What would you do if you found yourself standing on the edge of something impossible? If the world you thought you knew twisted, just slightly, and the air grew heavier with a secret it wasn’t supposed to keep? Would you step forward, or would you turn away, pretending you never noticed the shift? What if you did ignore it? Could time transport you anyway? Away from everyone and everything you’ve ever known?
The Overton Building stood silent and still, its shadow cutting sharply across the empty street like a line drawn in the faint light of a fading evening. Nights like this, when the world holds its breath, you feel the edges of something else—something waiting. It dares you to step closer, to feel the walls pressing inward, holding their secrets too tightly.
The silence is not silence at all. It hums, a vibration too low to place but impossible to ignore.
Shadows swell, stretching unnaturally, twisting into shapes you cannot name. The air thickens, weighted with a pressure that sinks into your chest and makes every breath feel stolen. Then it starts—faint, almost imagined at first—a hum that travels along your spine, too deliberate to be the wind. It whispers, not quite words, not quite music.
Something is listening. Watching.
******
The Overton was scheduled for demolition in a month, but for now, Carl was tasked with cleaning it. He wasn’t thrilled about the gig; janitorial jobs weren’t usually his thing, but it was work, and work was scarce at the moment, so he would take what he could get. The building was massive, sprawling over six stories, with creaking floorboards and a lingering dampness that clung to the air. Carl told himself it was just another job, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the place.
It started small, as these things often do. Every night, Carl’s phone screen would light up on its own at 9:14 PM. It was always around this time that he would first notice the faint humming sound, a low vibration that seemed to follow him through the halls. Every night, he would pause, glancing over his shoulder, but nothing was ever there—just shadows stretched too far under the dim emergency lights. The sound seemed to trail him, a quiet companion as he dragged his mop bucket down the endless hallways.
But tonight, something felt different. By the time he reached the fifth floor, unease gnawed at him. He knew he’d spent at least an hour cleaning since his phone had lit up, but his clock stubbornly displayed 9:14 PM. His chest tightened. Was his phone malfunctioning? He definitely couldn’t afford another bill at the moment.
As he tinkered with his phone, the air seemed to shift—not in temperature, but more in weight. He brushed it off until he reached an office with a glass-paneled door. A nameplate read, “R. Merriweather, Manager.” As he pushed open the door, his mop hit something. It was a file folder, sitting neatly in the center of the room.
Carl frowned. He was sure he hadn’t seen it there earlier. It wasn’t dusty like everything else. Picking it up, he opened it to find a stack of typed memos dated April 7, 1937. He squinted at the faint print. The pages detailed staff instructions for an emergency protocol to lock the vault in the event of a robbery attempt, ensuring the safety deposit boxes were sealed until authorities arrived.
Shaking his head, Carl placed the folder on the desk and went to leave. But when he turned, the hallway outside the office was different. The buzzing fluorescents were gone, replaced by sconces throwing warm, flickering light. The walls, stained and crumbling only moments ago, now gleamed with fresh paint, and a red carpet stretched as far as the eye could see. The halls echoed with voices down the corridor—laughter, footsteps, the low hum of chatter.
The Overton was alive. It wasn’t possible.
He stumbled back into the office, his heart pounding. He tried to gather his breath as he noticed that the folder was gone. His mop and bucket, too.
“Um…Hello?” he called out, though his voice sounded small against the sudden liveliness of the place. He rubbed his eyes, his head spinning with confusion. As his hands fell into his lap, he realized, it was dark again.
Silent.
The lights above him buzzed faintly, the hum of earlier now absent. His mop bucket sat a few feet away, its soapy water rippling—though he hadn’t touched it.
The clock on his phone read 9:14 PM. His phone was definitely broken. He shook his head and got back to his cleaning. Maybe he was losing his mind, he thought. The idea made him chuckle.
As the night wore on, the strange occurrences became more unsettling. Doors he had left open were now not just shut, but sealed, their knobs, freezing under his touch. Small things felt like they had moved out of place, and loud bangs echoed throughout the halls, seemingly without warning.
The hum in the walls also grew louder. Morphing into something melodic, almost like a hymn sung in hushed voices from a distant room. Carl strained to listen, chills running up his spine when the sound sharpened into a word: “Run.”
It must have been midnight when the lights went out. Not that he could tell, since his phone still read 9:14pm.
Carl froze, holding his mop mid-swipe.
He couldn’t survive the Overton in the dark, he knew it.
When the lights came back, the hallway ahead of him was completely different. The cracked tiles were replaced by smooth marble. A brass elevator at the end of the hall gleamed as though it had just been polished.
A man in a sharp three-piece suit stepped out, glancing down at a gold watch before disappearing around the corner.
Carl’s chest tightened. He followed, his footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the space. Turning the corner, he saw the man enter the vault room—a heavy steel door with intricate engravings. But by the time Carl reached it, the man was gone. The vault door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit space. Inside, the air was cold and stale.
He stepped in cautiously. The walls were lined with safety deposit boxes, many hanging ajar. On the floor was an old ledger, its leather binding cracked with age. Carl knelt to pick it up, but the moment his fingers touched it, a jolt shot through him.
The whispers he’d been hearing all night grew louder, distinct now. “They locked us in,” one voice said. Another hissed, “We couldn’t breathe.”
Carl stumbled back, the ledger clutched in his hands. The room began to spin, the walls warping and bending as if the building itself were alive. He tried to run, but his legs felt heavy, his body sluggish. By the time he reached the hallway, the vault door slammed shut behind him with a deafening clang.
When he looked down at his phone, the clock read 9:14 PM.
The mop bucket was at his feet, its water perfectly still.
Carl’s breathing was ragged as he glanced back toward the vault. It was open again, the ledger sitting in its doorway like an invitation. But Carl didn’t move. He didn’t want to know what would happen if he picked it up again.
Instead, he turned and fled, the hum of the building following him all the way to the exit. But as he pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped outside, the air felt… strange. A delivery truck rattled noisily down the brick-paved street, its side advertising “Fresh Bread, 5 Cents a Loaf.” Women in funny hats strolled arm-in-arm, their skirts brushing the tops of polished oxford shoes. A boy darted past, gripping a yo-yo, its string snapping up and down as he weaved between the pedestrians.
There was no trace of the abandoned parking lot that has surrounded the Overton when he arrived.
Across the street, the clock tower read 9:14 PM, its hands unmoving as its faint glow illuminated the cobblestones below. Carl’s hand went instinctively to his pocket as his cellphone dinged. The familiar screen lit up, but the date stopped him cold.
April 7, 1937.
The phone slipped from his hand, landing with a hollow thunk on the cobblestones. He stood frozen, caught between the sharp clarity of the world around him and the distant hum still emanating from the Overton. Behind him, the building loomed, its shadow impossibly long, as though stretching to pull him back inside.
He turned back toward the building, his thoughts racing. How do I get back? The question clung to him, sharp and desperate. Do I have to go back inside? Pick up the ledger? He hesitated, torn between the safety of staying outside and the haunting pull of the Overton’s ghostly halls.
His thoughts shattered as his phone chimed faintly again—a sound so modern it jarred against the antiquated world around him. He turned sharply, his hand trembling as he reached for the device, hoping it could tether him to the life he knew. But as he raised it, the screen glowed with the impossible date: April 7, 1937…9:15 PM.
Had time restarted without him, leaving him behind?