Chapter 3: Whispers from the Walls

Chapter 3: Whispers from the Walls

Sleep, when it finally came, was a shallow, treacherous thing. Leo found himself back in the warehouse, but the aisles were endless, shifting like a labyrinth. The sound of the doorknob turning, that slow, deliberate click-click-click, was everywhere, echoing from walls that weren't there. He woke with a gasp to the pale grey light of morning filtering through the blinds of his small apartment, his t-shirt soaked in a cold sweat.

The rational part of his brain—the part that had kept him sane for twenty-eight years—was at war with the primal terror of the night before. Officer Miller’s face, cynical and reassuring, swam in his memory. The things these junkies see. It was the easy answer, the comfortable one. A strung-out scavenger, his mind addled by chemicals, had a psychotic break. He’d imagined the watchman. He’d been the one to slam on the door. It was simple.

But it didn't fit. Leo couldn't shake the memory of the doorknob. The silent, patient intelligence behind that simple action felt worlds away from the brute, chaotic force that followed. And the scavenger’s fear... it hadn't been the fear of being caught. It had been the terror of being left behind.

Unable to sit still, he abandoned any pretense of working on his novel and opened his laptop, the blinking cursor a mockery of his shattered focus. His fingers, moving with a will of their own, typed a search query: History of Ambrose Ironworks.

He fell down a rabbit hole of local history blogs and scanned municipal records. For an hour, he found nothing but dry facts about steel production and union disputes. Then, buried in the archives of a local newspaper, The Clarion, he found a digitized article from October 1978. The headline was stark: AMBROSE FOREMAN VANISHES, FOUL PLAY FEARED.

Leo leaned closer, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. The article was short, the text slightly blurred from the old microfiche. It detailed the mysterious disappearance of a long-time employee, the night shift foreman, a man named Janus Krieg.

Krieg was described as a reclusive and severe man, a stickler for rules who often worked alone after the main shifts had ended. He had a reputation for being cruel, a quiet tyrant who enjoyed his small measure of authority over the factory floor. The article mentioned several workplace accidents that had occurred on his watch over the years, all officially ruled as unfortunate mishaps. But it also included an anonymous quote from a former worker: "Nothing happened in that place at night that Janus didn't want to happen. He saw everything. It was his kingdom."

The final paragraph was the one that made the breath catch in Leo's throat. Janus Krieg had clocked in for his shift on a Tuesday night and was never seen again. His car was still in the parking lot, his lunch still in the breakroom. A massive search of the ironworks found no trace of him. He had simply... vanished. The case had gone cold within a year.

The watchman, the scavenger had whispered. He plays games.

The pieces clicked together with a sickening certainty. A cruel foreman. A man who ruled the night shift. A man who vanished inside the building and was never found. Leo’s sanctuary wasn’t just a warehouse; it was a tomb.

He pushed back from his desk, a wave of nausea rolling through him. He needed air, needed to get out of the stuffy apartment. He walked into his small living room, the midday sun doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. As he passed the dark screen of his television, a flicker of movement in his periphery made him freeze.

He turned. Nothing. Just his own pale, tired reflection staring back at him. He told himself it was a trick of the light, a symptom of his exhaustion. But for a split second, he could have sworn he’d seen another shape in the reflection, standing behind him. A tall, unnaturally thin shadow, gone as quickly as it appeared.

He shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Get a grip, Vance," he muttered aloud, the sound of his own voice strangely comforting. "You're traumatized. That's all."

He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, his bare feet silent on the worn hardwood floor. As he stood at the sink, he heard it. A soft, dry scrape from the living room. The sound of a single shoe dragging for an inch across the floorboards he had just crossed.

He froze, glass in hand, straining to hear over the frantic drumming in his ears. Silence. The apartment was still. But the sound had been undeniable. It was the same sound he'd heard in the warehouse, just before the shadow had flickered past his office window.

The horror was no longer confined to the ironworks. It had his address. The feeling of being watched was back, a physical pressure on the back of his neck. He was a specimen under glass, and the thing observing him had followed him home.

His phone buzzed on the counter, the sound so sudden and sharp it made him jump, sloshing water onto his hand. He snatched it up, desperate for a connection to the normal world. The caller ID read: HENDERSON - WORK.

"Leo? Thank God you answered." It was his boss, his voice tinny and strained. "Listen, I'm in a real bind. Mark just called out, he's got that stomach flu that's going around. Projector shipment has to be logged and ready to go out by 6 AM, and there's no one else."

The blood drained from Leo's face. "Tonight? Mr. Henderson, I... I can't. Something happened last night. There was a break-in."

"I know, I know, the police report came through this morning. They caught the guy, right? All squared away," Henderson said, his tone dismissive, his focus already on his own problem. "Look, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency. The overtime will be time-and-a-half. I just need you for one more night, Leo. Please. You're my only reliable guy."

Leo's mind screamed NO. Tell him no. Tell him the place is haunted by the ghost of a sadistic foreman. Tell him you're losing your mind. But the words that came out were weak, conditioned by years of non-confrontation and the pressing weight of his student debt. "I... I don't know."

"I'll owe you one. A big one," Henderson pressed. "Just get through tonight, and you can take the next two off, paid. Deal?"

The offer hung in the air. Two paid nights off. A chance to get away, to clear his head, to maybe never go back. But first, he had to survive one more. He had to walk back into that building, back into the hunting ground of the thing that now knew his name, the thing that had just scraped its foot across his living room floor.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them. Leo glanced into the living room, at the dark, reflective screen of the TV. He felt the weight of unseen eyes on him, patient and expectant. It was a test. A challenge.

He plays games.

"Fine," Leo heard himself say, his voice sounding distant and hollow. "I'll do it. One more night."

After hanging up, he stood motionless in his kitchen for a long time. The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across his floor. He had to go back. He had to lock himself inside that metal cathedral with the ghost of Janus Krieg. The scavenger had been running from the watchman. Tonight, Leo was walking right into his open arms.