u/PithellUniverse

The job seemed way too easy to pay $120 a night.
Watch over a municipal archive closed to the public.
That was it.
The building had been a hospital decades ago. Then it was used as a temporary courthouse, and eventually someone decided it was a good place to store tons of documents nobody ever looked at.
My shift started at 10 p.m. and ended at 6 a.m.
One main entrance.
Two floors.
A basement.
Sixteen cameras.
And a laminated sheet beside the monitor.
I found it on my first night.
At the top, it said:
NIGHT SHIFT PROTOCOL
Below that were seven rules.

1. At 11:30 p.m., make sure the basement door is locked. Do not go near it again until 5:30 a.m.
2. If any camera shows movement on the second floor after midnight, switch cameras. Do not investigate.
3. Between 1:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m., you may hear footsteps in the main hallway. Do not leave the security booth.
4. If someone knocks on the main entrance during that time, do not answer, even if you recognize them.
5. The internal phone may ring once at 2:15 a.m. Do not pick up.
6. If the hallway lights go out, remain seated and close your eyes until you hear three knocks on the security booth door. After the third knock, you may open them again.
7. This list contains exactly seven rules. If you find an eighth, destroy the sheet immediately without reading it.

I’d worked night shifts in much worse places, and I knew this kind of joke. The veterans leave something stupid behind to scare the new guy, then wait for him to ask about it.
I put the sheet in a drawer.
Nothing happened the first night.
At 11:30, I checked the basement door.
Locked.
At 1:47, I heard footsteps.
I stayed inside the booth.
At 2:15, the phone rang.
Once.
Then silence.
That part wasn’t quite as funny.
At 4:10, the hallway lights flickered, but they didn’t go out.
My relief arrived at six.
I didn’t mention any of it.
The second night was almost the same.
The footsteps started a little earlier.
At 2:15, the phone rang again.
Once.
This time I checked the extension number.
000.
There was no extension 000.
I let it ring.
When it stopped, I heard something in the hallway.
A scraping sound.
Like someone slowly dragging a hand along the wall.
I stayed inside.
At six, I went home.
On the third night, I found the sheet sitting on the desk.
I was sure I’d left it inside the drawer.
I figured the day shift had taken it out.
I sat down.
Turned on the monitors.
Picked up the sheet.
And started reading.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
And underneath…
there was another line.
I stared at it.
I immediately remembered the last rule.
If you find an eighth, destroy the sheet immediately without reading it.
I should have torn it up.
That was all I had to do.
Tear it up.
Throw it away.
Keep working.
But there’s one thing rules should never do if they want people to obey them.
Tell them exactly what they’re not supposed to look at.
I read it.

