The Polisher’s Grin

My first unsettling encounter happened during my junior year of high school, but it was a single, isolated incident. When I entered university, I took a work-study position at the Biology Department, housed on the sixth floor of the Meridian Sciences Building. The building was an imposing Brutalist structure of grey concrete, its windows like dark, vacant eyes.

It was during my training, a humid Monday morning, that the first strange event occurred. I was wiping down the long lab counter, the only sound the soft squeak of my cloth against the laminate. An old, worn floor polisher sat in the corner, its cord coiled like a sleeping snake. As I reached the end of the counter, I heard a low, mechanical hum. I turned to see the polisher sliding across the floor, slowly, deliberately, until it blocked the aisle between the counter and the door. My breath caught; I froze. I took a step back, and it moved forward again, as if herding me. I screamed, a high, thin sound that echoed in the empty lab. My colleagues burst out from the adjoining office, their faces alarmed. ‘What happened?’ demanded Priya.

I pointed at the polisher, now stationary. ‘It moved! It blocked my way!’ They exchanged glances. Raj, the senior lab assistant, chuckled. ‘It’s just a heavy machine, probably rolling from the vibration of the fan.’ But I knew what I’d seen. To prove my sanity, I walked over, pressed the power button, and flipped the switch. The machine sputtered, then roared to life. It trundled forward, faster now, aiming for my feet. I yelped and stumbled back. Raj frowned, rushed to the wall, and yanked the plug from the outlet. The polisher died instantly.

The incident was dismissed, but a seed of unease was planted. Months later, it was my turn to open the lab for an early class. I arrived at 6:30 AM, the building eerily quiet. I inserted my key, but the lock felt frozen. I jiggled it, and with a click, it turned. I pushed the door open into the dark lab. I fumbled for the light switch, and the fluorescent lights flickered to life, buzzing overhead. The room seemed bigger in the half-light, the shadows long and distorted. I began my routine: turning on the computers, checking the incubators. As I walked past the back storage room, I saw a shadow shift under the door. I paused, listening. A faint scratching sound, like nails on concrete, came from within.

I told myself it was just a rat. But as I approached, the scratching grew louder, more frantic. I placed my hand on the cold metal door, and a deep, guttural whisper emanated from the other side: ‘Let me out.’ I stumbled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door rattled violently in its frame. I ran to the main lab, dialed the guard post, my hands shaking. The guard arrived within minutes, a burly man named Sergeant Mehta. He unlocked the storage room, revealing only shelves of chemicals and specimen jars. ‘Probably a loose pipe,’ he grunted, but his eyes were uneasy.

I thought that was the end of it. But the next day, when I came to clean the lab, the floor polisher was sitting in the middle of the room, its cord unplugged, its red ‘on’ light blinking. I hadn’t touched it. And on the floor, scrawled in a thick, oily substance, was the word ‘MINE.’ I choked back a scream. The smell was chemical, not oil—like formaldehyde mixed with burnt metal.

I reported it, but they attributed it to a prank. The incidents continued, escalating. One evening, as I was leaving, I saw the polisher’s reflection in the glass door—but its reflection grinned at me, a wide, impossible grin. I turned around, and it was just a machine, dull and inert. But I knew something was in that machine, or using it as a vessel. It wanted to claim me.

I finally quit, moved to the city, but even now, sometimes, I’ll see a floor polisher in a store or office, and my blood runs cold. I know it’s not a machine. It’s a prison for something hungry, something that waits for its next victim. And I fear that one day, it will find me again, and this time, I won’t be able to run.