Security Footage Nightmare Haunts Night Shift
Terrifying Camera Glitch Reveals Dark Entity
Night shifts at Ravenwood Office Complex were supposed to be safe, boring, and painfully predictable. Ethan Collins had always believed that. In fact, he counted on it. Quiet nights meant easy paychecks and uninterrupted time scrolling through conspiracy forums — including creepy threads like The School Fear, Haunted Lessons — and occasionally pretending to review camera feeds.
Security work at a nearly empty office building wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. Ethan didn’t mind the isolation either — he often joked that social interactions drained his health bar faster than zombies in horror games. But if he had known what waited for him that night, he would've begged for annoying coworkers and awkward break room chats.
The clock read 1:57 a.m. when the world still seemed normal. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, monitors glowed with sterile hallways, and the vending machine hummed like it hadn’t contemplated mechanical suicide yet. Ethan sat slouched, stirring instant coffee that tasted like burnt sadness.
“Could've been a software engineer,” he grumbled. “But nooo, here I am, guarding printers and carpet.”
He didn't realize how much he’d soon wish it really was just printers and carpet.
At 2:14 a.m., everything changed.
Monitor 7 flickered — once, twice, then again. Ethan leaned closer. The camera feed blinked into darkness, returned, then blinked again. That alone was weird, since the security system was new, corporate-approved, and annoyingly expensive.
“Don’t do this tonight,” he muttered. “Seriously, be cool.”
Then the camera stabilized… and she was there.
A woman — or at least shaped like one — in a white, old-fashioned dress stood perfectly still in the hallway. Her hair hung forward like a curtain, hiding her face. No ID badge. No reason to be there. No movement.
Ethan stared. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Nope. No way you're real.”
He checked the timestamp. Live feed.
“Tom, if you hired someone to prank me dressed like a haunted bridal shop mannequin, I'm burning your lunch tomorrow,” he muttered into the walkie-talkie.
Static. No answer. Tom was off tonight anyway.
When Ethan looked back at the screen, the woman was gone.
He froze. His stomach sank like someone dropped a brick inside him.
That was the moment he should've walked out. Quit. Become a gardener. Anything. But protocol demanded he check the disturbance.
“Of course I have to investigate,” he sighed. “Horror movie logic. Good job, Ethan.”
He grabbed his flashlight, badge, and courage (what little he had), stepping into the hallway. The elevator ride felt like descending into a coffin. Lights flickered above, and Ethan prayed silently to every deity he could remember from pop culture.
The third floor was empty — too empty. The kind of silence that felt thick, like sound itself was afraid to exist. His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud.
“Hello?” he called. Bad idea. Immediately regretted it. “Uh, lost ghost lady? If you're… lost… I can… recommend a therapist?”
The lights flickered again. Down the hall, she appeared — suddenly, without motion, as if reality forgot to load frames and simply placed her there.
“You saw,” she whispered. Except she didn’t move. Her voice crawled through the air like smoke.
Ethan’s throat dried. “Saw what?”
“You looked.”
Then she shifted closer — not walking, but glitching forward like corrupted video data.
Ethan sprinted. Full panic. He slammed into the elevator and mashed the buttons like they owed him money. Doors shut. Something brushed the other side. A whisper followed:
“You will remember.”
Back in the security room, Ethan thought he was safe. But one monitor showed him — live — from behind. And behind him… the woman.
He screamed, turned, swung — nothing. But the world outside the building had dissolved into endless fog. Every exit blocked. Reality felt like a broken simulation.
“You cannot leave,” she whispered behind him.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke at his desk. Same time. Same monitors. Same cup. As if nothing had happened.
Relief lasted three seconds — until she appeared again. And whispered:
“You will never wake up.”
Then he vanished.
That was supposed to be the end. But horror rarely follows clean endings.
Two days later, someone else took the shift — Lucas Ramirez. New guy. Former military. Had that “nothing scares me, I eat danger for breakfast” attitude.
He barely lasted one night.
His first hint something was wrong? Ethan’s locker. Still full — wallet, phone, uniform jacket, untouched lunch. As if he never left. HR claimed Ethan “walked out mid-shift.” Lucas didn’t buy it.