8. Now that you know we exist, the first seven rules no longer apply.

For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then the phone rang.
I checked the time.
12:43 a.m.
It wasn’t 2:15.
The phone kept ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
I stood up.
Then I heard the footsteps.
They weren’t in the hallway.
They were upstairs.
I looked at the cameras.
Movement.
I remembered Rule Two.
Switch cameras. Do not investigate.
I switched.
Camera Three.
Empty.
Camera Four.
Empty.
Camera Five.
Something crossed the far end of the frame.
I switched again.
Camera Six.
Nothing.
Then the hallway lights went out.
I closed my eyes immediately.
Waited.
One knock.
Silence.
Second knock.
Silence.
I waited for the third.
It never came.
Instead, someone knocked on the main entrance.
Three soft knocks.
I opened my eyes.
The lights were still off.
The phone was still ringing.
The footsteps had started again.
Now they were downstairs.
That’s when I understood the eighth rule.
The other seven weren’t instructions for surviving seven different things.
They were a system.
Times.
Boundaries.
Doors.
Behaviors.
As long as I didn’t know what was behind them, whatever was behind them couldn’t know exactly where I was.
The rules weren’t keeping it from getting in.
They were keeping it from recognizing me.
And I’d just introduced myself.
The entrance camera turned on by itself.
Someone was standing outside the main door.
I couldn’t see their face.
Their head was tilted downward.
The phone stopped ringing.
Then I heard a voice from behind the door.
My voice.
“Don’t open it.”
I stepped back.
Another voice came from the hallway.
Mine again.
“Don’t look at the cameras.”
The monitor changed by itself.
Camera One.
The entrance.
Camera Two.
The hallway.
Camera Three.
The stairs.
Camera Four.
Second floor.
Camera Five.
Basement.
The basement door was open.
Camera Six.
The security booth.
I saw myself sitting in front of the monitors.
But I was standing.
The figure on the camera slowly raised its head.
It was me.
Then it smiled.
And underneath Rule Eight, another line appeared.
I didn’t see it being written.
It was simply there.
9. It doesn’t matter what you do now. We know which one you are.
I grabbed the sheet.
Tore it once.
Twice.
Four pieces.
Eight.
I threw them on the floor.
The cameras went black.
The phone died.
The footsteps stopped.
For a few seconds, I thought it had worked.
Then someone knocked on the security booth door.
Three times.
I didn’t open it.
Three more knocks.
Then another three.
I stayed there until six in the morning.
When my relief arrived, I left without explaining anything.
I just wanted to get out.
He gave me a strange look.
“Everything okay?”
I nodded.
Grabbed my jacket.
I was almost at the door when he spoke again.
“Hey, what’s this?”
I turned around.
He was holding a laminated sheet.
The same one.
Seven rules.
Perfectly intact.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing.”
I left.
I never went back.
That was three weeks ago.
For the first few days, I thought it was over.
Until yesterday.
I found a sheet on my kitchen table.
I don’t know how it got there.
There weren’t seven rules on it.
There was only one.
Number Ten.
I’m looking at it while I write this.
It says:
10. If you tell someone else the rules, we won’t have to look for them.
So I need to ask you something.
Go back up.
Don’t keep reading.
And whatever you do…
don’t count how many rules you’ve read.

I found these rules inside a file called READ BEFORE WRITING.
There was no author.
No date.
Just one sentence at the top.
These rules won’t help you write a better horror story. They exist to stop the story from writing you.

1. Never use your real name for the protagonist.
Real names carry more weight than invented ones.

2. Never describe the exact room you’re writing in.
Imaginary rooms don’t lead anywhere.
Real ones do.

3. If a sentence appears that you didn’t write, don’t delete it.
It’s still learning how to speak.

4. Never write a death scene after midnight.
That’s when stories stop knowing the difference between fiction and memory.

5. If one of your characters looks directly at the reader…
Stop writing.
It isn’t trying to scare you.
It’s trying to remember you.

6. If the story describes something that hasn’t happened yet…
Don’t try to stop it.
Resistance is part of the plot.

7. Never let the story reach nine pages.
The ninth page doesn’t belong to the author.

8. If you ever find a rule written in your own handwriting…
Don’t read it out loud.
You didn’t write it.

At first, I laughed.
It sounded like one of those creepy internet games.
I even thought about turning the rules into a story for Reddit.
So I opened a new document.
I gave the protagonist my own name.
Then I described the room I was sitting in.
A window on my left.
A white door behind me.
A cold cup of coffee on the desk.
Only after finishing the first paragraph did I remember the first two rules.
I smiled.
“Nice idea.”
I tried changing the protagonist’s name.
It kept changing back.
Every single time.
While I was trying to figure out why, a new sentence appeared at the bottom of the page.
I hadn’t typed it.
You still haven’t looked behind you.
I remembered Rule Three.
I didn’t delete it.
I didn’t look either.
I just kept writing.
Hours passed without me noticing.
When I finally looked at the clock, it was 12:18 AM.
At that exact moment I was writing the protagonist’s death.
Rule Four.
I tried closing the document.
It wouldn’t close.
The words started appearing on their own.
They weren’t describing the protagonist anymore.
They were describing me.
Every movement.
Every breath.
Every attempt to shut down my computer.
As if someone was writing my actions a few seconds before I lived them.
Then I made another mistake.
I kept reading.
The protagonist slowly lifted his head.
He didn’t look at another character.
He didn’t look down the hallway.
He looked directly at me.
Rule Five.
I slammed the laptop shut.
Waited.
Opened it again.
The page counter read:
Page 8 of 9.
I thought I still had time.
Then new lines began appearing.
One after another.
Without anyone touching the keyboard.
There was no typing.
No cursor.
Just words.
Slowly writing themselves.
Then something appeared beneath Rule Eight.
A rule that hadn’t been there before.

