The fluorescent lights of the small guardhouse buzzed softly, blending with the steady hum of distant traffic. A young woman sat upright in her chair, the stiff white of her security uniform crisp against the dim interior. Her black hijab framed a face that was far too youthful for the weight of responsibility resting on her shoulders. Her name was Alya, though most colleagues just called her "Miss Guard" out of habit.
Her shift had only just begun, but already, Alya felt that something was off. The air tonight was heavy—thick with the kind of silence that wasn't natural. She stared at her phone, scrolling absentmindedly through messages she would never send. The truth was, night duty always scared her. Not because of thieves or drunks, but because of the stories.
The old factory she was assigned to guard had a reputation. Workers whispered about shadows moving in the halls after midnight, strange laughter in the security cameras, and lights flickering even though the electricity had been cut to certain floors years ago. Alya, ever the skeptic, brushed them off—until tonight.
Her phone screen dimmed, and in the reflection, she thought she saw someone standing behind her. She whipped her head around. Nothing. Just the peeling walls and the rickety desk. Still, her pulse quickened.
"Get a grip, Alya," she muttered, trying to sound braver than she felt.
The radio on her belt suddenly crackled.
"Unit Seven, report in."
Alya lifted it to her lips. "This is Unit Seven. All clear at the north gate."
But the voice that responded wasn't her supervisor's.
"No, it's not."
Her hand froze.
"Hello? …Supervisor Harun? Is that you?" she asked.
The radio hissed with static before going completely silent.
Alya stared at the device, then at the vast, dark factory through the open door of her guard post. A gust of wind rattled the corrugated metal sheets above. For the first time, she wondered if the rumors were more than just stories.
Clutching her flashlight, Alya stood. She wasn't the kind to run from shadows—at least, that's what she told herself. She adjusted her uniform, pocketed her phone, and stepped into the darkness.
Somewhere in the distance, a faint sound echoed through the empty building. It was laughter—childlike, but distorted.
And Alya knew, deep down, that her long, uneventful nights on the job were over.