The Roster of the Damned

In the autumn of 2019, I was working as a junior data analyst at a small financial firm located in a repurposed Victorian mansion in the outskirts of Portland, Maine. The building, once a private residence, had been divided into cramped offices, each room holding its own cubicles and the stale scent of old wood and paper. I shared a particularly oppressive space on the second floor—a former ballroom, now filled with the hum of computers and the sour tension of our supervisor, a gaunt woman named Constance. She ruled with an iron fist, forbidding snacks at desks, personal conversations, and even the briefest glance at our phones. Her favorite prey was anyone caught slacking off. That day, I had finished my assigned tasks early, while Constance was away at a lunch meeting. I was exhausted from a restless night and the weight of the office’s gloom, so I laid my head on my desk, intending to steal a quick nap, a habit I believe is a gift from my ancestors. As I drifted off, I felt a sudden chill, as if the room’s temperature had dropped, but I was too tired to care. I dreamed of a long corridor lined with doors, each one a different color, and as I walked, I could hear whispers behind them, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then, a voice cut through, clear and commanding, ‘You are not number 6.’ I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding. The office was quieter than usual, but my colleagues were all at their desks, typing away, as if nothing had happened. I noticed a small, yellowed paper slip on my keyboard, something I hadn’t seen before. It read, in faded handwriting, ‘7. You are the replacement.’ I laughed it off as a prank, but a chill ran down my spine.

The next day, a new employee named Marcus joined our team. He was a nervous young man, fresh out of college. We barely exchanged a glance, as Constance had drilled into us that conversation was forbidden. But as he settled into his seat, I noticed he had a similar slip of paper on his desk, but his read ‘8.’ That evening, I stayed late to finish a report, and as I was leaving, I walked past the old library that had been converted into a storage room. Through the cracked door, I saw a stack of wooden crates, each labeled with a number. Out of morbid curiosity, I peeked inside one. It was filled with dusty employee files, all marked ‘Deceased’ – and the names & dates went back decades. I recognized some names from the staff directory of the previous company that occupied the building. As I rummaged, I found a file for a ‘Margaret Harnsworth’ dated 1982, with a red stamp ‘Terminated.’ Underneath, in pencil, someone had written ‘Cause: the roster.’ I felt a cold breath on my neck and spun around, but there was no one. I hurried out of the storage room, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

The following week, Marcus collapsed at his desk, clutching his chest, and was rushed to the hospital. The doctors said it was a severe panic attack, but he whispered to me, ‘I saw the list,’ before he was sedated. He never returned. On his desk, I found another slip, now reading ‘9’ instead of ‘8.’ I began to investigate the building’s history. I found old newspapers in the local library: in 1983, a fire broke out in this very building, killing five employees of an insurance firm. The only survivor was a secretary named Margaret Harnsworth, who later jumped from a window in 1985. I also discovered that the building was originally a funeral home in the 1800s, owned by a family named Varnham. The Varnhams kept meticulous records of the deceased, and I found a ledger in the storage room, hidden beneath a loose floorboard. In it, the names of every person who had ever worked in this building, with dates of death. The list was long, and at the top of the current page, I saw our manager’s name, ‘Constance Albright,’ underlined. Below her name, in a different ink, were the numbers 1 to 200, with some numbers crossed out. I realized with horror that the numbers corresponded to employees who had either died or disappeared. And my name, Daniel, had ‘Replacement’ written next to it. I was just a pawn.

A few days later, I had a dream more vivid than any before. I saw the corridor again, but this time, I could hear the whispers distinctly: they were counting. ‘One… two… three…’ When they reached ‘seven,’ they stopped, and a door with the number ‘7’ opened, revealing a dark room with a chair. A voice said, ‘Your turn is coming.’ I woke up screaming, and my roommates found me sweating and shaking. The next morning, I went to work determined to tell Constance about my discovery. But when I entered the office, she was not at her usual seat. Instead, there was a new manager, a stern-looking woman named Mrs. Harkness. I asked where Constance was, and the receptionist said she had resigned abruptly the night before, leaving no forwarding address. On Constance’s desk, I found a torn piece of paper with my name and the number ‘7’ scribbled furiously, then crossed out and replaced by ‘0.’ I felt a deep dread settle in my stomach. That evening, as I was about to leave, the lights flickered, and I saw a figure in the hallway—a woman in an old-fashioned dress, her face pale, her eyes empty. She pointed at me and said, ‘You are the next replacement.’ Then she was gone. I never stepped into that building again, but the slips of paper started appearing in my apartment, in my car, even in my mail. All with the same message: ‘7. Replacement.’ And every time I see the number 7, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and a whisper: ‘It’s time.’ I’ve moved across the country, but the roster is never complete. And I am terrified of that day when my number is called.