Midnight Shifts

Marlo 

The weather outside was unnatural. A freak Antarctic blast had slammed into Port Phillip Bay, burying the coastal campus of Monash University under a heavy, blinding snowstorm. The wind against the reinforced glass of the athletic centre.

I was shivering, my fingers numb inside my rubber gloves. But the cold wasn't what made my chest tight. It was the memory of last night.

Jarrah’s voice still echoed in my ears. That was the most terrifying part. After trapping me in his study with a decade of his dark obsession, he had simply smiled, unlocked the door, and told me to run. Was it a game to him?. A predator giving his prey a head start.

I should have never come back. I should have packed my bags, grabbed Aunt Siobhan, and fled Melbourne. But the harsh, humiliating truth of poverty is that it traps you long before a monster ever could. The heating bill was three weeks late. Siobhan’s cough was getting worse, and her pharmacy tab was maxed out. I couldn't afford to lose this cleaning job. I had no choice but to walk right back into the lion's den.

The snowstorm had canceled all practice sessions, sending the elite students back to their houses and mansions.

I pushed my heavy cleaning cart down the long, empty locker room, my stomach tossing with bitter resentment. Discarded gear was scattered everywhere. Custom ice skates that cost more than my monthly rent were carelessly tossed onto the wet floor. Designer winter coats were dumped on benches like worthless rags.

I picked up a stray Rolex watch left sitting on a sink counter, the silver band gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Whoever owned it probably wouldn't even notice it was missing for days. I hated them for it. I hated how easy it was for them to breathe, while I spent every second suffocating under the weight of survival.

I carefully set the watch inside the lost and found box, swallowing the lump of anger in my throat. I couldn't afford to be angry. I just needed to finish my shift and go home.

Because of the storm, my supervisor had reassigned me to the deep underground corridors of the facility. The restricted zones. These were the tunnels that connected the locker rooms to the private VIP parking garage. The air down here was smelling of damp concrete and heavy machinery. The flickering overhead lights cast long, distorted shadows that made my heart race.

Every time the wind battered the building above, the underground pipes groaned. I kept looking over my shoulder, convinced I was going to see Jarrah’s massive silhouette blocking my path. My hyper vigilance was exhausting. Every shadow looked like him. Every scrape of my mop sounded like his heavy boots.

I stopped near a large ventilation unit to catch my breath. I leaned against the damp wall, closing my eyes for just a second.

Clink.

My eyes snapped open.

The sharp metallic sound echoed in the quiet tunnel. I froze, my grip tightening on the wooden handle of my mop. I held my breath, listening. Nothing but the low hum of the generator.

I slowly turned my head. On the floor, just a few feet away from my cart, lay a key.

It hadn't been there a minute ago.

I looked up. Directly above me was a rusted metal maintenance ledge, sitting flush against the high ceiling in the shadows. Had someone been up there? Were they watching me right now?

"Hello?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

Silence.

My heart pounded as I stepped forward and knelt on the cold floor. I picked up the key. It was heavy, made of tarnished brass, with intricate, old fashioned teeth. It didn't belong in a modern sports facility that ran entirely on digital keycards and thumbprint scanners. This was a key meant for an old, heavy lock.

The metal felt warm against my palm. Like it had just been held by someone else.

A fresh wave of panic washed over me. I needed to leave. Now. But as I stood up, my eyes traced the length of the dark, narrow tunnel leading further underground.

At the very end of the corridor, barely visible in the dim lighting, was a door.

It wasn't a standard grey steel fire door. It was heavy, dark wood, framed in tarnished brass. Unmarked. Hidden completely out of sight from the main facility layout.

My chest heaved. Every instinct told me to run back to the surface. But the same dangerous curiosity that had doomed me in Jarrah's study was pulling me forward. The key in my hand felt like a magnet, dragging me toward that unmarked door.

I walked down the corridor, my footsteps completely silent. When I reached the door, I hesitated. My hand shook violently as I raised the key and slid it into the lock.

It fit perfectly.

I didn't even have to force it. It turned with a smooth click.

I swallowed hard, wrapping my fingers around the handle. I pushed the door open.

The room beyond was pitch black. But as my eyes adjusted, the faint glow of several computer monitors slowly illuminated the space.

It wasn't a storage closet. It was a massive surveillance room.

Dozens of screens covered the far wall. But they weren't showing the ice rink or the athletic center hallways. 

The mop handle slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly to the floor.

The screens were showing live, high definition camera feeds of my apartment. My kitchen. My living room. Even the dark corner of my bedroom. And on the largest monitor in the center, Aunt Siobhan was sitting on our worn out couch, sipping tea, completely unaware that a masked man was standing silently in the shadows right behind her chair.

Then, the door clicked shut behind me, locking me inside the dark room.