This was a while back… well, not that long ago, really. Maybe five years, maybe six. You know Bangbang Intersection in Gangnam — there's an office building somewhere near there, and this is a story I heard from someone who used to work inside it.
They said they couldn't give me their name. What if someone who knew them happened to hear it, they said. But they were shaking so badly while they told it that every word burned itself into my memory.
They worked in IT, or something like it — the kind of job where late nights are just part of the deal. That evening everyone else had left right on time, and they were alone, finishing up a report. Past eleven, they said. Barely any traffic sounds from outside. Only a couple of fluorescent lights left on, leaving the corners of the office sunk in shadow. The building had a split-level layout, with a railed mezzanine that looked straight down over the floor below.
So there they were, eyes fixed on the monitor, when a sound came from up above. A creak. Like old timber groaning under a weight it couldn't quite bear. At first they figured it was just the building settling — the place was old enough. But then the sound kept coming. Evenly. Creak… creak… creak… Like something hanging there, swaying slowly back and forth.
They looked up.
At that railing…
Something was hanging from it. A shape. The shape of a person. Something coiled around the neck, feet dangling a hand's width off the floor, the whole body swaying in that slow, patient rhythm. The creaking was the wood of the railing, straining under the weight.
They tried to scream but their throat wouldn't open. You need breath to scream, and the breath wouldn't come. They just sat there with their mouth hanging open, staring.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
The shape raised its head. It looked down at them. Then it lifted one arm and reached out — slowly, slowly — stretching it downward. Reaching. Whether it was asking for help or beckoning them closer, they couldn't say. But the hand — the fingers were too long. No human hand has fingers like that. And there in the dark those fingers kept extending downward, downward, stretching longer and longer as if they would never stop…
They have no memory of how they got out of the building. When they came back to themselves they were standing on the pavement outside. Phone still on the desk, bag still on the chair — they couldn't bring themselves to go back in. Just flagged down a taxi and went home.
The next day they mentioned it to their coworkers, and the coworkers said: we told you, didn't we — how many times did we tell you not to stay alone in there at night. That railing. A long time ago, someone actually…
That's where the story stopped. The coworker wouldn't say any more.
I don't know the full truth of it. I couldn't even tell you exactly which building it was. But here's what they told me: after that night, they never worked late again. Not once. Said that even a fluorescent light flickering in an empty office was enough to make their heart drop straight through the floor.
If you hear that creaking, just leave. Don't ask questions. Don't look.
If you've already looked — it's too late.
