Hidden in Locked Rooms

I’ve always been the curious type, and working late shifts at the office only fueled that curiosity. The building I work in is old, with long, dimly lit hallways and countless rooms. Most of them were accessible to employees, but there were a few, tucked away in corners of the building, that were always locked. Rooms that only the janitor seemed to have access to. Every time I passed by those doors during my night shifts, I’d glance at them, wondering what was behind them. I knew I shouldn’t care—it was probably just storage for cleaning supplies or old furniture. But something about the secrecy gnawed at me. Why did only the janitor have the keys? And why did he always look so uneasy whenever someone mentioned those rooms? One night, I decided to find out. It was past midnight, and the office was completely deserted. The janitor had just finished mopping the break room and, as usual, disappeared down the hallway where the locked rooms were. I waited a few minutes, making sure he was far enough away, before I made my move. I walked down to the end of the hallway, where the last door stood. The janitor’s cart was parked outside, but there was no sign of him. I quickly rifled through the cleaning supplies on his cart, my heart pounding in my chest. After what felt like an eternity, I found what I was looking for—a keyring with several keys dangling from it. I glanced around one last time, making sure the coast was clear, then slipped the key into the lock. It clicked open with a soft thud, and I pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room was dark, save for a faint sliver of light coming from the hallway behind me. My hand fumbled for a light switch on the wall, and when the fluorescent lights flickered to life, I froze. It wasn’t just a storage room. Far from it. The walls were covered in photos. Photos of people I worked with—my coworkers, supervisors, even some of the interns. They were all candid shots, taken when none of us knew we were being watched. There were photos of people sitting at their desks, eating lunch in the break room, even walking to their cars in the parking lot. It felt wrong, seeing their lives laid out on the walls like some kind of twisted gallery. But that wasn’t all. On a table in the corner were personal items. Watches, sunglasses, keychains—things I had seen people looking for around the office. Things that people thought they had lost. My blood ran cold when I spotted something that made my stomach drop. My scarf. The one I had lost months ago and never thought much about. I had looked everywhere for it, and now, here it was, sitting on a table in this dark, hidden room. My mind raced. The janitor had been collecting these items, these photos, for God knows how long. He had been watching us, studying us, maybe even stalking us. I felt a wave of nausea as the gravity of the situation hit me. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to see this. And that’s when I heard it. The door behind me creaked open. Slowly, deliberately. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I could feel his eyes on me—those cold, calculating eyes. The janitor stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. He didn’t say a word. He just stared, silently, watching me with the same intensity I’d seen in his photos. My heart was racing, my hands trembling. I was caught. There was no way to explain this, no way to pretend I hadn’t seen everything. For what felt like an eternity, we stood there, locked in a silent standoff. My mind screamed at me to move, to run, but my legs were frozen in place. Every instinct I had was telling me that I was in danger. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he took a slow step forward. Then another. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, as if he was savoring each moment. He was blocking the only exit, and I knew I had to act fast before he cornered me completely. With a burst of adrenaline, I shoved past him, knocking over his cart in the process. Cleaning supplies scattered across the floor, but I didn’t stop. I sprinted down the hallway, my heart hammering in my chest as I raced for the nearest exit. Behind me, I heard his footsteps quicken, and the sound of him calling after me, his voice low and unsettling. I didn’t stop running until I was outside, gasping for breath as I fumbled for my phone. I dialed the police, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone to my ear. When the officers arrived, I told them everything—about the room, the photos, the personal items. But when they searched the building, the room was empty. Completely bare. No photos, no personal items. Nothing. The janitor was gone, too. They questioned him, but he denied everything. Said I must have imagined it, that I had been working too many night shifts. They chalked it up to stress, to exhaustion. But I know what I saw. I know what he had been doing.