This story was sent in by Caleb R. from Savannah, Georgia.
I was working security at a small office complex on the outskirts of Savannah, the kind of place where every building looked like it had been built in the late nineties and never updated. My shift usually ran from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m., and most nights were mind-numbingly quiet. I’d walk the same routes, check the same locked doors, and pace the same carpeted hallways that smelled faintly like old coffee and printer toner. The motion lights in those halls were supposed to save energy by staying off until someone walked through, but at that hour, they almost never came on for anyone but me.
That night had started like any other. It was a little after one in the morning, which was usually when I did my slow final sweep. I remember feeling tired enough that I’d been counting the hours since my last real meal. The building’s AC had been running colder than usual, and the air felt dry. I rubbed my hands together as I walked, more out of habit than anything, just trying to stay alert.
The central junction—a four-way meeting point where all the hallways branched off—was the spot where I always paused to check the cameras through my phone app. I stood there for maybe ten seconds, scrolling through grainy feeds, when the motion light at the very end of the east hallway flicked on. It was far down, probably a good forty yards away, so the glow looked faint at first, like the hallway had exhaled.
That wasn’t unheard of. Sometimes an employee would stay late and forget to tell us. I figured it was just someone finishing up paperwork. I even remember thinking I should keep my footsteps quieter so I didn’t startle whoever it was.
I started walking toward the east hall, my boots sinking softly into the carpet. The air always felt still back there—colder, too, since the vents ran stronger in that wing. Halfway there, I heard a soft scrape. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a subtle shifting sound, like someone adjusting their stance or sliding a shoe.
I stopped and waited, listening. Silence.
I told myself it could’ve been anything. Carpet fibers rubbing. The building settling. Even my radio bumping against my belt. It was late, and your brain plays little tricks when you’re alone enough nights in a row.
I called out, just in case. “Security doing final rounds!” My voice echoed down the hall, warping a little, as if the space was slightly bigger than I remembered.
No answer.
I took a slow breath and kept moving. I was maybe fifteen feet from the end of the hallway when a light behind me clicked on.
It was the one I’d walked past not even two minutes earlier.
I turned quickly, expecting to see someone. Maybe a coworker. Maybe my shift lead wanting to surprise me. But the hallway remained empty, all the way back to the junction—one long strip of dead quiet carpeting.
For a moment I just stood there, trying to reason it out. Those sensors could be oversensitive. A moth could set one off if it flew high enough. At least that’s what I’d been told.
But then the light farther down behind that one flicked on too. A moment later, one to the right lit up in a different hallway, and then the first one in the east hall turned off as if something had moved away from it.
It felt like the lights were mapping out a path I couldn’t see.
I felt that small scrape sound again—or maybe I imagined it because I was already keyed up—but it seemed like it came from the east hall, the one I’d been heading toward. A slow, dragging sort of shift. Deliberate.
“Hello?” I tried again, but even I could hear the hesitation in my voice.
Nothing.
More lights blinked on, this time in a looping pattern—one near me, one further away, one off to the left, then dark again. It didn’t look random. It looked like someone was walking a circle around where I stood, keeping just far enough back that I couldn’t see them. I kept turning, trying to catch even a hint of movement. A shadow. A footfall. Anything.
The air felt suddenly warmer, like the vents had shut off, and I could hear my own breathing louder than I wanted to. I gripped the flashlight on my belt even though I didn’t turn it on. I didn’t want to break the silence more than I already had.
The sensor light closest to me blinked off, then the one further behind me clicked on. That was when a sharp instinct hit me—not dramatic panic, just the quiet certainty that someone was moving in that building. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.
I backed away slowly at first, then turned and walked toward the exit with a speed I hoped still looked professional on the cameras. I didn’t run, but my stride sure wasn’t leisurely. As I passed the lobby, the sensor in there stayed off. That part felt wrong to me for some reason. Like the building itself was holding its breath.
When I reached the glass doors, I pushed out into the humid night air and didn’t let myself relax until I heard the lock click behind me. The parking lot was lit by those tall, orange lamps that make everything feel like it’s underwater. I stood beneath the brightest one and finally let myself breathe normally again.
I called my shift lead and told him there was activity in the building. I didn’t give details at first—just said someone might still be inside, maybe hiding. He pulled up fifteen minutes later, and we did a sweep together. With two of us, it felt manageable. Predictable, even.
We didn’t find anyone. No signs of forced entry. No doors propped open. Nothing out of place. But every hallway we walked through had lights that switched off right as we approached and on again behind us, like the sensors were lagging or confused.
He shrugged it off. I didn’t.
I finished the shift, but I didn’t step back into the building alone for the rest of the night. And after that, I never trusted those motion lights again. There’s something unsettling about a hallway staying dark until the exact moment you pass by—like it’s waiting for you—or worse, like it already reacted to something else you didn’t notice.
Even now, whenever a motion light clicks on in an empty space, I feel that same quiet chill, wondering what set it off before I stepped into view.