Suzan,

I want this e-mail to remain between the two of us. I know you like to gossip and I saw that r/antiwork post you made about Charlie, but please, Suzan, don’t tell anyone about this e-mail. I don’t know who else to go to. You’re the only person whose private contact I have and if I went to HR I’d get fired.

Or worse.

Suzan, I saw something tonight. I stayed at the office after everyone had left and I saw something I was not meant to see. I saw something incomprehensible and mad and I am in danger. You’re the only one I can turn to. You’re the only one I can trust.

Suzan, the janitor threatened to murder me today.

He threatened to murder me and it is only under the promise that I wouldn’t tell a soul that he let me go. He let me go but I can’t stay silent.

We both know no work is ever done at the office. People just clock into Morana to drink and smoke and look busy. I’ve heard someone say that it’s just because we’re a regional office that’s used for tax breaks.

We’re not. I checked.

We’re the corporate headquarters of an airline that has daily flights in every major city in the world.

Suzan, have you ever seen someone call a customer? Have you, in the past six months, seen anyone do any work at Morana?

No. You haven’t.

That’s because we’re not doing any of the work. We’re just cover.

We’re just cover for what happens in the offices during the night. We’re just tiny pawns in something bizarre and dangerous and today I saw things as they are. If anyone else at Morana finds out that I saw what I saw I’m as good as dead. So please, Suzan, I beg you —

Don’t post any of this to reddit.

So, some guy from sales has a birthday party. We celebrate at the top floor, then celebrate a bit more at the bar across the street. By the time we get back to the office I’m real hammered. Heard that serious looking audit lady is back, so I hide under my desk to keep out of sight. I figure I’ll sleep it off and then wake up around five, go get something to eat and then go home.

I didn’t.

I woke up in pitch darkness curled up beneath my desk. I was still pretty hammered, but the moment I came to I knew where I was. I could also smell a familiar stench.

You know that supply closet full of rags on the second floor? The one that everyone complains about because it smells like ancient sweat? That smell. I could smell that stench inside of my cubicle.

Suzan, this is going to sound so absurd and insane. I promise this isn’t some sort of sick prank. I swear on my life that I’m not making this stuff stuff up.

There was a pile of rags sitting in my chair. It’s only thanks to the few rays of light from the streetlamps outside that I could see the thing, but I was certain. Sitting behind my desk, shaped like a man; sat a pile of those sweat-stained rags from the supply closet. They were typing.

It was typing.

The smell, the shock, the amount of tequila I drank for lunch — it all caught up with me. I needed to vomit. I needed to vomit but I was scared that the thing, that creature that was sitting behind my desk typing away at my computer — I feared it was sentient beyond office work. I feared that it would do something to me.

The air smelled like barf in a hot car, Suzan, but I stayed put beneath my desk. I stayed put and prayed for the world to return to normal or for me to wake up in my bed with the whole smelly rag affair just being a byproduct of my drunkenness.

My prayers weren’t answered.

For what felt like an hour I stayed curled up beneath my desk, holding down nausea and trying to control my breath. I feared that I would be stuck in my delirious predicament for the whole night, but then I heard the shrill notes of a flute.

Walking between the cubicles, with no rhythm and no set melody — someone was playing the flute. The moment the first notes of that cryptic song could be heard, the mess of rags that was typing at my desk stood up. With wet, squelching footsteps the being walked off into the hall.

Seizing my chance of escape, I crawled out from beneath my desk and took a peek out of my cubicle. The mess or rags was not alone. It was joined by other clumps of filth and sweat that shuffled their way to the center of the office. Walking among the cubicles, leading the procession of rag creatures was —

Suzan, I know this all sounds like a joke. I know what I’m describing is wholly insane — but I swear I’m not making this up. I swear this is true.

The janitor was leading the procession of rag creatures.

The same janitor that hangs around the parking lot in the mornings. The same one that gets real aggressive if you complain about the mess in the supply closet. That guy who’s a head taller than everyone else at the office and looks like he’s just left a warzone — that same janitor was leading the march of the rag creatures with a flute.

He played the flute off key and out of rhythm, but the creatures following the grizzled man were dancing, or at least bobbing, to the shrill sounds of his instrument. He was walking up and down the office in slow measured steps and seemed to be completely focused on his music. As drunk and nauseous and terrified as I was, I saw my chance at escape. When the flute playing janitor had his back turned to me I rushed towards the staircase out of the building.

I almost made it.

I almost made it to the staircase and out of that cursed office, yet rising to my feet was far too much for my drained body. Just before I reached the door to the stairs, I lost my balance and fell. I managed to hide behind one of the cubicles, but my landing had stopped the janitor’s playing.

Immediately, a flashlight was aimed in my direction. At first the janitor called out into the darkness with some semblance of sanity. He asked me to come out of my hiding spot, he told me that no one was allowed in the offices after sundown. At first his tone was reasonably civilized, but when I didn’t show, when I didn’t listen to his orders — the janitor lost his mind.

His steady voice gave way to a flurry of violent vulgarity. The janitor screamed about how he would crush my skull if I didn’t show, how he would cut up my body until I couldn’t be recognized. I was nauseous and drunk and drained, but hearing the sheer madness of the voice approaching me, I knew I had to run.

I leaped out of my hiding place and sprinted down the stairwell. I managed to make my way down the first staircase without stumbling but by the time I reached the second set of stairs my legs gave out. I fell down the stairs and before I knew it the janitor was on top of me.

He lifted me up by my shirt and slammed me against the wall. For a moment I was relieved that he had none of those terrible rag creatures in tow. My relief was misplaced. The janitor came down the staircase without the filthy demons, but he did have a knife — a big, dull combat knife that he pressed against my throat.

His hands were shaking and his voice was manic. The janitor was clearly panicked, but I had no doubt he would end my life then and there. He screamed about gutting me like a fish, about making sure that no one ever finds out what I saw. He raved and rambled about how my life was going to end because I had witnessed too much. The madness in his eyes, the blade, his fury — it was far too much for me to handle.

I was so scared I puked.

I puked on the janitor in fear and I am certain that it’s the only reason why I am able to write this e-mail right now. The vomit tempered him. He dropped me and continued to scream at me. His anger, however, seemed more focused on me dirtying his uniform rather than me interrupting whatever horrid ritual I had stumbled into.

Seizing my chance, I begged. I begged for my life and I promised him I saw nothing and I swore on everything that is holy that I would never tell a living soul what I had seen. At first he was not convinced, but with enough tears, enough begging and some dry-heaves he let me go.

When he let me go I thought that I would actually stay true to my word. I thought that I would get home and pass out and forget about the whole affair, but the longer I think about it, the more I consider what I saw —

Look, Suzan, this all seems insane. I know. I know getting this e-mail in the middle of the night must seem like some unfunny prank, but I swear what I saw is real.

The office we work in is a front for something horrid. Whatever work is done in the Morana offices during the night is a part of something terrible and inhuman. I don’t know how I’ll go into the office tomorrow. I don’t know how I’ll be able to pass by that supply closet and pretend it’s not connected to some terrible ritual. I don’t know how I’ll carry on.

Please, Suzan, tell me I’m not insane.