Calvin Ho

I’m just the night cleaner, but I think I’m the only one who hears it.

—-

I’ve always been a night owl. Pretty sure it started in college, when I loaded my schedule heavily towards the evenings. That meant I could stay up late wasting time online, chatting with my friends back home in another time zone for hours, and still make it to my first class at one in the afternoon feeling fully refreshed.

It was awesome.

Over the course of three years at school, this definitely had an impact on my sleep schedule, and I’m sure it did something to my circadian rhythms. I became used to waking up to a world already in motion: classmates chattering in the hallways, traffic outside my window, and the clinking of activity in the shared dorm kitchens. It also meant going to bed in absolute silence during the early hours, when the city quiets and you can stand in the middle of intersections just listening to the soft click of traffic light switches.

Year three was also when my scholarship money ran out. Living on campus had not done my wallet any favours, and I quickly cancelled my meal plan after discovering some amazing budget lunchbox spots in nearby Chinatown. (Mrs. Chen, I will love you forever and always.) So I found a job that could earn me some cash while fitting my strange vampire schedule: night cleaner at an old yacht club downtown called the Royal Oak Yacht Club.

I arrived at the front door at around 10 pm after a quick bus ride. The building was essentially a mansion. Its façade was made of large grey stone blocks with cozy bay windows that reminded me of the New York brownstones I had once seen on a travel vlog. Several chiselled stone steps led up to the entrance at street level, flanked by banisters of elaborately wound wrought iron capped with decorative tree motifs. The solid oak doors looked mighty heavy, stained with age. Above the left doorknob was a brass plate with intricate engraved text: “The Royal Oak Yacht Club”.

How long had this place been around? The entrance gave off an old-world energy, like something from a movie about a covert hotel for assassins maintained by a secret order. Before I could follow that thought too far, the door opened, and I was greeted by a pale, sullen-looking man.

This guy looked terrible. He wore an ill fitting black vest and slacks, paired with a stained white shirt. His bow tie was askew and his collar ruffled. A plastic nametag hung limply from his chest, dragging his loose fitting vest forward with its own weight so that the name “Steven” was barely visible. His face was gaunt, with sunken cheeks and tired eyes. His dry, short hair sat on his head like a pile of fallen pine needles. He moved slowly, the effects of sleep deprivation obvious. This guy needed a coffee badly.

“You the new night cleaner?” he croaked through dry, cracked lips.

“Yeah, that’s me, man.”

As soon as I answered, Steven handed me a folded uniform and a large brass ring of old-timey keys. There were about eight keys on the chain, some rusty, and the whole thing weighed nearly two pounds.

“Good. They should have emailed you the cleaning list already. Supply closet’s beside the stairwell on both floors.”

Steven was already out the door and halfway down the street as he wrapped up the world’s quickest and most unenthusiastic onboarding. Before I knew it, he had turned the corner, and I was left standing alone in the doorway.

I took a closer look at the keys. Most of them were heavy brass, but one of them seemed to be made out of wood with what looked like letters carved into the length of the key’s shaft. Cool. Another one of the more aged keys seemed to have pits gouged into it in a way that almost looked like teeth marks. It was probably just rust. I then pushed past the heavy doors and entered the building.

The foyer was a short hallway lined with red suede benches, lit by wrought iron sconces detailed with the same tree motif as the banisters outside. The receptionist’s desk was made of deep mahogany, and had pearl inlays along the border of the tabletop facing the visitors. Right behind the receptionist’s desk was a magnificent spiral staircase. It was made of a deep stained oak wood that seemed to flow from the second floor down to the first. The banisters were made of ovoid pillars that tapered seamlessly into the floor and rail, as if grown rather than built. The entire staircase was made of rounded organic shapes instead of harsh angles and looked almost as if it were moving, like an optical illusion. Real classy shit.

