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The night it happened, I was working late at the office. The deadline for our project was looming, and everyone had left hours ago. I liked the quiet; it gave me a chance to focus without the constant interruptions of office life. My cubicle was bathed in the eerie glow of the computer screen, the only light in the otherwise darkened room. Around midnight, I decided to take a break. Stretching, I walked to the break room to get a cup of coffee. As I passed the rows of empty desks, I felt a strange sensation, like I was being watched. I shook it off, attributing it to my overworked mind. The break room was silent except for the hum of the vending machines. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, savoring the brief respite. That’s when I heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper. At first, I thought it was the wind, but the windows were all closed. I froze, straining to listen. The whispering continued, faint and unintelligible. It seemed to be coming from the hallway. My curiosity got the better of me, and I cautiously stepped out of the break room, following the sound. The office was a maze of cubicles and narrow corridors. As I walked, the whispering grew louder, more distinct. It felt like a chorus of voices, all speaking at once, yet I couldn’t make out a single word. My pulse quickened, a sense of dread settling over me. I reached the end of the hallway, where a door led to the storage room. The whispers were louder now, almost urgent. I hesitated, my hand on the doorknob. Every instinct told me to turn back, but something compelled me to open the door. The storage room was pitch black. I fumbled for the light switch, but it didn’t work. The whispers were deafening now, a cacophony of voices filling my head. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with old files and office supplies. I stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind me. As the light swept the room, I saw something that made my blood run cold. In the far corner, crouched on the floor, was a figure. Its back was to me, and it was rocking back and forth, whispering frantically. My heart pounded in my chest as I took a cautious step forward, trying to get a better look. “Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling. The figure stopped rocking and slowly turned its head towards me. The light from my phone illuminated its face, and I stumbled back in horror. It was a man, or at least, it had been. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale and stretched tight over his bones. His mouth moved rapidly, the whispers spilling out in a torrent of madness. He stared at me with hollow eyes, and I felt a chill grip my spine. “Help me,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the whispers. “They’re coming. They’re coming for us.” I didn’t wait to hear more. Panic surged through me, and I turned and fled, crashing through the door and racing down the hallway. The whispers followed me, growing louder, more insistent. I didn’t stop until I was outside, the cool night air hitting my face. Gasping for breath, I looked back at the building, half-expecting to see the figure standing in the doorway. But there was nothing. The whispers had stopped, and the office was silent once more. I didn’t return to work for several days, and when I finally did, I found out that the storage room had been sealed off. No one seemed to know why, and when I asked about the man I had seen, my colleagues looked at me with puzzled expressions. There was no record of anyone matching his description. To this day, I don’t know what I encountered that night. I’ve tried to forget, to convince myself it was a hallucination brought on by stress and fatigue. But sometimes, in the quiet moments of the night, I hear the whispers again, faint and distant, and I wonder if they’re coming for me too. The return to the office was uneventful at first. My colleagues greeted me warmly, glad to have me back on the team. The project deadline loomed closer than ever, and I threw myself into the work, trying to bury the memory of that night under layers of spreadsheets and emails. But the whispers haunted me. I heard them in the hum of the office air conditioning, in the rustle of papers, in the distant murmur of conversations. They were always there, just at the edge of hearing, a constant reminder of that terrifying encounter. I started to notice things—small, almost imperceptible changes in the office environment. A file moved from one desk to another. A coffee cup left on a table that no one claimed. Lights flickering when they had no reason to. It was as if the office itself was alive, watching, waiting. One evening, as I was working late again, I decided to investigate further. The storage room had been sealed off, but I needed answers. I approached the door, now locked and covered with a “Do Not Enter” sign. My heart pounded as I tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, I looked around, ensuring I was alone. Then, I remembered that the maintenance closet down the hall contained tools. Maybe there was something I could use to open the door. I hurried to the closet, grabbing a small crowbar, and returned to the storage room. With a few pries and a lot of effort, the door finally gave way. The room was as dark as I remembered, but this time, I was prepared. I brought a flashlight and shone it into the room, my hand shaking slightly. The shelves were still there, dusty and covered in cobwebs. But the corner where I had seen the figure was empty. I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Had it all been a figment of my imagination? I stepped inside, shining the light around. There was nothing out of the ordinary—no signs of the man, no whispers. I let out a shaky breath, feeling a bit foolish. Maybe I had been wrong. Maybe it was just a product of my overworked mind. But as I turned to leave, the light caught something on the floor—a piece of paper, crumpled and yellowed with age. I picked it up, smoothing it out to read. The handwriting was shaky, almost illegible, but I could make out a few words: “They know. They watch. They whisper. Beware.” A cold chill ran down my spine. This was no coincidence. Someone had been here, someone who knew about the whispers. My hands trembled as I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. I needed to find out who had written it and what they knew. I left the storage room, locking it behind me. Back at my desk, I searched through the company records, looking for any mention of strange occurrences or unexplained incidents. I found nothing. Frustration and fear gnawed at me. Whoever had left that note had vanished without a trace. Days turned into weeks, and the whispers grew louder. My sleep was plagued with nightmares, dark figures and soft, maddening voices. I became obsessed, digging deeper into the company’s history, questioning my colleagues discreetly. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about, but a few gave me knowing looks, their eyes filled with a silent warning. One night, as I was about to leave the office, I found a note on my desk. It was written in the same shaky handwriting as the one in the storage room: “Meet me in the parking lot. Midnight.” My heart raced. This was it—the breakthrough I had been waiting for. I stayed in the office, pretending to work, my mind racing with possibilities. As midnight approached, I gathered my things and headed to the parking lot. The lot was empty, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. I stood by my car, looking around, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Minutes passed, and no one appeared. I was about to leave when I heard a car engine. A beat-up sedan pulled up next to me, and a man stepped out. He was tall and thin, with dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were worn and shabby, and he looked around nervously before approaching me. “You’re the one who found the note,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded. “Who are you?” He glanced around again before answering. “I used to work here. I left when I realized what was happening.” “What’s happening?” I asked, my voice trembling. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The whispers. They’re not just in your head. They’re real. They’re a presence, something that exists in this building. I don’t know what they are, but they’re watching us, manipulating us.” I felt a chill run down my spine. “Why are they here? What do they want?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I do know that anyone who gets too close to the truth disappears. That’s why I left. But I’ve been keeping an eye on this place, trying to find someone who would believe me.” I looked at him, my mind racing. “What can we do?” He hesitated. “There’s an old server room in the basement. It’s been abandoned for years, but I think the source of the whispers is there. If we can find it, maybe we can stop them.” I nodded, determination replacing my fear. “Let’s do it.” We made our way to the basement, our