The Trauma's Echo: Haunting Memories
A Woman Haunted by Buried Office Trauma
Rain streaked down the glass walls of the twenty-third floor, turning the city below into a trembling mosaic of distorted light. The storm outside mirrored the tension pressing against Elena Moore’s chest. She sat alone at her desk, fingers hovering above the keyboard, eyes unfocused. The office was nearly silent now, save for the distant hum of ventilation and the occasional creak of the building settling into the night.
Elena was used to overtime. As a young office worker clawing her way through the rigid hierarchy of corporate finance in downtown Chicago, staying late was not only expected—it was a silent test of loyalty. But tonight felt different. The air seemed heavier, thick with something unseen, something old.
She glanced at the digital clock glowing at the corner of her monitor. 10:47 PM.
“Too late,” she whispered. “Way too late.”
The words echoed faintly, as if the room itself had repeated them back.
Elena frowned and shook her head. Lack of sleep. That was all. She had been telling herself that for weeks now.
She saved her work and began shutting down her computer when a voice sliced through the silence.
“You okay, Elena?”
She flinched so hard her chair rolled backward.
Mark stood near the elevators, coat slung over his arm, his expression a mix of concern and fatigue.
“Sorry,” Elena said quickly, forcing a thin smile. “Didn’t hear you.”
“You’ve been here a lot lately,” Mark said, glancing around the empty floor. “You shouldn’t stay this late by yourself.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, though her voice betrayed her.
Mark hesitated, then lowered his voice. “This building… it gets strange after hours.”
He laughed immediately afterward, as if embarrassed by his own words. “Probably just old wiring and too much caffeine.”
Elena laughed too, though it sounded hollow even to her own ears.
When the elevator doors finally closed behind him, the silence rushed back in, heavier than before.
As Elena walked toward the exit, her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor. Each sound felt amplified. Passing the darkened conference room, she slowed. The glass wall reflected her image—tired eyes, pale skin, dark circles she could no longer hide with makeup.
She lifted a hand.
The reflection did not.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“No,” she whispered.
A second later, the reflection moved again, mirroring her exactly.
Elena backed away, breath shaking. “Get a grip,” she muttered, forcing herself to keep walking.
Outside, the rain had intensified into a relentless downpour. The city felt distant, unreal, as if she were moving through a dream. Every footstep behind her made her tense, every shadow stretched too long.
Her apartment was only a few blocks away, a small unit she had chosen deliberately. No memories. No history. A clean slate.
She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed.
“You’re safe,” she whispered, repeating the mantra she had practiced for years.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
That night, sleep came in broken pieces.
She dreamed of endless hallways with peeling wallpaper, lights flickering overhead. Phones rang somewhere in the distance, their shrill sound echoing endlessly. She ran, barefoot, her feet slapping against the cold floor, chasing the sound of a woman crying.
“Help me,” the voice sobbed.
Elena turned a corner—and woke up screaming.
Her sheets were soaked with sweat. The clock read 3:13 AM.
But the crying hadn’t stopped.
It lingered in her ears long after she realized she was awake.
The following days blurred together. At work, numbers on spreadsheets seemed to rearrange themselves when she wasn’t looking. Conversations drifted past her like radio static.
“Elena?” Jenna snapped her fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Elena.”
“Sorry,” Elena said. “I didn’t sleep well.”
Jenna studied her. “You look awful. No offense.”
Elena forced a smile. “None taken.”
That afternoon, an email appeared in her inbox.
No sender. No subject.
Do you remember?
Her pulse spiked. She stared at the screen, fingers trembling, reminded of stories like The Spirit Trap, Trapped with the Damned, where forgotten sins refuse to stay buried.
“Spam,” she whispered.
She deleted it, but the words burned into her mind.
That night, as Elena lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she heard a knock.
Three sharp raps.
Her body went rigid.
“Hello?” she called.
Silence.
The knock came again—louder this time.
Heart pounding, she crept toward the door and peered through the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
When she turned away, her phone buzzed in her hand.
You didn’t answer back then either.
She dropped the phone, memories surging violently to the surface.
A different apartment. Years ago.
Shouting.
A slammed door.
A ringing phone left unanswered.
“Stop,” Elena said aloud. “I moved on.”
But the apartment answered her with silence.
Over the next week, the disturbances escalated.
Her laptop turned on by itself in the middle of the night. Old photographs appeared on the screen—images she didn’t remember saving. A younger Elena. Another woman beside her.
Mara.
Her sister, the center of A Haunting Tale of Sisterly Bond that Elena had tried desperately to forget.
Elena’s reflection lingered in mirrors. Sometimes it smiled when she didn’t. Sometimes it whispered.
“You left me.”
She stopped sleeping altogether.
Desperate for human presence, Elena went to a bar near her apartment. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses anchored her to reality.
“Rough night?” the bartender asked.
Elena nodded. “You have no idea.”
When she turned, she froze.
A woman sat two seats away. Dark hair. Familiar eyes.
“It took you long enough,” the woman said calmly.
Elena’s throat closed. “I don’t know you.”
The woman smiled sadly. “You do.”
“What do you want?” Elena whispered.
“I want you to remember.”
The bar vanished.
When Elena blinked, the seat was empty.
That night, the truth finally broke through.
Mara. Her older sister. Brilliant. Unstable. The night of the argument. Elena locking herself in her room, headphones on, pretending not to hear.
The unanswered voicemail.
The morning after.
Elena collapsed on her apartment floor, sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” she cried.
The lights flickered.
“Sorry doesn’t change anything,” Mara’s voice echoed.
But Elena stood.
“I won’t run anymore.”
She found the box in her closet. Photos. Letters. A cracked phone.
She pressed play.
“Lena,” Mara’s voice said. “Please.”
Elena listened. Truly listened.
As dawn broke, the echoes softened.
Weeks later, Elena stood by her window, watching the city breathe.
“Goodbye, Mara,” she whispered.
Her reflection smiled—then finally let go.
The trauma’s echo remained.
But it no longer screamed.
It had been heard.
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