The Whispering Store

I worked at a big clothing store in a busy city for nearly five years. The store was always full of tourists, and the streets outside never slept. The building itself wasn’t old, but in this city, nothing really stays the same for long. They tear things down and build new ones all the time. But just because something is gone doesn’t mean it disappears completely.

After a few weeks at the job, I started noticing something strange. Every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of a woman browsing through the dresses. She had dark hair and stood about 5’4″. But every time I turned to look directly at her, she was gone. At first, I thought I was just imagining things. I told my coworkers, but they laughed it off, saying I was letting my mind play tricks on me.

The store was big, with a huge sales floor and several storage rooms in the back. One room, the farthest from the main floor, was used for storing shoes. Everyone felt uneasy back there. It was cold, even when the rest of the store was warm. The lights flickered sometimes, and people always found reasons to leave as quickly as possible. I didn’t mind it too much. It was a quiet place to take a break from the busy sales floor.

Every few months, we worked overnight to rearrange the store. I actually liked these shifts. The city was quieter, and the store felt different without customers. I never experienced anything strange during these shifts—until one night.

That night, it was just me and the floor manager. It was around 2:30 a.m., and I was in the shoe room, standing on a ladder, moving some boxes. I was humming to myself when I heard someone call my name.

“David! David!”

I thought it was my manager, so I called back, “What?” No answer.

I climbed down and walked out of the storage room. The floor was empty. I called out again, but no one answered. A moment later, my manager came from the other side of the store. She looked confused.

“Did you need something?” she asked.

I frowned. “You called me, right?”

She shook her head. “No… I heard you calling me.”

A strange heaviness filled the air. We just stood there, staring at each other, realizing at the same time that neither of us had called the other.

A few months later, the store downsized, and the shoe room was turned into part of a new restaurant. I was relieved. Maybe whatever was in that room would finally be gone.

But sometimes, when I walk past that spot, I wonder—does the whispering still continue?