It all started after the third layoff wave. The office felt… emptier. Not just of people—but of warmth. I had to stay late that Friday night to finish a report. The entire 9th floor was deserted, except for the flickering overhead light above my cubicle.
At 9:13 PM, the old printer behind me came to life with a loud whirr. I hadn’t sent anything to print.
It began printing a single sheet—slowly. The paper read:
“You should’ve left when they did.”
Thinking it was a prank, I crumpled the paper and tossed it. But another page started printing. This one had my photo—taken at that very moment—from behind.
There was no one else there.
Panicking, I unplugged the printer. The light above turned off. I reached for my phone—but the battery had drained, despite being full moments earlier.
And then I heard it—a low, dragging breath. Just behind me. I didn’t look back. I ran. I’ve never worked late again.
And here’s the worst part?
The next morning, the janitor found a copy of my resignation letter… printed, signed, and dated—by me.
I never wrote it.