Sitting oddly among all this grandeur was a small dusty laptop on the desk. It was one of those old Thinkpads with the red nipple on the keyboard you see IT guys use. I took a seat on the leather swivel stool behind the desk, tossed my bag underneath, and popped open the laptop. Only four icons were on the dirty blue-green desktop: Map, Cleaning List, Camera Feed, and Guest Log.

Map
The map of the Royal Oak revealed that it was a straightforward layout: a central lobby with wings stretching east and west on both floors. The spiral staircase at the centre connected them all. Behind the building were the docks, where several watercraft worth more money than I would probably ever see in my life casually floated, racking up thousands in mooring fees. At either end of the building’s east and west wings were large event halls. On the second floor, each wing was lined with guest suites. The largest and most luxurious suites were located at on either end.

Cleaning List
The cleaning list was a spreadsheet with rooms on the left and employee names on the top. I noticed that several rooms on the second floor were already marked as “done” under Steven’s column. My responsibilities included meeting and event spaces 1-15 and the two event halls on either end of the first floor.

Camera Feed
When I clicked on this icon a popup appeared asking for an admin access code. I didn’t have one.

Guest Log
A quick glance showed that none of the suites were occupied. Not that it mattered. I was only responsible for the first floor.

Satisfied with the device and a little bored, I closed the laptop and started for the washrooms to change into my uniform. The next hour spent mopping and dusting was largely uneventful. However, each time I passed by the staircase I found my eyes drawn to the wood grain. There was something so incredibly pleasing to the senses about it, and the stairs drew my attention whenever I had even a peek of it in my vision. It began to slowly consume more and more of my attention each time I paused to stare at it, to brush my fingers over the material, until I found myself walking around it in a circle, taking it all in for a solid two minutes.

That’s when I heard it. A voice whispering. I knew it was a voice immediately, not a sound, not a noise, but a voice. I recognized it in the same way you’d hear your name called out in a crowd. Because that’s exactly what it was saying. My name.

Cold terror shook up my spine as I seriously considered just walking out of the job on my first day. While I froze in the absolute shock that took me, I listened. The sound seems to be coming from the second floor east wing. I waited for the voice again, unable to move.

Nothing.

I glanced at my watch: 2:13 a.m. I waited a few more minutes.

Still nothing.

The voice didn’t come back again that night.
Thoroughly rattled, I had somehow convinced myself that I was just hearing things, stressed out from my first day at a new work environment, and left around the crack of dawn.

The next day I heard it again. But this time I wasn’t as scared as the last. Instead, logic dictated that this was probably some sick newbie hazing ritual the older employees do to establish dominance. I wanted to ruin that for them and not give them the satisfaction of knowing how close to shitting my pants I was yesterday.

“Ha ha guys, real funny. Cut it out.”

I casually walked up the stairs towards the east wing. Along the way up I was again captivated by the beauty of the staircase; how elegant the curves and how alluring the woodgrain shifted in hypnotic ways as your eyes followed it while ascending the stairs. My attention was pulled away from the staircase when I reached the top and I slowly realized something uncanny.

The second floor didn’t mirror the first. Instead of a long corridor, it ended abruptly in a set of wooden double doors with twisted brass handles. That made no sense. The building was symmetrical. I’d seen the map. There should have been at least a dozen rooms past here. As I approached and pushed against these doors I realized they were locked.

That’s when I heard my name again.
Close.
Right on the other side of the door.

NOPE.

I turned and bolted. I ran out of the building without looking back, pedalled a share bike as fast as I could, and didn’t stop until I reached my apartment. Once safe behind locked doors, I called the club intending to tell them I would never be coming back to work.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service.”

As the automated message repeated itself again, a cold dread flooded my stomach and I began to panic. I searched for the number on the job listing I called to get the position and dialed it.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service.”

