But it happened more and more, especially in the late afternoons, when the autumn light slanted through the blinds and the office grew quiet.

Then came the paper. On Monday, the 28th, I found a single sheet of cream-colored stationery on my desk, not in my inbox, but lying flat where my keyboard usually rested. It was blank, but it smelled faintly of mothballs and dust. I asked my coworkers if they’d placed it, but they all shrugged, assuming a leftover from a meeting. I crumpled it and tossed it in the bin. The next day, it was back, neatly placed, no creases, as if it had been waiting for me. I felt a chill, not from the draft, but from the certainty that I was being watched.

I tried to ignore it. I focused on my spreadsheets, my emails, the mundane rhythms of work. But the presence grew stronger. I began to see, out of the corner of my eye, a figure lurking in the doorway to the showroom mid-section, a tall, thin silhouette that vanished when I turned my head. I mentioned it to my colleague, Sarah, who laughed nervously and said the old house had ‘a history.’ She wouldn’t elaborate, just said some of the previous staff had left suddenly, and no one ever explained why.

One evening, I stayed late to finish a report. The office was empty, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I felt the familiar presence behind me, stronger than ever. I didn’t turn. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling, as a cold breath ghosted against my ear. A voice, barely a whisper, said, ‘You’re in my chair.’ I spun around, but there was no one. The office was still, the shadows long. I grabbed my things and left, not looking back.

The next morning, I found the paper again, but this time there was writing. In elegant, faded ink, it read: ‘August 24, 2015. I was here first.’ I felt a jolt of fear. That was my start date. I searched the filing cabinets in the storage area, the ones no one used, and found a box of old employee records. Among them, a file for a previous employee who had started exactly on August 24, 2015, a year before me. The name was Margaret Holloway. Her last day was September 28, 2015, just a week after. The cause was listed as ‘resigned,’ but the notes scribbled in the margin said ‘found dead in the storage room.’

I confronted the owner, Mr. Pemberton. He paled, then said, ‘Margaret was a troubled woman. She had delusions, thought the building was haunted. We found her, but it was natural causes.’ He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Later, I asked the old caretaker, who only whispered, ‘She was too close to the gate. Some things should stay locked.’

Now, I feel the presence every day. It watches me, waits. I’ve started leaving the paper on the desk, unread. But today, I found a new sheet. It had a single line: ‘You have until the 28th.’ That’s tomorrow. I don’t know what will happen, but I can’t leave. The job, the people, the old house, it’s all I have. But as I sit here, typing, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and I know I’m not alone. I only hope that when I turn around, I’ll see a face, not the void that’s been following me.