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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 interruptions. My cubicle was bathed in the eerie glow of the computer screen, the only light in the darkened room. Around midnight, I decided to take a break. 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. I froze, straining to listen. The whispering continued, faint and unintelligible, seeming to come from the hallway. My curiosity got the better of me, and I cautiously stepped out, following the sound. The office was a maze of cubicles and narrow corridors. As I walked, the whispering grew louder, more distinct, 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 as I took a cautious step forward. “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.