You were buried beneath stacks of papers, an empty coffee mug pushed to the edge of your desk and the hum of the latest gossip floating around you. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, trying and failing, to string together a solid report before the next deadline hits.

The words on the old computer screen blurred together into a mess of letters that barely made any sense and you felt the frustration bubble up into your mind. This already went on for some hours and the more you had to stare at it, the more did it robbed you of your patience.

»Hey.«

A familiar voice snapped you back into reality and your nose got hit with the strong smell of cigarettes. Clyde, one of your closest friends in the office, leaned casually over the partition that separates the office desks, his sharp eyes flicking to the jumbled mess on your screen with an amused smile. You didn't even have to ask to know that he probably just came back from one of his many smoking breaks.
»You look like hell. Rough night?« His tone was light and teasing, but you could hear the familiar thread of genuine concern beneath it. That was Clyde—always joking, but always paying attention.
You let out a dry laugh. »Something like that.«

But the memories from the night before crawled back in an unwelcome manner. Bits and parts of the podcast clinged onto your memories along with the soft scratch of the pen's tip on sky-blue paper, and the awfully written letter that you put together as an amusing joke. You silently mocked yourself for being so silly, making a mental note to toss the letter to the random serial killer in the trash as soon as you got home.

Clyde raised an eyebrow, watching you for a second longer than usual. You could tell he was debating whether to push, but instead, he leaned back in his chair and let it go for once.
You were half-convinced that he gave up for good till he spoke up once more.
»You heard it?« There was this certain spark in his eyes. His voice dropped just enough to let you know he was about to drag you into whatever office gossip was floating around.
And same as always, you did him the favour and played along.

»Heard what?«

Clyde leaned in a little closer, propping his elbows on the partition with that signature grin of his, mischievous, yet expectant. »Oh come on. Don't tell me you've been glued to that screen all morning and missed the news.« His tone was light, but there was a teasing sharpness underneath, like he was challenging you to admit it. Clyde had always been like this, a natural at pulling people into conversation whether they wanted to talk or not. He never had been the most productive person in the office, and you don't even know how he didn't get fired yet, but somehow, no one seemed to mind. If anything, he was the glue that held the dreary office atmosphere together. It was hard to stay annoyed at him. Clyde was just that charming with his witty personality.

He got you good and you sighed, running a tired hand through your hair. »Depends. If this is about Brenda and the guy from the food truck hooking up for free lunch again then I don't really care.« Your comment didn't go unnoticed and Clyde's grin broke into a laugh. »Okay, first of all, that was a one time thing apparently. And honestly, the way she defended herself was kind of iconic. But no, this is actually interesting. And totally your thing.«

You arched a skeptical brow. »You said that about the coffee machine rumor last week, and it turned out it was just empty.«

»Hey! I never said how interesting it was. But this time? Trust me, this is your forte.« He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was about to spill some classified information. »Security found one of the side doors unlocked this morning. No sign of forced entry. They think someone's been sneaking around after hours.«
Your posture stiffened just slightly, a newfound interest blooming in your head. Clyde didn't lie, this was really your forte. Eerie mysteries.

»That's...weird.« You murmured, but your words felt hollow.
Your friend didn't seem to catch it. He was too caught up in the thrill of his own story. Knowing him, he would make up his own little horror story and turn something simple into a fantasy version of the real facts.
»Right? I mean, this place gives off weird vibes after dark anyway. Remember those flickering lights on the third floor? And the weird noises?«
You managed a half-hearted smirk. »Oh no, is this where you tell me the building's haunted?«
He snorted. »Could be. I'm just saying, If I hear creepy footsteps or some ghostly whisper telling me to 'get out', I'm not sticking around to investigate.«

»Uh-huh. Let me know when you start a séance. I’ll bring the candles.«

Clyde laughed, leaning back in his chair. But his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, studying you in that quiet, perceptive way of his. Then his expression softened. »Hey, seriously though. Are you good?«

The question hung in the air.

Your grip on the mouse tightened, knuckles going pale. You didn’t answer right away. For a moment, the sound of the office faded into the background—the steady tapping of keyboards, the hum of the copier, distant laughter. All of it felt too far away.
The stress of the report caught up to you, or at least you excused yourself with those words.
»Yeah,« you said quietly. »I’m fine.«
Clyde watched you for a long second, his playful grin fading. He didn’t believe you. Not for a second.
But he let it go.
For now.

The rest of the day dragged on in a haze of half-finished thoughts and restless fingers tapping against the keyboard. You tried to focus on the report, eyes darting between messy notes and a blinking cursor that felt like it was mocking you.
Clyde eventually left you alone, sensing you weren’t in the mood for small talk, though you caught him glancing at you now and then. His usual antics carried on, filling the office with bursts of laughter, but it all felt distant—like you were underwater, watching it all from behind glass.

Somehow, you managed to pull the report together. Barely.

You gave it one last skim, catching a few minor errors, but nothing worth fixing at this point. With a tired sigh, you printed it out and grabbed the warm pages, letting them settle in your hand as you stood up.

Your boss’s office was at the end of the hall, the door half-closed as usual. You knocked twice.

»Come in.«
And you stepped inside.

Your boss barely looked up, glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he shuffled through a pile of documents. The soft glow of his desk lamp cast sharp shadows across his face.
»Here’s the report you wanted,« you said, placing it neatly on the edge of his desk.
He flipped through the pages absentmindedly, scanning it with a detached sort of interest. A moment passed in silence. It was debatable if he was actually reading the mess you put together all day.
But then, his eyes narrowed slightly.

»This is fine,« he muttered, setting the report aside. »But I need you to stay late and finish the quarterly projections. They’re behind schedule.« Of course, if it wasn't the report holding you from going home then it would have to be some extra work that your boss had to dump on you at the last minute.
You blinked, caught off guard.
»It’s already past six,« you pointed out, glancing at the darkening sky outside the window. Most of the office lights had already been turned off.

»I know,« he said, dismissively waving a hand. »But this needs to be done by tomorrow morning. I don’t care how long it takes.« Your boss couldn't care less about your silly arguments.
You opened your mouth to argue, but the tired set of his eyes told you it wouldn’t matter.
»Fine,« you muttered, swallowing your frustration. If you start now, you may be able to get some dinner from the small store down the road on your way home.

»Good. Just leave it on my desk when you're done,« he said, already turning his attention back to the papers in front of him. You turned and left, the office door clicking shut behind you.

The hallway was quiet now, the usual hum of office life gone. Most of the lights had been dimmed, and the distant sound of the elevator echoed faintly. Everyone had already left.

Except you.
And maybe security.

You made your way back to your desk, the sound of your footsteps oddly loud in the empty space. Clyde's desk was empty, a half-finished cup of coffee still sitting there, forgotten. You can't deny it, as much as he bothered you sometimes, you missed his carefree spirit right now.
There was no help, you sighed and slumped back into your chair, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension. The hum of the overhead lights felt distant, barely enough to cut through the stillness that filled every corner of the now empty office. Your boss must have left by now too.

You sighed and slumped back into your chair, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension. The office felt colder now, the kind of cold that crept in slowly and settled into your bones. You sighed quietly again and clicked the monitor back on, the cold blue glow casting sharp shadows across your desk. The screen flickered to life, blinding against the dim surroundings, displaying the same spreadsheet that had been tormenting you for hours before. If there was hell, then it would force the souls to work on spreadsheets.

Rows of numbers. Endless columns. Project deadlines blinking like quiet accusations.

Your eyes skimmed the data, but the words barely registered. They blurred together into an incomprehensible mess, your mind refusing to focus. This was the same scene with the cursed report all over again and you loathed it.

Focus.
You inhaled slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders.
It’s fine. You’re alone. No one’s here.But the thought didn’t comfort you.
The office felt too still. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that felt unnatural.
Then—so faint you almost doubted it—you heard it.
A soft, deliberate creak.
Wood shifting beneath weight.
Your breath hitched.
Too close.

The air felt heavier now, as if the shadows in the corners of the office were thickening.
Your eyes darted toward the dark hallway beyond your cubicle, scanning the empty space.

Another creak. Closer.

You froze, every muscle tight, pulse pounding in your ears.
The building was supposed to be empty.
Everyone had gone home hours ago.
And yet, something—someone—was moving.
You strained to listen, heart hammering in your chest.
Then—

Clatter.

Metal against metal, sharp and sudden.

You jumped, breath caught in your throat. Whipping your head toward the sound, your eyes locked on movement.

A figure rounding the corner.
Your heart slammed against your ribs—

But it was just the janitor.

An older man, maybe in his late fifties, shuffled forward, dragging a heavy cleaning cart behind him. His mop handle slumped over his shoulder, and his tired eyes stared straight ahead, oblivious to your silent panic. One of the metal buckets must have knocked against the wall.
You exhaled sharply, hand instinctively pressing to your chest as if to calm your racing heart.

God, get a grip.

The janitor carried on without so much as a glance in your direction, disappearing slowly down the hall. You let out another shaky breath, slumping back in your chair.

Okay. Enough of this.
The quiet was starting to gnaw at your nerves.

Without thinking, you grabbed your phone from the desk and unlocked it with clumsy fingers. You scrolled until you found it—your favorite true crime podcast. The familiar cover art stared back at you.

If I’m going to be alone in this giant, empty office, I might as well have something to fill the silence.

You hit play. The soft crackle of static buzzed through the speakers, followed by the deep, steady voice of the host. You never have been the kind of person to listen to music or other sounds during your activities since your attention wouldn't last long but it was a different story with this specific podcast. Clyde has been the one that introduced it to you and you've been a fan of it ever since.

"Welcome back to Mysteries Beyond, where we uncover the stories that were never meant to be told."

The familiar words settled in the air, oddly comforting despite the ominous tone. The voice of the podcast deserved a pay raise for the bone-chilling performance. You leaned back, letting the voice wrap around you like armor against the stillness.

»Tonight’s episode: The Jar—an unsolved case where victims reported receiving anonymous letters... each one more personal than the last that leads to a scary twist.« You chuckled, the word letters let your thoughts drift off to your new hobby. Perhaps you would become a serial killer too in the future.
"The first letter was discovered on a doorstep. No fingerprints, no return address. Just a single page of sky-blue paper. The message read: ‘Was this what you wanted?’"

Your breath caught in your throat.
Sky-blue paper.
What an odd coincidence.
Somewhere in the building, the heating system groaned to life, sending a low, rattling hum through the walls.

But beneath it, you thought you heard something else.
A slow, steady creak.
Like a floorboard shifting under careful, deliberate steps.
Your hand hovered over the pause button.
But you didn’t press it.
Somehow, the silence felt far worse.
So you let the podcast play on.

And tried to ignore the feeling that someone was standing just beyond the glow of your screen. Watching.
You settled back into your chair, letting the steady rhythm of the host’s narration fill the void as you turned back to the spreadsheet. Numbers and deadlines blurred together, but the background noise made the office feel a little less suffocating.

You clicked away, half-listening.
»...Paper has never been so silent...«

Your fingers paused on the keyboard.
And yet…
You turned the volume up a little higher.
You quickly turned back to the screen, the glow of the monitor suddenly feeling too bright against the creeping dark.

»Authorities believe the letters were more than just idle threats. Each one revealed intimate details about the victims—details no one else could have known.«

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears.
The walls seemed to press in around you, shadows stretching along the floor where the dim overhead lights didn’t quite reach.

You glanced at the hallway.
Empty.
Yet the stillness felt… too still.

»It’s believed the writer had been watching them for weeks, maybe months, blending into their daily lives unnoticed. Stalkers are always so good at their work. It's eerie how much they blend in with everything else. Perhaps even you, my dear listener, are getting watched right now.«

Your chair creaked as you shifted uncomfortably, the sound too loud in the quiet.
No. It’s just a story. That’s all.

But still, you found yourself checking the corners of the office, the glass reflection of the dark windows.

Nothing.
And yet the sensation of being watched slithered up your spine.
A soft hum buzzed from the overhead lights, flickering faintly before steadying.
You swallowed hard, reaching for your coffee mug, forgetting it was empty.

»Victims reported feeling like they were being followed… strange sounds at night… misplaced items in their homes. But by then, it was already too late.«

The words clung to the air like frost.
You set the mug down carefully, the clink against the desk sharper than it should’ve been.
You’re overthinking this. Get back to work.
But despite the voice of reason in your head, your hand drifted toward your phone.
The urge to turn the podcast off was overwhelming.
Yet your finger hesitated above the pause button once more.

A sharp, metallic crash echoed from somewhere deep in the building. It wasn't suble this time. The sound slammed into the silence as a gunshot, loud and jarring. It echoed down the long, empty hallway, sending your pulse skyrocketing. Your body jerked, breath catching in your throat as the noise rattled in the air. It was louder than the janitor's earlier clatter.

For a long moment, you didn't moved. Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the hallway beyond your cubicle, half expecting to see someone standing there and perhaps even run up to you. But there was nothing.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths as your fear slowly bled into frustration. No more creepy noises and jumping at every sound. Slamming your hands onto your desk, you pushed yourself up from your chair so fast it nearly tipped over. The small wheels squealed against the floor as you stormed out of your cubicle, each step echoing sharply through the hollow corridor.

The air outside your cubicle felt colder and heavier. You moved cautiously now, peering around corners, checking doorways. The break room was empty, the vending machines humming quietly in the corner. The copy room was just as still, the devices and machines turned off.

»Okay.« You muttered to yourself, voice thin in the empty space. »There is nothing here. No more games. I should focus on work.« But saying it out loud, didn't eased the tension in your body.

Turning on your heel, you made your way back toward your desk. The office seemed even quieter now, the kind of stillness that made your footsteps sound louder than they should. Your thoughts drifted off to Clyde and his story from earlier. The side door and the nightly visitor roaming around. You suddenly cursed his loose mouth for scaring you with such gossip.

You rounded the corner back into your cubicle, gently slapping your cheeks to ease your mind- and stopped dead in your tracks.

There, sitting perfectly centered on your desk, was an envelope. It was the same one that should be at home on your desk. Sky blue.

Your mouth went dry. It hadn't been there before and you were sure of it.
The envelope was pristine, the blue was a strong contrast against the clutter of your desk. No name, no marking. Just sealed shut. Everything else seemed to be the same.

Slowly, with hesitant, trembling fingers, you reached for it. Perhaps it was a dumb joke mixed with a coincidence and Clyde will jump out of a corner and yell surprise.

You chuckled dryly at the thought as the paper felt smooth beneath your fingertips, unnervingly clean, as if it had just been placed there. It was lighter than expected.

And with a swift motion you opened it.