I threw my cellphone across the room in an absolute fit as my heart raced. I’m sure I heard a voice. I’m sure that the second floor was supposed to be identical to the first. I’m sure what I saw was physically impossible. And yet it was possible. Unless my memory was playing tricks on me what I saw had to be true. Sitting on my bed I played back the night’s events in my mind, careful to focus on anything I felt was out of place.

Something was wrong.

A fog filled my mind as I tried to recall certain parts of the mansion, as if my mind was actively forcing some memories out of my head. It was rather difficult recalling something that was missing from your mind, kind of like trying not to picture a pink elephant. I spent the next half hour sitting on the edge of my bed in total silence before I realized that I could not for the life of me remember what the staircase looked like.

How would I have reached the second floor if I didn’t go up some stairs? Maybe an elevator? But I don’t remember riding one or seeing one on the map. How would I have known that the second floor was strange without having gone up? Why on earth would I even have gone up there in the first place? My job responsibilities clearly stated that I did not have to clean anything on the second floor. Well, obviously I went up because of the voice.

The voice.

The one that called my name. That’s why I went up there.

My name.

What was my name again?

WHY DO I NOT REMEMBER.

---

I don’t remember returning to work. I don’t remember sleeping, or eating, or deciding to come back. But somehow, I did. And then I did again. And again.

The cleaning job became a monotonous affair. Same stubborn stains, same old dusty plants. Whoever keeps booking suite six needs to stop bringing soda. It’s a carpeted room and they obviously have the hand eye coordination of a toddler. As I continued completing my regular tasks, I took a moment to sit on one of the suede hallway benches to reflect.

It feels like I’d been cleaning this place for as long as I could remember. The place had a character about it that was almost alive. I looked at several group photos of club members hanging in the hallway. Starting with black and white mid 1800s photos on one end and progressing to the other end with modern colour photographs. You could almost feel the history of this place in the air. I rather enjoyed cleaning the luxury suites at the end of the west wing; the floating dust would catch the sunbeams that peeked in-between the heavy embroidered curtains in a dazzling way.

As I woke from my daydream I felt that something was wrong.

My shift should have ended hours ago. Where was my replacement? Why hadn’t anyone come? Someone should have obviously come for my shift by now, so I stood up and headed towards the stairway. An odd sensation gripped me as I saw a door where the stairway should have been. It was a familiar deep oaken wood frame, whose woodgrain seemed to shift and change as I got closer to it. With each step I felt a bit lighter. That was odd.

A couple steps more and I realized the lightness was not due to a lower gravity, but to an odd sensation of weakness. A couple more steps and I started to stumble. As I began to mentally process what was going on, my eyes squinted in response to a flash to my side. Again, it flashed as I reached my hand up to cover my eyes. Maybe the power went out and the emergency strobe lights turned on?

Squinting, I stepped forward and focused on the source of the flashing. It was the window. My mind could not comprehend what was happening for a moment. It looked like the sun was moving across the sky so fast it was flashing. Day became night then day again in mere moments, and by the time my eyes opened in horror with realization, the potted plants in the hallway had already begun to wither as if days had gone by without care.

I ran as fast as my aching tired legs could carry me towards the door. I had to get out of here immediately or I knew I would die. I felt myself dying. I felt sick. Weak. Like the recovery period of the worst flu you have ever gotten. After just a few more stumbling steps I fell to my knees, unable to stand upright. I crawled on all fours as fast as I could as the plants died around me and the whole world flashed with maddening speed.

My skin felt loose on my bones. My teeth ached. My hair itched and fell in strands across my fingertips as I crawled. Somehow I reached the door. Dragging myself upwards to turn the handle, I came face to face with a keyhole. When I instinctively reached down to grab my keys, I find nothing.

I desperately search my pockets for a key I knew did not exist. Fear sets its cold claws deep into me and I scream. I tear at my stained, loose fitting uniform vest. I rip the nametag from my chest and hurl it down the flashing hallway.

My nametag. My name.
I turn and face the keyhole directly and with all my remaining strength:

I call my name.