The Spill Room

The first time I saw the Spill Room, I didn’t know that’s what the guys called it.

It was just the loading bay office—a concrete cube tucked in the back of the warehouse I’d just been hired to supervise. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the walls were painted that institutional gray-green color you see in public schools and prisons. The smell was a mix of diesel, cardboard, and dried sweat.

The spill itself had long been cleaned up by the time I arrived. No blood, no stains. Just a slight discoloration on the concrete, like a large, irregular shadow frozen into the floor.

“You see that?” Reggie, my lead forklift driver, said on my first walkthrough. He gestured to the stain. “That’s where Luis bled out.”

I laughed nervously. “Come on.”

Reggie didn’t. “Guy took his own arm off backing into a container. Barely hanging on. Whole damn floor was red.”

I blinked. “Jesus.”

“Boss at the time—Henderson—saved him. Wrapped him up with a belt, held the wound shut until the medics came. They say he didn’t blink once. Got soaked, though. Looked like he’d crawled outta a slaughterhouse.”

“Was the guy okay?”

“Luis? They reattached the arm. Didn't work right. He went on disability. Never came back.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “I wouldn’t either.”

Reggie gave a crooked smile. “Henderson came back, though. That same day. Changed his clothes, helped mop the blood. Said he could still taste it in his nose.”

I tried to shake the image from my head.

That was my first week.

By the second month, I knew the place had a reputation.

People avoided late shifts, especially near the Spill Room. There were rumors—people seeing figures move past the corner of their vision, forklifts turning on by themselves, cold air pockets even in the dead of summer.

I chalked it up to overwork. Industrial environments do weird things to your brain—between the heat, the fumes, the echo of machinery, it's easy to see or hear things that aren’t there.

But then came the smell.

It started faint—coppery, almost metallic. Like rusted nails or dirty pennies. I only noticed it when I walked near the stain. The floor had been scrubbed a hundred times. But something clung there.

I mentioned it to maintenance.

They said it was all in my head.

One Friday night, the closing crew had gone home early. Only I remained—paperwork, as usual. The warehouse lights were on motion sensors, so by 11:30 p.m., I was the only source of light in the entire back half of the building.

My office faced the loading zone, just a few feet from the Spill Room.

That’s when I heard the forklift start up.

I froze. There shouldn’t be anyone in the building. I crept to the window, peering out over the shadows of pallets and crates.

The forklift was moving.

No driver.

Just slowly rolling backward—exactly how Reggie said Luis had done it.

I stood up and moved fast—maybe too fast—because as I turned the corner to head out the door, the engine cut off. The warehouse fell silent again.

When I reached the Spill Room, the forklift was parked exactly where it had been left hours earlier.

I laughed it off. Told myself it was a mechanical fault. Maybe the emergency brake wasn’t fully engaged. But I avoided that area for the rest of the night.

That weekend, I dreamed of blood.

It pooled on concrete, dark and sticky. I stood over a man screaming through his teeth, arm dangling like a snapped rope. And behind me, another me—identical but soaked head to toe in red—stood in the shadows, grinning.

I woke up choking on the taste of iron in my throat.

Monday morning, I found Reggie waiting for me by the lockers.

“You hear?” he asked.

I hadn’t.

“Security footage from Saturday,” he said. “Forklift moved on its own. Rolled across the Spill Room. Same damn pattern.”

“Where’s the video?”

“Deleted. Cameras glitched. Froze at 2:17 a.m.”

I frowned. “That’s the exact time I woke up choking.”

Reggie blinked. “What?”

I paused. “Forget it.”

He didn’t press.

On Tuesday, I stayed late again. Intentionally.

This time, I brought my phone. Set it up on a tripod facing the Spill Room from the safety of my office window. I hit record, sat at my desk, and waited.

Hours passed. Nothing.

Just the steady hum of ventilation fans and the buzz of fluorescent lights.

Then, at exactly 2:17 a.m., my phone died.

Not the battery—fully charged.

It just turned off.

And from the Spill Room?

The sound started.

Not a scream.

A whisper.

Dozens of them. Overlapping. Moaning. Saying the same thing over and over in a language I didn’t know.

Then the lights went out.

When they came back on—just a flicker, half a second later—I was no longer alone in the office.

Across from me stood a figure.

Tall.

Naked.

Blood dripping from a severed stump where one arm should’ve been.

Its other hand held my ID badge.

And its face?

Was mine.

I blacked out.

Woke up at home.

Covered in sweat.

My phone still dead.

I called in sick for the week.

On Friday, I went back.

Had to.

The warehouse was quiet. Day shift. Full sun outside.

I asked Reggie if anything weird happened this week.

He didn’t look up. “Nope.”

“Footage?” I asked.

“All wiped.”

I nodded.

Before I left, I walked to the Spill Room one last time.

The forklift was gone. Moved to another zone.

But the stain was still there.

Darker now.

And if you squinted?

It almost looked like a body outline.

Like someone had collapsed there, arms wide, blood soaking the floor around them.

My reflection in the polished surface seemed to smirk.

I haven’t gone back since.

But sometimes—especially near 2:17 a.m.—I hear engines in my dreams. And in the reflection of my bathroom mirror?

Sometimes I don’t blink when I do.