Aisle 19

I look at my watch. It’s 10:06 PM.

Shit, I’m late for my shift again.

I swear, this work is killing me. Every day all I do is move boxes from one end of the store to another. Today, like every other day, my shift started promptly at 10:00 PM, but of course I only clock in at 10:06 PM. The store is almost completely silent except for the low hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. In a few hours Joan, Noah, and Nate will start their shifts too. The night shifts at Ikea are not glamorous, but they pay the bills, I guess.

I used to get freaked out by the towering furniture, the long dark aisles, and all the throw pillows that for some reason resembled faces, but now I just scoff and pick up one box after another. And they say night shifts mess with your head.

It’s not even the darkness that gets to me. It’s the way everything looks almost real, but not quite. It’s the way I see customers from my periphery, shopping, laughing. It’s the way I sometimes can’t find the exit.

I always do, of course. I’m just a little tired. When was the last time I slept?

I started at Ikea a week ago. Ten to six. No customers, no noise—just me and the soft hum of industrial lighting, pushing carts through fake kitchens and quiet bedrooms.

It was fine, until today. Today, I heard someone’s voice.

At first I thought it was Joan. A tall, stocky woman who never acknowledges me. She’s rude, but she gets the job done, so I don’t mind too much. I’m sure this wasn’t her voice. Not that I remember what it sounds like.

No, the voice I heard was what people in the old days would call a siren. It was low, almost husky. It was familiar.

“Jonas… What time...?”

It called me. It stopped me cold. Where have I heard that voice before?

I followed it. Past Aisle 14. Past the lighting section where bulbs buzzed like flies. Toward the back, where the showroom melts into warehouse.

“Jonas… What time is it?”

It wasn’t a sound from the store—it was too warm, too intimate. It was her voice. I couldn’t remember her name, but I knew her.

The hallway narrowed as I moved deeper into the back of the store. I could feel the air shift—warmer, somehow. Heavier.

The voice had gone silent.

I stopped at the edge of Aisle 19. I peek into it.

The bedroom setup was the same as always: low, fake moonlight cast from a dusty lamp; a bed no one had ever slept in, perfectly made. Or maybe someone had—there was a faint indent in the bedsheet on the edge of the bed. That was new.

I took a step in.

A cold breath passed by my ear.

I turned. No one. I’m just tired.

“JONAS, NO! WHAT TIME IS IT?”

This time the voice shrieked, piercing my eardrums. I doubled over in pain. A clock? Fine—if this eerie bitch wants me to look at a clock, then I’ll go to an aisle where they sell them!

I keep walking, passing more aisles. Just rows of identical dressers, each with a mirror reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors. My reflection looked pale. I blinked. My reflection didn’t.

Weird. My mind is playing tricks on me.

“Joooo-naaaas... Nooo…”

Such a sweet, soothing voice. It hypnotized me. I smiled for a second, then I came to and turned behind me. The aisle was empty.

A laugh escapes me—short, nervous. “Weird,” I say to no one.

I keep walking. But something’s pulling at me. A feeling. Like I’m forgetting something important.

I turn into Aisle 19.

It’s just another bedroom display. Soft lighting. A neatly made bed. A lamp glowing blue. Boxes lying out of order on the floor.

I thought I put them away.

Then, I swear, just for a second, I see someone there. On the floor, by those boxes. A shape.

I blink. It’s gone.

The air feels heavier here. The silence is deeper. I’m supposed to move some boxes into this aisle from the storage. Duh. Here I am, wasting time, listening to some hallucinations.

I head back to the front. How much time did I waste? I look at my watch.

10:06 PM.

Shit, I’m late for my shift again. I better clock in.

I swear, this work is killing me.

I start every shift the same way. Swipe my badge. Walk through the sliding doors. The store is dead quiet except for the hum of overhead lights and the buzz of air vents echoing through the rafters.

Night shifts at Ikea are strange, sure, but peaceful, mostly. Rows of frozen smiles on showroom mannequins. Mock kitchens full of empty drawers. Perfect little lives, on display.

It used to scare me, but it doesn’t anymore.

I pick up some boxes and start moving them to Aisle 19. My God, can I clock in on time just once in my life?

I put the boxes down by a mirror. I stare at my pale reflection. It blinks.

I’m so tired, I’m seeing things now.

A woman’s voice. Low, smooth—like someone singing from underwater.

“Jonas, no… What time is it?”

I hold my breath. The voice is beautiful. Warm. Familiar.

I run toward it, toward the front of the store. I see customers in my periphery, see my coworkers, but I know my brain is tricking me.

I don’t even care. I have to find her.

“What time is it, Jonas?”

I stand by the storage door. She’s not there.

Time? I look at my watch.

10:06 PM.

Shit, I’m late again. I better clock in and start working.

I swear, this work is killing me.

Every day all I do is move boxes from one end of the store to another. Today, like every other day, my shift started promptly at 10:00 PM, but of course I only clock in at 10:06 PM.

The store is almost completely silent except for the low hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. A buzzing like static, or whispering through walls.

In a few hours, Joan, Noah, and Nate will start their shifts too.

The night shifts at Ikea aren’t glamorous, but they pay the bills. I guess.

I used to get freaked out by the towering furniture, the long dark aisles, and all the throw pillows that—for some reason—resembled faces. But now I just scoff and pick up one box after another.

Still, sometimes the mannequins seem too still. Like they’re waiting for something.

Sometimes I hear customers laughing in the distance, even though the store’s closed. I tell myself it’s just echoes. From earlier shifts, maybe. Or a speaker system glitch.

I don’t remember how long I’ve worked here. A week? Longer?

When was the last time I slept?

I turn into Aisle 19.

It’s just another bedroom display. Soft lighting. A neatly made bed. A lamp glowing blue.

Boxes lie scattered across the floor—out of order, crooked.

I thought I put them away.

Then, I swear, just for a second, I see someone there. On the floor, by the boxes. A shape.

A body.

I blink. It’s gone.

I look into one of the mirrors and see the shape there.

“Jonas, no… What time is it?”

It’s a beautiful voice. It’s haunting.

It doesn’t match the face.

Joan’s rough face, with her short, unwashed hair, twisted into a scowl. Crying. Screaming.

“What time is it?” she asks sadly. She is sitting on the edge of the bed now.

Something about the way she says it turns my stomach. Like she’s not asking about the hour. Like she’s asking something else entirely.

“JONAS, NO!” she screams now.

The mirror has turned into a moving picture. I glance into it. My reflection lags a beat behind me. My face is pale. Hollow. I’m lying on the floor and my name tag is upside down.

The heavy boxes are scattered near me. A young man has been pushing on my chest over and over. He switches with another man.

They keep going for ten minutes… twenty…

“What time is it?” Joan says, softly now, to no one.

“Time to call it,” the man says.

“Time of death, 10:06 PM.”

I look at my watch.

It’s 10:06 PM.

Shit, I’m late for my shift again.

I swear, this work is killing me.