The first thing you notice when you start the night shift at Hoshino Logistics isn't the silence. It's the hum.
A low, constant vibration that seems to crawl up through the soles of your shoes, whispering through the metal floors, vibrating in the fluorescent lights above your head. It's not loud enough to complain about, but it's never quiet enough to forget.
That was the sound that greeted me on my first night.
"Don't overthink it," said Saitō, my supervisor. His uniform was unbuttoned at the collar, a coffee stain riding the edge of his name tag. "You'll stop noticing it after a week or two. Everyone does."
I nodded, pretending not to mind the sound that was already tunneling into my skull.
It was 11:42 PM. The start of my first shift.
Hoshino Logistics wasn't exactly glamorous — just a warehouse near the docks, where cargo came in on rusty trucks and left in shiny ones. The company handled overnight shipments for several major brands. Boxes of electronics, medical supplies, sometimes even refrigerated food crates. The night crew's job was to log, scan, and stack them in the right zones.
Simple enough. The ad had said: "Night Shift Clerk. Light labor. 230,000 yen per month + night bonus."
I'd just lost my previous office job in Tokyo — a downsizing, they called it — and I couldn't afford to be picky.
The warehouse was divided into six sectors, each named after a letter. Saitō showed me around quickly, his voice echoing off the high metal shelves. Rows upon rows of boxes towered up to the ceiling, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent strips.
"Stay out of Section F after midnight," he said casually, pointing down a corridor lined with black-and-yellow tape.
"Why?" I asked.
"Old system over there. The sensors are buggy. You'll just waste time trying to scan anything."
He said it too quickly, like he'd practiced the line.
I glanced down the corridor. It was darker than the rest of the warehouse, as if the light didn't quite reach that far. I could barely make out the edge of a shelving unit, stacked with crates that looked older than the others — dusty, unlabeled.
Something about that darkness felt… heavy. Like it was breathing.
Saitō clapped my shoulder. "Anyway. You'll get used to it. Log shipments, keep your radio on, and don't fall asleep. Cameras catch everything."
Then he left for the admin office upstairs, leaving me with the hum, the hum, the hum.
By 1:00 AM, I was halfway through my shift. The scanner in my hand beeped rhythmically with each label I passed over — beep, scan, log, move on.
I tried to focus on the pattern.
But every so often, I'd hear something in between the hum.
A faint tap tap tap, like fingernails on metal. Then nothing.
The first time it happened, I thought it was the wind.
The second time, I thought it was my nerves.
The third time, it came from behind me.
I turned around, half expecting to see Saitō or one of the part-timers sneaking up for a joke.
But there was no one there. Just the endless aisles of boxes.
Still, I could swear one of the boxes — a plain brown one on the middle shelf — had shifted slightly since I'd last passed it.
I shook my head. Lack of sleep, probably.
The air smelled faintly of metal and dust.
I moved on.
At 2:15, the lights in Sector C flickered.
Just once — a long blink — then steadied.
The scanner beeped red.
"Error. Unknown tag."
I looked down. The label was printed cleanly, no smudges.
Item code: HN-1132F.
Destination: (blank).
I frowned and checked the manifest. There was no 1132F listed.
That wasn't unusual; sometimes boxes came in mislabeled or early. I typed "Hold for manual review" into the terminal.
Then I noticed something strange. The air around the box was cold.
Not cool — cold. Like the kind of cold that seeps through your clothes in winter.
My breath fogged slightly as I exhaled.
That's when the radio crackled.
"...Hello… Sector C, respond."
It was Saitō's voice, but it sounded distant, warped by static.
"Yeah, I'm here," I said, pressing the button. "Lights just flickered. Everything okay?"
Static.
Then a long pause.
Then: "Don't touch anything unlogged."
"Unlogged? You mean—"
The radio cut out.
I waited a few seconds, but the line stayed dead. I put the scanner down, rubbing my arms to shake off the cold.
When I turned back, the box was gone.
I blinked.
The shelf was empty.
I checked the floor, the aisle, the next shelf down. Nothing.
It couldn't have fallen; there wasn't even a dent in the dust.
Just empty space, like it had never been there at all.
I took a slow breath. My hands were trembling. "Okay," I muttered. "Okay. You just misread the label. Maybe it was in the next row."
I walked down the aisle, scanning each shelf.
No 1132F.
At the far end, a motion sensor light flickered on in Section F — the restricted one.
A shape moved just beyond its reach.
Tall. Human-sized. Still.
The hum grew louder.
I radioed again. "Saitō, you there?"
Nothing.
"Hey, uh… someone's moving near Section F. You said it's off-limits, right?"
Still nothing.
The figure shifted slightly, like it was watching me.
Then it stepped back into the darkness and vanished.
I should've left it there. Should've gone back to the desk, written a report, waited till morning.
But curiosity — or maybe something else — tugged at me.
I walked toward Section F.
The yellow tape at the entrance had been peeled halfway off, curling at the ends.
Inside, the lights were dimmer, almost blue. The shelves here were older, dust caked on the beams.
Some of the crates were stamped with dates from the early 2000s — 2003, 2004, 2005.
Others had no labels at all.
That's when I saw it again: HN-1132F.
Sitting neatly on a low shelf, as if it had always belonged there.
The box looked… wrong.
Not visibly damaged, but slightly off.
Its proportions were just a little too perfect, its surface too smooth, its tape sealed with no visible edge.
It looked more like a photograph of a box than a real one.
Something inside it shifted.
A soft thump — like a hand pressing against the cardboard from within.
I stumbled back. My scanner slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a clatter.
The sound echoed down the aisle. Then, from somewhere deeper in the dark, another sound answered — a dragging noise, slow and wet, like something heavy being pulled across concrete.
I turned and ran.
My boots pounded against the floor, my breath coming in ragged bursts. The hum was louder now, too loud, almost deafening — it felt like it was inside my skull. I didn't look back until I reached the main floor.
The motion sensors above me blinked back to life. The normal lights returned. The hum softened.
Everything looked… normal.
When Saitō came down at 5:00 to check the logs, I didn't say anything. I just handed him the scanner and said I'd finished my rounds early.
He didn't ask about the radio. Didn't ask why my hands were shaking.
Just nodded, checked a few boxes on his clipboard, and said, "Good work. Most people don't last their first night."
As I left the warehouse, I glanced back one last time.
Through the small glass window on the door, I could see the aisles stretching into the dim light.
At the far end — Section F — a faint red glow pulsed from the shadows, like a heartbeat.
And beneath the hum, just barely, I heard it again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.