9. If you’ve made it this far…
…you’re no longer a reader.

I stared at the screen for several minutes.
Then I finally understood.
Why the file never had an author.
Why it kept appearing on different computers.
Why nobody ever claimed to have written it.
The story was never looking for readers.
It was looking for replacements.
I couldn’t leave anymore.
So I did the only thing I had left.
I posted it here.
…
I’m sorry.
…
Welcome.

I cover night shifts in apartment buildings.
It is not an exciting job.
You open the door.
Accept packages.
Write down messages.
Ignore strange noises from neighbors who should probably sleep more and argue less.
A week ago, I accepted a night shift in an old building downtown.
The pay was too good.
That should have been my first warning.
The Santa Elvira Building had seven floors, a narrow lobby, metal mailboxes, and an elevator so old it seemed to breathe before moving.
The regular doorman was not there.
All I found was a folder under the front desk.
On the first page, someone had written:
RULES FOR COVERING THE NIGHT SHIFT
1. Keep the light in the doorman’s booth on until 3:00 a.m. Even if it flickers. Even if someone asks you to turn it off.
2. Do not sign for packages addressed to 5B. That apartment has been empty since 1996.
3. If someone calls the intercom from the eighth floor, answer only this: “Wrong building.” This building has seven floors.
4. Do not let anyone in if they say, “I used to live here.”
5. If the woman in 2A asks you to come upstairs and change a lightbulb, tell her maintenance will come in the morning. Do not go upstairs.
6. The mailbox with no number must remain empty. If you find a letter inside, do not read it.
7. At 2:17 a.m., someone will knock on the booth window three times. Do not look.
8. If a woman says she forgot her keys, ask her what year it is before opening the door.
9. Do not leave the booth between 3:00 and 3:12 a.m.
10. When your shift ends, leave this folder exactly where you found it.
I laughed.
Not much, but I laughed.
Old people leave strange instructions. Old buildings have stories. Regular doormen get bored.
That was what I thought.
For the first few hours, nothing happened.
A man came down to take out the trash.
A girl picked up a food delivery.
Someone on the third floor argued on the phone.
Nothing strange.
At 12:34, a package arrived.
The delivery man was soaked, even though it was not raining outside.
He handed me a small box.
“For 5B.”
I looked at rule number two.
Then I looked at the delivery man.
“That apartment is empty.”
The man smiled without showing his teeth.
“Then you can sign for it.”
I did not sign.
The delivery man kept smiling for several seconds.
Then he left with the box under his arm.
At 1:09, the woman from 2A called through the intercom.
Her voice sounded tired.
“Sweetheart, could you come up for a moment? The living room light went out.”
I told her maintenance would come in the morning.
There was silence.
Then I heard something on the other side.
A chair dragging across the floor.
Very slowly.
The woman spoke again.
But she did not sound the same anymore.
“Then I’ll come down in the dark.”
I hung up.
At 2:17, someone knocked on the glass.
Once.
I did not look.
Twice.
I stayed still.
Three times.
I closed my eyes.
From the other side of the glass, a child whispered:
“There is someone here this time.”
I did not breathe until I heard the footsteps move away.
At 2:49, the intercom rang.
I looked at the screen.
Floor 8.
My stomach tightened.
I pressed the button and said:
“Wrong building.”
For a few seconds, there was no answer.
Then a man’s voice replied:
“No. Not this time.”
The elevator started coming down.
I was staring directly at the doors when they opened.
There was no one inside.
Only the buttons were lit.
Below number 7, where there had only been scratched metal before, a new button had appeared.
8.
It blinked slowly.
As if it were waiting.
I did not get in.
The doors closed by themselves.
At 3:00, I turned off the booth light.
That was a mistake.
I did it because I was tired.
Because it was habit.
Because my nerves had been stretched thin all night and I wanted to prove to myself that it was just a stupid list.
As soon as the light went out, the building changed.
It did not make a sound.
It did not shake.
Nothing dramatic happened.
I simply felt that every floor, every landing, and every door had just realized I was there.
Then the residents started coming downstairs.
First, a man in a bathrobe.
Then a woman with an old suitcase.
Then a child in pajamas.
Then three more people.
They all stopped in front of the booth.
They all looked at me.
The man in the bathrobe placed a set of keys on the desk.
“Our shift is over,” he said.
I tried to turn the light back on.
It did not work.
I looked at the clock.
3:04.
Rule 9.
Do not leave the booth between 3:00 and 3:12 a.m.
So I stayed seated.
The residents stayed too.
Watching me.
At 3:12, they vanished.
All at once.
As if someone had erased a photograph.
I finished the shift shaking.
When morning came, I left the folder under the desk and walked out without looking back.
I did not get paid.
I did not call anyone.
I never went back to the Santa Elvira Building.
At least, I thought I didn’t.
This morning, I found a folder under my apartment door.
The same folder.
On the first page, there was a new rule.
Written in my handwriting.
11. If you end the shift before the building is done with you, the booth changes address.
The intercom just rang.
I live on the fourth floor.
The screen says floor 8.

