Overtime

Slumped in her chair, Karen stared at the shiny white mug’s bold message, “Happiness is my secret weapon.” She caught a glimpse of her reflection on the surface of her idle monitor; it seemed this façade had lost its veneer eons ago. She let out a sigh. Why was she always the last one here on Friday? The thought pecked at her mind, not for the first time.

Twenty-six-year-old single girls were not supposed to be making trips to the office coffee machine at 8:15 on a Friday night. They should be partying. They should be having dinner dates. They should be enjoying life. But here she was, sipping her sub-standard cappuccino before shaking her mouse to bring her screen back to life. The spreadsheet hovered in front of her tired eyes. She felt so tired she could well have been reading hieroglyphs on the wall of a pyramid by this point. Still, it was this, or coming back in tomorrow. On a Saturday. Not happening.

She rubbed her eyes for a good few seconds, blinked and quietly said to herself “come on Kaz, time to get this done.” She clicked on a cell and began to furiously type. She tabbed from one position to the next, blasting through calculations, a little smile even starting to turn the corners of her mouth up as she felt a sense of progress. She might be home by ten.

That was when the lights went out. The computers were down. She picked up her desk phone to call security. Dead. Great.

Standing, Kaz edged into the near-darkness toward the forbidding glass security doors. Power out, they swung open ominously. Pushing open the door to the staircase, she had to switch on her phone’s torch light to see. She carefully stepped her way down the four full flights to the ground floor and over to the door—there was no door. Perhaps she’d miscalculated. She leaned over the banisters in the middle and peered up. Even with the torchlight, she could see little more than a few feet of murk. The beam caught on tiny particles that hung in the air like fairy dust. She decided to descend further, to the garage where she could leave the building by the back door.

She wound down that last staircase and went to the—once again, no door. The stairs continued. She decided to follow them. After descending a further three floors, the oppressive black finally gave way to a door. A wooden door, panelled front with a round iron knob. Nothing like the glass and steel combinations she was used to in her early 2000s office. She turned the knob and pushed. Pushed harder. The door resisted, but with a final shove she was through.

Somehow it was darker still. She moved the phone around, but the light from it met no wall, no objects. She could hear the faint sound of breathing. What is going on? She took a step forward, noticing the near deafening clap of her heels on the solid floor in that silent darkness. She shined the torch on the floor, noticing there were no parking bay lines. It was pitch black and smooth. The moment the beam touched it, the surface devoured the light. It wasn’t the garage.

Finally, her torch beam caught a figure. It was the figure of a man, seated.

“Hello,” she said, her voice trembling more than she had intended. “Geoff, is that you?” But it wasn’t the podgy physique of the security guard who ought to have been on duty. He was lean, upright. She took a step forward, shining the torch all around him, but tried not to blind the poor man. The beam touched his face and he quickly turned away. She could make out the shape of his head – it was not human. It resembled something more like a deer. She could smell the animal now and the sound of his breath grew heavier, deeper. Her foot hovered in the air, unsure whether to take a step. Suddenly, the thing spoke.

“What are you looking for?” His voice was calm, with no trace of aggression or threat.

“I’m looking for security. Or a fuse box. To switch the electric back on. Up in the office,” she said, everything coming out in panicked chunks.

“Electric,” the thing said, with a tone that was neither a statement, nor a question.

“Th-the lights went off up there-” she managed to stammer before being cut off.

“You don’t need light in the dark.” It was then that her torchlight settled on its eyes. Or rather on where its eyes ought to have been. Shallow indentations in the face were all the light found. She felt the breath rush out of her as she turned, already breaking into a run and very nearly slipping on the smooth, polished floor surface. The door was gone. She heard the percussive sound of hooved feet edging closer, as she felt the walls in vain for an opening, tears welling in her eyes. She found none.