Especially after he found a note tucked under Ethan’s keyboard.
Written in shaky handwriting:
DON’T WATCH CAMERA 7 SHE KNOWS WHEN YOU LOOK
Lucas snorted. “Ghost? Demon? Please. I’ve seen worse things than shadows.”
Bravado is cute. Ignorance is deadlier.
2:14 a.m. came. Lucas patrolled calmly. Until — Monitor 7 flickered.
A pale figure. Long hair. White dress.
Lucas leaned in. “Some junkie? You're in the wrong building, sweetheart.”
He zoomed in. The image warped. Her face pixelated like a corrupted file — then sharpened too fast. Eyes black. Mouth wrong. Teeth jagged like broken tiles.
Lucas stepped back instinctively. “Oh hell no.”
The lights dimmed. The room temperature dropped. Breath misted in the air.
“You saw,” she whispered.
Lucas reached for his firearm — only to hear the click of his holster… and find his gun gone. Completely gone. Like it never existed.
“You looked,” she said.
Lucas bolted for the door. Slammed into invisible glass like Ethan had. Pain shot through his skull.
He turned — slow, breath trembling — to face her appearing behind him. Not walking. Flickering into existence piece by piece like a corrupted hologram glitching into reality.
Lucas did the one thing Ethan didn’t:
He fought back.
He swung the chair. It passed through her — but the world rippled. The lights burst. Fire alarm shrieked. Sprinklers rained down — but the water froze mid-air.
The world froze.
Only Lucas could move. Only she moved with him.
“I don’t belong here,” Lucas growled.
“You do now.”
“No. I’ve seen death. This isn’t death.”
“This is watching.”
“What are you?”
“Correction.”
“Correction for what?”
“Those who see what should be unseen.”
“You mean… Ethan?”
She tilted her head — slow, unnatural, bones cracking audibly though she seemed weightless. “He watches now.”
“Where?”
She raised a pale, shaking hand — and pointed to the security monitors.
One screen changed.
Static. Then a room. Dim. Concrete. A figure sitting in a chair, head hanging low. Hair messy. Clothes dirty. Ethan.
He slowly lifted his head. Eyes hollow. Terrified. Mouth trembling.
He whispered clearly:
“Don’t look.”
Then — a hand yanked him into the darkness behind him. The screen snapped black.
Lucas fell to his knees. “How do I get out?”
“You do not.”
“You can’t trap me here.”
“You saw.”
He gritted his teeth. Tried to stand. But his legs felt heavy — like gravity suddenly had favorites and hated him.
“You do not leave,” she whispered again, voice echoing like thousands of broken whispers layered into one.
A chill spread across Lucas’s spine. The screens around him went static — except one. It showed the parking lot outside. Empty. Silent. But then…
A figure appeared on the feed.
Ethan.
Standing in the fog. Staring directly into the camera.
And behind Ethan — dozens of figures. Wearing business attire, janitor uniforms, visitor badges. Thousands of eyes. Silent. Staring. All unmoving. Like a living graveyard made of souls still trapped in routine.
Lucas screamed. The world blinked to black.
When morning staff arrived, Lucas was gone. His flashlight sat on the desk, still dripping with water that shouldn’t exist. His badge was snapped in half.
Security footage showed nothing except a flicker at 2:14 a.m. and Monitor 7 glitching.
The building wrote it off as “job abandonment.” HR shrugged. Cameras “malfunctioned.” Police never treated it seriously.
Ravenwood quietly hired another guard the next week.
Nobody lasted more than a night.
Finally, they stopped hiring. Outsourced everything. The security room remains — untouched, monitors on, lights always humming.
But at 2:14 a.m., Monitor 7 still flickers.
Sometimes it shows an empty hallway. Sometimes fog. Sometimes faces pressed against the screen from the wrong side.
And always, faintly, a whisper:
“You looked.”
They say if you visit Ravenwood at night and stand near the windows, you might hear muffled screaming. You might see pale figures wandering inside. And if you stare too long through the glass…
You might appear on Monitor 7.
The building isn’t haunted.
It's hunting.
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