The Overnight Janitor Who Doesn’t Exist

I work the late shift because it’s quiet.

That’s the lie I tell people, anyway. The truth is I like knowing where everyone is. During the day, the office is unpredictable—meetings popping up, people hovering, footsteps that don’t belong to anyone you can see.

At night, there shouldn’t be any surprises.

That’s how I knew the janitor wasn’t real.

Every night around 1:20 a.m., I hear the vacuum.

It starts at the far end of the hallway—low, steady, methodical. The sound moves at a consistent pace, stopping briefly at office doors, then continuing on. Sometimes I hear doors open. Sometimes they close.

No one is scheduled overnight.

I checked.

Facilities confirmed it. Cleaning crew comes in at 6 p.m. and leaves by 10. Security after that. That’s it. No exceptions.

Still, the vacuum came every night.

At first, I told myself it was noise carryover from another floor. Or the HVAC system making a similar sound. But HVAC doesn’t pause in front of doors. It doesn’t move with intention.

Last Thursday, I pulled up the security cameras.

The hallway feed loaded slowly, grainy in that way old cameras get after midnight. At first, there was nothing—just empty carpet and flickering lights.

Then something slid into frame.

A tall figure. Too tall. Its head nearly brushed the drop ceiling. Long arms wrapped around the handle of a vacuum cleaner.

The vacuum wasn’t touching the floor.

The wheels hovered an inch above the carpet, rolling smoothly without resistance. No cord. No outlet. Just motion.

The figure’s legs didn’t bend when it walked. It glided forward, stopping at each door exactly long enough to suggest cleaning.

I watched it pass my office.

The vacuum sound came through the speakers a second later.

I closed the camera feed.

That was my mistake.

Tonight, the vacuum stopped outside my door.

The sound cut off mid-hum.

I sat perfectly still, staring at the reflection in my dark monitor. I could see the hallway light bleeding in under the door—then dimming, like something was blocking it.

I opened the door before I could talk myself out of it.

The figure stood there.

Up close, it looked unfinished. Like someone had sketched a person and forgotten to add depth. Its uniform was an impression of fabric, not fabric itself—creases without seams, buttons without shine.

The vacuum hovered obediently at its side.

It stopped moving.

Slowly, carefully, the figure raised its head.

There was no face. Just a smooth suggestion of one, like fog pressed against glass.

Then it whispered my name.

Perfectly. Softly. Familiar.

I slammed the door and locked it.

The vacuum started again—right outside.

I checked the cameras one last time before leaving.

The hallway was empty.

No figure. No vacuum.

But every office door on the floor was open.

Including mine.

And on my desk, perfectly centered, was a laminated badge I’d never seen before.

OVERNIGHT JANITOR

STATUS: ACTIVE

Underneath, in smaller print:

THANK YOU FOR STAYING LATE.