If you’re staying in Room 312, you’ll eventually notice the door at the very end of the hallway.
Don’t worry.
Everyone notices it.
The hotel has a few rules.
Please follow them.
1. The door should always be closed.
2. If you find it open, close it immediately. Do not look inside.
3. If you hear knocking from the other side, keep walking. It isn’t for you.
4. If the knocking comes from behind you, don’t run until you reach your room.
5. Never ask the staff what’s behind the door. They’ll stop smiling.
6. If another guest asks whether you’ve “seen the room yet,” tell them you’ve just arrived.
7. If the hallway seems longer than before, don’t turn around.
8. If the door has disappeared, go back to your room and lock it. Don’t leave again until sunrise.
9. If you wake up and your room number has changed…
…don’t open the door.
The hallway already knows where you are.

Most guests follow the rules.
The missing ones usually didn’t.
Housekeeping still leaves towels outside their rooms every morning.
No one has had the heart to tell them those rooms have been empty for years.

Mi padre fue mecánico toda su vida.
Decía que los motores tienen personalidad.
Algunos arrancan a la primera.
Otros se quejan.
Otros simplemente están cansados.
Pero había una norma que repetía siempre.
Nunca la explicó.
Solo decía:
"Si alguna vez dejas el coche arrancado después de las 00:00...
no mires el cuentarrevoluciones demasiado tiempo."
Pensé que era una superstición de viejo taller.
Hasta hace tres noches.

Salía de trabajar tarde.
Llegué a casa y me quedé dentro del coche escuchando música.
No quería entrar todavía.
Miré el reloj.
00:13.
El motor estaba al ralentí.
Entonces recordé la norma.
Me reí.
Miré el cuadro.
900 rpm.
Normal.
Volví a mirar el móvil.
Un minuto.
Dos minutos.
No sé cuánto tiempo pasó.
Pero cuando levanté la vista...
el ralentí seguía en 900.
Solo que la aguja...
se estaba moviendo.
Muy despacio.
Como si respirara.

No era una vibración.
Era un ritmo.
Apagué la música.
El sonido del motor seguía siendo normal.
Pero la aguja continuaba respirando.

Mi padre siempre decía que si eso ocurría había que hacer una sola cosa.
No mirar el asiento del copiloto.
Yo ya no me estaba riendo.
Agarré la llave para apagar el motor.
No funcionó.
La giré otra vez.
Nada.
El coche seguía arrancado.
Entonces la radio se encendió sola.
No había ninguna emisora.
Solo ruido.
Y una voz muy baja.
No entendía las palabras.
Pero parecía decir siempre lo mismo.
Cada vez más claro.
Cada vez más cerca.

