The room was colder than expected, the basement lights were harsh and too white, buzzing with the steady hum of tired fluorescent tubes. They hummed faintly above the lone metal desk. I adjusted the chair, the steel scraping against concrete and sat down. The man from Records hadn’t stayed long—just dropped the thick beige folder onto the desk and muttered something about “not everything belongs in daylight” before he left.

The folder was marked CLASSIFIED / CONFIDENTIAL, stamped in red across its face. The weight of the folder sat between my hands like a brick. The edges of the folder were frayed, corners soft from too many nervous hands flipping through it.

I hesitated, fingertips resting on the cardboard surface.

I had read dozens of old reports, some bizarre, some tragic, but none had carried the aura of warning this one did. The air around it smelled faintly metallic, like copper pennies left too long in the rain.

When I finally unlatched the folder and pulled it open, I felt it—a ripple of unease, as though the very act of reading would draw me closer to something that wasn’t meant to be understood.

The first page bore the header:

CASE FILE: INCIDENT #2147-A

Classification: Confidential / Ongoing Investigation

Subject: Mass Disappearance – Oakwood Apartment Complex

Filed by: Eastwood Police Department, Maine

Date Opened: August 17, 2020

Section 1 – Initial Police Report

Filed by: Detective Marcus Hale

Date: August 17, 2020

Time: 03:47 a.m.

Location: Oakwood Apartments, 17 Lambert Street, Eastwood, Maine

Summary:

At approximately 02:18 a.m., dispatch received multiple 911 calls reporting screams, cracking noises, and a “low electrical hum” inside Oakwood Apartments.

Responding officers (Torres, Daniels) found the front entrance ajar. No individuals were present inside. Estimated missing persons: 94.

I whispered the words aloud, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. Ninety-four people gone. The thought pressed heavy, almost suffocating. But I continued to read.

Observations:

Lobby and hallways smelled of ozone, similar to post-lightning strike.

All personal belongings intact: meals, clothing, electronics left in use.

Surveillance cameras captured a brief distortion at 02:17:36 a.m.; feed resumes at 02:18:02 a.m. showing building empty.

No forced entry, no struggle, no blood.

I could almost hear the static described, feel the sting of ozone in my nose. The mention of meals left unfinished and televisions still glowing painted the image too vividly—like a house paused mid-breath. My stomach twisted at the timestamp of the distortion on the surveillance footage: 02:17:36 a.m.

It was too precise, too sudden.

The building was secured and the FBI was called in. The file mentioned the investigation was still going on but I doubted that was true. These unsolvable cases rarely close, and anyone who digs too deep usually faces backlash from inside the department.

Detective Hale had signed off on the report so I was curious to know if he had any other thoughts on what happened, so I continued to read through.

Section 2 – Officer Notes (Recorded Statement)

Officer Daniels, Badge #2447

Transcript Excerpt:

“I’ve been on the job eleven years. I’ve never seen anything like it. The building felt wrong—like moving underwater. My flashlight cut the dark and I saw the walls… bend. Not shadows, not tricks. The walls moved.

And the silence. No dogs, no ringing phones. Just dead quiet, except for a buzzing inside my skull. It stopped the second we stepped outside.

You want me to believe ninety-four people walked out? No. They were either taken—or pulled.”

The words “the walls… bend” sent a chill crawling up my arms. I glanced at the basement walls, half-expecting them to ripple like water under the pale fluorescents.

I wondered what happened to Officer Daniels.

I sat in an upright position, pulling the third page from the folder. I was beginning to feel uneasy. The rise of bile settled in my throat and my stomach bubbled. Maybe it was just the apple I’d eaten for breakfast—it was now past three in the afternoon—but it felt like something more.

Section 3 – Media Coverage

Source: Eastwood Daily Chronicle

Date: August 18, 2020

Byline: Sarah Lin, Staff Reporter

Headline: “Entire Apartment Building Empties Overnight – Residents Vanish Without a Trace”

EASTWOOD, ME – Nearly one hundred residents of Oakwood Apartments vanished late Sunday night in what authorities are calling an “unprecedented missing persons case.”

