The Custodian's Grudge

The brokerage office at Wall Street buzzed with the energy of ambition by day, a relentless hive of traders and brokers cloaked in tailored suits as they wielded their phones like weapons. Laughter and shouts echoed through the sterile halls, punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of keyboards—sounds of victory and defeat mingling in the air. But as dusk crept in, the frenetic pace faded, leaving behind an oppressive silence, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet and the distant hum of fluorescent lights.

In the shadows of this world, Henry Crast toiled as the night custodian. For thirty years, he had swept the floors of this temple of greed, his presence as invisible as the dust that settled in the corners. With each passing year, resentment festered within him, a dark seed that took root in the depths of his soul. He would watch with bitter eyes as his coworkers reveled in their victories, their laughter ringing hollow in his ears. They were the kings and queens of the financial realm, while he remained a mere servant, wielding a mop instead of a gavel.

As night fell, the office transformed. The bustling energy gave way to an eerie stillness, broken only by the sound of Henry’s footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. He leaned against a wall, the fluorescent lights casting a sickly glow over his gaunt face. With a twisted smile, he began his nightly ritual.

Henry had devised a cruel game—a revenge that he believed would make his coworkers pay for their indifference. Each night, he painstakingly rubbed his own excrement along the insides of their coffee mugs, leaving behind a grotesque signature of his contempt. He would pour a little of his own urine into the drinking water jug in the break room, watching with satisfaction as his coworkers unknowingly sipped from his tainted offerings.

In the weeks that followed, Jillian Hover, a bright-eyed intern, began to notice the odd tastes in her drinks. At first, she dismissed the peculiar flavor as a result of her own pickiness. But as the days turned into weeks, her curiosity morphed into concern. Something was amiss in the office, and she was determined to uncover the mystery.

One particularly bleak night, while she stayed late to finish a project, she overheard the faint sounds of movement in the break room. Jillian crept closer, her heart pounding in her chest. Peering through the glass window, her breath caught in her throat. There stood Henry, his back to her, his hands moving with a disturbing familiarity as he desecrated the mugs.

Horror gripped her heart, mingling with a twisted fascination. She had stumbled upon the dark side of her workplace—a secret that would shatter the fragile veneer of professionalism.

Jillian wrestled with her emotions. Should she report him? Expose his heinous acts to the world? Or was there another way? The idea of confronting him took root in her mind, fueled by a growing sense of justice.

The next day, she approached him under the pretense of gratitude. “Hey, Henry!” she called out, her voice bright and cheerful. “I just wanted to say thank you for all the hard work you do around here.”

He turned, surprise flickering across his face. “Uh, sure. No problem,” he muttered, his voice gravelly and low.

“I’ve noticed how hard it can be to keep this place running smoothly,” she continued, her eyes locking onto his. “It must be tough to be behind the scenes all the time.”

For the next few weeks, Jillian carefully nurtured a façade of friendship. She listened as Henry vented about his frustrations, his bitterness spilling forth like a poisoned well. He spoke of the years spent as a custodian, invisible to those he cleaned for, and the deep-seated resentment that festered within him.

Then Henry began to think to himself, *She’s different. She seems to care. Maybe I’m not so invisible after all.* 

Jillian feigned empathy, all the while formulating a plan. She would turn the tables on him. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and she intended to serve it with a flourish.

Her opportunity arrived when she announced a “farewell party” for him, claiming it was a gesture of appreciation for his years of service. The false camaraderie enveloped the office as colleagues crowded into the break room, unaware of the sinister undertones lurking beneath Jillian's cheerful façade.

The decorations were simple but elegant, a stark contrast to the morbid intentions behind them. Streamers hung from the ceiling, and a banner reading "Thank You, Henry!" fluttered in the artificial breeze of the air conditioning. She prepared a lavish meal, artfully arranged with the finesse of a master chef. In the center of the table, a beautifully roasted dish glistened under the fluorescent lights, enticing and fragrant.

As the party commenced, Henry arrived, his eyes scanning the crowd, surprised to find so many of his coworkers gathered in his honor. Laughter filled the air, and Jillian played her part well, engaging in lighthearted conversations while keeping a keen eye on him.

Then Henry began to think to himself, *This is nice. They actually care. Maybe I’ve been wrong about them all these years.*

“Henry, come over here!” Jillian called, waving him toward the table. His heart raced with confusion and excitement as he approached.

“Everyone, I want to propose a toast to our dedicated custodian, Henry Crast! Thank you for everything you’ve done for us!” Jillian announced, raising her glass.

Glasses clinked, and Henry smiled, a flicker of warmth lighting his eyes. But Jillian wasn’t finished.

With a chilling calmness, she stepped forward. “Henry, I want you to know that I understand what it feels like to be overlooked and disrespected. I’ve seen the way you’ve been treated, and tonight, I want to repay you in kind.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“Revenge is a dish best served cold, Henry. And I’ve cooked up something special just for you.”

Then Henry began to feel an unsettling sensation creeping into his mind. "What does she mean?" He turned his attention to the beautifully roasted dish in the center of the table. It looked mouthwatering, and he couldn’t resist. He took a generous portion, savoring the warm flavors as he chewed.

As he swallowed, a warm sensation enveloped him—a moment of bliss that quickly turned into something else. He felt a strange tingling in his limbs, but he brushed it off as excitement. He was finally being appreciated.

But then, a wave of nausea washed over him. He struggled to keep his composure, his vision blurring as the tingling turned into a more intense sensation, creeping into his body. Panic surged through him as he realized something was wrong.

“What’s happening?” he gasped, clutching the table for support. Jillian’s smile felt like a mask, hiding something sinister behind it.

“Henry, you’ve been served your own dish of revenge,” she said, her voice laced with calm satisfaction. “Enjoy the taste of your own medicine.”

As the words hung in the air, Henry’s body began to betray him. Each muscle refused to respond, and he tried to stand but found himself unable to move. The laughter and chatter of his coworkers became a distant echo, fading away as his world spun into darkness.

The guests stood in stunned silence, their earlier revelry shattered. Jillian's chilling words echoed in the room, a haunting reminder of the consequences of cruelty.

As Henry felt the effects of the poison take hold, his mind spiraled into darkness. He was powerless, forced to bear witness to his own downfall, a specter of his former self.

In the weeks that followed, the office buzzed with rumors of the night’s events. Henry became a ghost, lingering in the shadows, a reminder of the terror that had unfolded in the very place he once inhabited. 

Then Henry began to think to himself, *What have I done to deserve this?* The realization of his own actions weighed heavily on him. He had always believed he was invisible, yet now he was trapped in a nightmare of his own making.

Jillian, on the other hand, walked away, her heart heavy with the weight of her actions, yet satisfied that she had delivered justice in the most chilling of ways. She had become the architect of his downfall, and as she returned to her desk, she felt a strange sense of power coursing through her veins. 

As the lights flickered in the office, casting shadows that danced along the walls, the memory of Henry’s haunting presence lingered, a dark testament to the depths of revenge and the cost of hatred.