Worked for a Secret Government Unit — Until They Erased My Memory

I used to think secret government programs were just conspiracy theories. The kind of stories people post online to make themselves feel important. I laughed at those people once. I don’t laugh anymore.

Five years ago, I worked as a security technician for a government contractor just outside Arlington, Virginia. It was a good job—steady pay, good benefits, nothing strange. Until one day, a man in a gray suit visited my supervisor. After that meeting, my access level changed. I was given a new keycard, a confidentiality agreement thicker than a phone book, and a warning: “You’ll be working on something sensitive. Don’t ask questions.”

That was the last normal day of my life.

The facility I was transferred to didn’t officially exist. It wasn’t on any map, and no one I knew had ever heard of it. The drive there was done in a black van with tinted windows, no phones allowed. They took us underground—at least three levels below the surface. I remember the metallic smell, the constant humming sound, and the way no one made eye contact.

My job was simple: monitor a security system that didn’t protect doors, but *people*. Each person had a small metal implant in the back of their neck. I thought it was for tracking, but then I saw the data streams—it wasn’t GPS. It was *neural*. We were monitoring brain activity.

One night, I saw something I shouldn’t have. A test subject—labeled only as “Subject 14”—started screaming during a procedure. His vitals went off the chart. Then suddenly, all his readings flatlined. But the doctors didn’t panic. They just stared at the monitor, almost… waiting. Ten seconds later, his readings came back, perfectly normal. He sat up, calm, eyes empty, and said, “The reset worked.”

I still get chills when I think about it.

The next morning, my terminal access was revoked. My ID stopped working at the elevator. That evening, two men from “Internal Security” showed up at my apartment. They said there had been a *breach* and they needed to perform a “routine check.” One of them carried a small case with medical equipment.

The next thing I remember is waking up two days later in my bed. My head was pounding. My phone, computer, everything—gone. My company email was deleted, and my job portal said my contract had ended six months earlier. I thought it was a mistake… until I saw my reflection in the mirror. There was a small scar behind my left ear.

I went to a doctor. The scan showed traces of surgical interference—something metallic had been inserted, then removed. The doctor said it looked “governmental” and refused to get involved. That’s when I realized the truth: they hadn’t fired me. They had *erased* me.

Over the next few months, I started getting flashes—short, vivid images I couldn’t explain: a bright room, a red light, a woman’s voice saying “you shouldn’t have seen that.” Sometimes, when I hear high-frequency sounds, my vision blurs and those images return.

I tried to contact a few former coworkers, but their numbers were disconnected. One of them, a man named Harris, was listed as “deceased” online. When I visited the address on his file, an elderly couple told me no one by that name had ever lived there.

I’ve stopped looking for answers. I know they’re watching me. My internet sometimes disconnects for no reason, and my phone battery drains even when it’s off. A friend who works in cybersecurity told me it’s possible my device is being accessed remotely—but he refused to talk more after running a scan.

So why am I writing this? Because lately, my memories are fading again. I forget names, places, faces. I’ve started recording everything I remember, hoping that if they come for me again, someone—anyone—will find this story and know I was real.

If you’re reading this and you work for any government contractor, remember this: curiosity isn’t just dangerous—it’s forbidden.

And if you ever wake up with a scar behind your ear and no idea how it got there…
run.