No pude evitar mirar el asiento del copiloto.
Estaba vacío.
Suspiré.
Pensé que había tenido un ataque de ansiedad.
Entonces vi el retrovisor.
El asiento estaba vacío.
Pero el reflejo no.
Había alguien sentado.
Con las manos apoyadas sobre las rodillas.
Mirándome.
No tenía ojos.
Solo dos huecos negros.
Y una llave inglesa oxidada entre las manos.

La voz de la radio dejó de sonar.
Ahora la escuchaba detrás de mí.
Muy cerca de mi oído.
"Hay una avería."
Intenté abrir la puerta.
Bloqueada.
Las ventanas tampoco bajaban.
El motor seguía respirando.
del retrovisor levantó lentamente una mano.
Señaló el cuadro de instrumentos.
Miré.
En lugar del cuentakilómetros aparecía un mensaje.
Nunca había visto algo así.
No era una avería.
Solo tres palabras.
PRESIÓN DEL ALMA BAJA

Mi padre me encontró una hora después.
El coche estaba apagado.
Yo estaba fuera, sentado en el suelo.
No recuerdo haber salido.
Solo le pregunté una cosa.
—Papá...
¿qué era eso?
Se quedó callado.
Miró el coche.
Y por primera vez en mi vida lo vi asustado.
Me respondió sin acercarse.
"No era tu coche."

Desde entonces sigo otra norma.
Si vuelvo tarde del trabajo y necesito quedarme un rato dentro...
apago el motor.
Porque algunas máquinas...
no quieren que las repares.
Quieren que ocupes el lugar del último mecánico que lo intentó.

The migraines started three months ago.
At first they felt normal.
Pain behind the eyes.
Sensitivity to light.
Exhaustion.
Nothing unusual.
The doctor called them stress-related.
I believed him.
Then the messages started.
The first one appeared at 3:17 AM.
I don’t remember waking up.
I only remember finding my phone in my hand.
One unread message.
From an unknown number.
You forgot to finish the report.
I should have been scared.
Instead, I was confused.
Because I had forgotten.
The report was due the next morning.
I finished it.
The migraine disappeared.
For a while.

The next message came two nights later.
Your friend is lying to you.
It included screenshots.
Private messages.
Things nobody should have been able to access.
Things that turned out to be real.
The friendship ended.
The migraine disappeared again.

Soon I started waiting for the messages.
They were useful.
Helpful.
Efficient.
Whenever one arrived, the pain eased.
Whenever I ignored one, the migraine became unbearable.
So I listened.

The messages solved problems.
Finished projects.
Found missing documents.
Warned me about mistakes.
Saved me time.
Saved me money.
Saved me embarrassment.
It felt like something was helping me.

Then the tone changed.

Your sister doesn’t respect you.
Your coworkers talk about you.
Your father hides things from you.
Your friends only tolerate you.

The evidence always looked convincing.
Screenshots.
Audio recordings.
Fragments of conversations.
Enough to make me doubt.
Never enough to prove anything.

One by one, people disappeared from my life.
Arguments.
Accusations.
Distance.
Silence.
The migraines became rarer.
The messages became longer.

Last week I asked a question.
The first question.

Who are you?

The answer arrived instantly.

The reason you let me in.

I didn’t sleep that night.
Or maybe I did.
I can’t tell anymore.

Yesterday I found unfinished work on my computer.
Perfectly written.
Submitted.
Sent.
Hours before I woke up.
The timestamps prove it.
I checked three times.

This morning I received another message.
Not on my phone.
On my laptop.

Everyone thinks you’re getting worse.

A second message appeared.

They’re discussing you right now.

A third.

Open the camera.

I did.
I wish I hadn’t.

The camera showed my room.
My desk.
My chair.
Me.
Sleeping.

The timestamp said it was live.

My migraine is gone now.
Completely gone.
I haven’t felt pain in days.
That’s the problem.
Because tonight, at 3:17 AM…
I received one final message.

You don’t need the migraines anymore.
You trust me now.

And for the first time…
the message wasn’t sent to me.
It was sent from my phone.

The Shadow Always Returns. 🖤💀