The Shelter: You’re not safe here

​​Serene knew that working at the women’s shelter wouldn’t be easy. The stories of the women and children who came through the doors were heartbreaking, and the atmosphere in the shelter itself could be suffocating at times. Many of the women had endured unimaginable trauma—some old, some young, many with children in tow. It wasn’t uncommon for the workers to hear the screams of kids, their cries cutting through the night as their mothers lost control, often taking out years of abuse on the innocent souls who shared their pain.

The shelter was old, situated in a nearly abandoned part of Norfolk, Virginia, that most people avoided. The building held its own kind of sadness embedded in its cracked walls and peeling paint. But it was more than the job's emotional toll that had been weighing on Serene lately. Strange things had been happening around the shelter since her friend Janice quit.

It wasn’t until the middle of October that Serene learned why. Janice had gone outside to take out the trash. When she returned, her eyes were wide and her hands shook uncontrollably. Janiche handed in her resignation the next morning without another word.

Serene overheard snippets of gossip from a few of the older staff members: something about shadows moving that shouldn't have been there and whispers that crawled up her spine in the dead silence of the night. Janice swore that when she looked back at the shelter that night in the parking lot, there was someone—something—peering at her from the top-floor window of the shelter. The top floor, which had been unoccupied for weeks.

Tonight, Serene was alone, closing up for the night. The shelter had been particularly chaotic that day with ten new residents checking in, four with children in tow. The phone had been ringing off the hook from support services calling begging to see if they had any beds available. One of the residents, Miss Tracey, had been wandering the halls in her old, tattered nightgown, refusing to shower and muttering about her lost doll. The other workers didn’t know if these mutterings were the result of too many drugs or simply dementia. Finally, by 9 PM, Serene was able to coax Miss Tracey back in her small room, shutting the door behind her as the old woman stared up at her ceiling in bed. 

The shelter was falling apart, built in the 1970s before Reganomics shuttered many social help programs across the country. The linoleum was cracked and filthy, the windows were old, single-paned, and grimy from years of neglect, and drafty air found its way through every crack in the white brick facade. Worst of all, the shelter had no working security cameras or alarm systems. When Serene started working night shifts at the shelter last month, she asked her boss what the protocol was in case someone tried to break in. This was a real problem, considering many of the women were fleeing crazy, abusive ex-husbands and boyfriends who were willing to beat down the old sliding doors to get to their victims, some brandishing guns in the process. Something about tonight was different, though. The air was heavier; the shadows were deeper.

Now the last of the residents were already in their rooms, settling in for the night. Serene did her final rounds downstairs, checking to make sure the doors were locked, the lights dimmed, and everything was in place for the night shift.

Her last task was to head upstairs, to check the empty rooms where new residents would stay. The top floor was always quiet at this time of night - too quiet.

As she reached the entrance to the stairwell, the dim lights flickered once, then steadied. She hesitated, her heart beating faster than usual, but she wasn’t about to let fear take over. Janice had only worked at the shelter for a few weeks and had probably just scared herself—nothing more. Right? 

But halfway up the stairs, Serene froze. There was a voice—a low, raspy murmur—coming from above. Her brow furrowed as she tried to place it. All of the rooms were empty upstairs, and none of the residents should have been up there. No one should have been.

She stood there for a moment, listening. The whispering grew louder, and now it wasn’t just one voice. It sounded like a conversation. 

Serene’s blood ran cold. The rational part of her brain tried to convince her that maybe one of the women had wandered upstairs. Maybe some kids had escaped their mothers and snuck off to the top floor to play.

But deep down, she knew something wasn’t right. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, she forced herself up the remaining steps, her hand gripping the railing tightly. The moment her foot hit the top step, the voices stopped. Dead silence filled the hallway.

Serene’s stomach twisted in knots as she approached the door to room 13. It had been closed for months after the last resident abruptly left one rainy night. Rumors spread about strange noises at night, of things moving around when no one was looking. The rest of the staff had laughed it off—except for Janice.

She reached the door and paused. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard she was sure whoever—or whatever—was inside could hear it. She placed her hand on the knob, turning it slowly, trying not to make a sound. Her hand trembled as she pushed the door open, the hinges creaking in protest. The room was dark, only the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the thread-bare curtains. It was empty. But something was off.

The room was freezing, far colder than the rest of the building. And then she saw it—on the far wall, near the old dresser. A shape. A shadow that didn’t belong to her.

Serene blinked, convinced her mind was playing tricks on her. Surely, this vision was just a mote of dust trapped under her contacts, an eyelash in her eye. But it didn’t move when she did. It stayed there, standing tall, almost humanoid but wrong, its edges shifting as if it were made of smoke.

Her breath caught in her throat as the whispering started again, louder this time, as though it were right behind her. Slowly, she turned her head. 

The room was still empty. But she felt it now—something was watching her. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to pulse, shifting toward her as though they had a mind of their own.

With a choked gasp, she stumbled back toward the door. Her foot hit something solid, and she looked down. A small, dirty doll lay on the floor, its eyes staring up at her, one cracked and dull. It hadn’t been there a second ago.

Panic surged through her as the voices rose to a fever pitch, echoing in her ears. The shadow on the wall was growing, stretching across the ceiling like a dark web.

Serene ran. She didn’t care if she was imagining things or if it was real. The oppressive feeling chased her down the stairs, the voices following her until she slammed the door to the stairwell behind her.

Breathing hard, she leaned against the wall, her hands trembling. It was quiet again. Too quiet.

A soft laugh cut through the silence. Serene’s head snapped up, her eyes locking onto one of the long-term residents standing at the base of the stairs, her wide, unblinking eyes fixed on her. 

“They don’t like it when you go upstairs at night,” the woman said, her voice low and mocking. “They don’t like to be disturbed.”

Serene’s blood ran cold. The woman’s smile widened, her teeth glinting in the dim light.

The shelter was haunted, not just by the living but by something darker—something that fed off the pain and suffering within those walls. The innocent workers had no idea what it was really like in there, especially at night. But now, Serene did. 

And she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon.