​My New Night Shift Job Has 3 Simple Rules. I Just Broke Rule #2.

My New Night Shift Job Has 3 Simple Rules. I Just Broke Rule #2.

​I needed the money. That is the only sentence that can accurately explain why I took this job without asking enough questions. When your landlord is knocking on your door for rent and your bank account is in the negatives, you tend to overlook the red flags.

​The job listing was simple: Night Security Guard for a defunct manufacturing warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The pay was unusually high—suspiciously high, in fact—but I ignored my gut instinct.

​The interview was brief. Mr. Cameron, the site manager, looked exhausted. He had dark circles under his eyes and tapped his foot nervously the entire time. He didn’t ask about my previous experience or my background. He just handed me a set of heavy keys, a flashlight, and walked me to a small, glass-walled security booth situated right in the center of the massive, empty warehouse floor.

​"Your job is to sit here," he said rapidly, looking around as if he wanted to bolt. "From 10:00 PM to 6:00 AM. No patrols. No walking around. Just stay inside the booth."

​Before leaving, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and taped it to the metal desk inside the booth.

​"And most importantly," he said, finally making eye contact with a look of pure dread, "follow these rules strictly. They are for your safety."

​Before I could ask what he meant, he was gone. I heard the heavy main doors slam shut, echoing through the vast metal structure.

​I was alone. The warehouse was cavernous and dark, the flashlight beam barely cutting through the gloom. Giant, dust-covered machines stood like sleeping beasts in the shadows. I looked down at the paper taped to the desk. It contained three handwritten rules:

​Rule #1: Between 2:00 AM and 3:30 AM, do not open the booth door for any reason, no matter what you hear outside.

​Rule #2: If the old red rotary phone on the desk rings, do not answer it. Let it ring until it stops.

​Rule #3: If you hear scratching sounds coming from the basement access door, start humming loudly so you cannot hear them.

​I chuckled, shaking my head. Was this a joke? Hazing for the new guy? I ignored the paper and settled into the squeaky chair.

​The first few hours were boring. I played games on my phone and read some old magazines I found in the drawer. The warehouse was silent, save for the wind rattling the corrugated metal roof.

​At 2:15 AM, the atmosphere shifted.

​The air in the booth grew frigid, despite the space heater humming at my feet. The shadows outside the glass seemed to stretch and distort. I remembered Rule #1. "Just rats," I told myself, trying to shake off the unease.

​Then, at exactly 2:30 AM, the silence was shattered.

​Riiing... Riiing...

​The sound was deafening. I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stared at the desk. The old, dusty red phone—which wasn't even plugged into a wall outlet—was ringing.

​I looked at Rule #2: Do not answer it.

​I let it ring. One minute. Two minutes. The shrill bell was relentless, echoing off the metal walls of the warehouse. It didn't sound like a recording; it sounded urgent. Angry.

​"Maybe it's Mr. Cameron checking if I'm asleep?" I reasoned, desperation creeping in. If I didn't answer, would I lose this job? I needed the cash. Logic began to override fear. It was just a phone. Phones don't hurt people.

​I broke the rule. My hand trembling, I reached out and lifted the heavy receiver to my ear.

​"Hello?" My voice cracked.

​There was no answer at first. Just heavy, wet breathing. It sounded like something large was inhaling right against the microphone.

​"Who is this?" I asked again, trying to sound authoritative.

​Then came the voice. It wasn't human. It was a gurgling, distorted whisper, like someone trying to speak with a throat full of water.

​"You... broke... the rule," the voice rasped. "Now... we can... come in."

​The line went dead.

​In that exact second, every light in the warehouse slammed off.

​I was plunged into total darkness. Only the faint, dying glow of the emergency light inside my booth remained, turning my glass box into a dimly lit fish tank—and I was the trapped bait.

​Out in the darkness, something moved. It wasn't rats. It was the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the concrete floor. Not one set, but many.

​Scrape... Scrape... Scrape...

​The sound stopped right in front of the glass door of my booth. I slowly, terrified, lifted my eyes.

​In the dim red glow of the emergency light, I saw a face pressed against the glass.

​It wasn't a man. It was tall, its skin grey and slick like a amphibian. Where its eyes should have been, there were only hollow, dark sockets. It was smiling—a smile that stretched too wide, revealing rows of needle-like teeth.

​It raised a long, skeletal hand and tapped a single finger on the glass, right over the list of rules.

​I am still inside the booth. It is 3:00 AM now. The thing is standing just inches away, separated only by a thin pane of glass. It is just watching me, smiling. I know that according to Rule #1, it cannot open the door until 3:30 AM.

​But I broke Rule #2. And as the handle of the door slowly begins to turn, I realize that the rules were the only thing keeping them out.