Fiction.

Christine Henison jerked. Ten cups of coffee after quitting time, she was drooping like a limp flower across her desk. Her fingers were numb with typing and the glare of the words on the page drilled into her head. Grimacing, Chris sat up straighter and took a deep gulp of coffee, emptying her mug. The office was ghostly so late at night. The sound of her breathing seemed to fill the entire wasteland of empty desks. Papers fluttered as the one rotating fan inside the wide newsroom sent its spray of air across one desk after another. Brain-dead, Chris stared blankly at her article. It bored even her. No one would read it, she was convinced of that. Or if they did they had no taste. Did anyone care about such mundane things as this? She cast a longing glance at the Vietnam conflict article that Harry Arnold had pinned up onto Mr. O’Neil’s gigantic bulletin board. She scowled at her own work, which simply would not achieve the tang of an interesting story, no matter how late she stayed to work on it. Sighing, she stood. No use falling asleep again, so it was back to the coffee pot. A sound echoed quietly through the hot office, startling her. It was clearly the sound of someone walking. The steps stopped as soon as her own did, making her mouth go dry. Who else was here so late? No one should have been, not even her. Everyone else had met their deadlines and left long ago. The work was done for the day except her own dry article.

“Harry?” She called, imagining that her playful coworker had stayed late for the express purpose of spooking her. Harry was a nice guy, but lately his flirtations were becoming borderline disturbed. She frowned. “I know it’s you Harry.”

The footsteps started again, a slow unsteady shuffle. Harry didn’t walk like that, even if he was trying to scare her. Suddenly Chris felt nausea creep into her stomach. The wind from the fan blew at her skirt, tickling her legs. “Harry?” Shhhh-clop. Shhhhh-clop. Shhhh-clop. The steps continued. Chris hurried towards the wall, groping for the light switch. She couldn’t find it behind the mass of papers tacked up everywhere. Her tiny desk light was a solitary star in a vast dark sky. The footsteps stopped. But now she could make out the faint sound of breathing behind the whiz of the fan. The breaths were low and rasping, as if the person making them had not stepped outside for a very long time.

“Who is it?” Christine was horrified by the shrill sound to her own voice. It was halfway between a whine and a scream. “Who’s there?” The steps began again, faster this time. Shhh-clop, shhh-clop, shhh-clop! It was a limp, that’s what it was. Turning, Christine pressed her back up against the wide office window that overlooked New York City. The sweat from her palms fogged the window so that the lights outside twinkled and puffed. “Who are you?” She whispered again as a shadowed figure stooped towards her. In her hand Christine felt warmth, as her fingernails dug into her skin.