Families were discovered absent from their homes, with belongings left mid-use: meals abandoned, showers still running, televisions playing. A crib in Apartment 3B was found warm with the blankets rumpled but the child was missing.

Security footage shows no departures. Only a thirty-second white distortion at the time of disappearance.

The FBI has cordoned off the site. Officials have denied rumors of chemical leaks or biological hazards. However residents and relatives of the missing have begun vigils outside the complex.

“I talked to my sister at 1:45 a.m.,” said one witness. “By 2:20, she was gone. Don’t tell me that’s possible.”

The news clipping was almost merciful—structured, familiar—but the details were cruel: the warm crib, the shower still running. I pushed the file back for a moment, rubbing my temples, but the pull of the story dragged me forward.

Section 4 – Private Journal: Detective Marcus Hale

(Recovered post-incident. Classified.)

August 19, 2020

Two days gone. Still no sign of them. The air inside Oakwood clings to skin—static. Found a child’s notebook in 5C. Last page: “The hum is louder tonight. Mom says it’s the fridge. But it’s not.”

I hear the hum in my sleep.

August 21, 2020

Dreams: white light flooding hallways. Wake to voices in the walls. FBI mapping radiation signatures—unlike anything I’ve seen.

August 23, 2020

Heard footsteps on the stairwell. Ran six floors up—nothing. Hum is getting louder.

Not missing. Displaced. Like glass between us.

August 24, 2020

Saw a man in the hall. Pale, blurred, reaching out. Vanished.

They aren’t gone. They’re still here. Out of phase.

I tried to make sense of Hale’s journal. His handwriting leaned jagged and desperate. I read the entries slowly, each line heavier than the last. I read the entries again.

I shivered. The words felt like they were being whispered directly into my ear. By the time I reached “Not missing. Displaced” I realized my own ears were ringing faintly, as though the hum had crept into the basement with me. I hesitated to turn the next page, already bracing for the next account.

Section 5 – FBI Memorandum

Classification: Internal Use Only

From: Agent Lowell

To: Division Director, Anomalous Investigations

Date: August 25, 2020

Summary: Oakwood resonance stable. Electromagnetic spikes match Duluth (1998) and Prague (2012) cases. This is largest-scale occurrence on record.

Containment procedures active. Public cover: “Mass Missing Persons.”

Note: Local PD Detective Marcus Hale exhibiting resonance symptoms: auditory hallucinations, perceptual lag. Recommend monitoring.

The FBI memorandum confirmed the unease. Cold bureaucratic phrases like 'resonance symptoms' and 'containment procedures' only sharpened the dread. At first I thought Hale was paranoid talking about humming and voices in the walls; but now I realize he was changing. Whatever had taken those 94 residents seemed to be affecting him as well. The next page was the final entries of Detective Hale. I knew what happened but I still wanted to read it to be sure.

Section 6 – Final Journal Entries (Detective Hale)

August 27, 2020

The hum isn’t outside. It’s inside. Alignment.

In 4A, I saw a family around their table. Alive. Breathing. Watching me through static.

The boy waved.

August 29, 2020

Voices call my name. My reflection lingers when I turn away.

They’re not lost. They’re waiting.

August 30, 2020

The hum is everywhere now. The walls bend like fabric.

White light. Endless.

They’re all there. Smiling.

I stepped forward.

I exhaled slowly, the words crawling under my skin. I flipped the page over, half-expecting more, but the journal ended there. I took a long sip of the cold coffee I had long forgotten about, then set the cup aside with a clatter. Alive. Breathing. Watching. The handwriting had a desperation to it—ragged edges, ink smudged where his hand must have trembled.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. My throat tightened reading:

“In 4A, I saw a family around their table. Alive. Breathing. The boy waved.”

The boy waved.

I could see it too: a hand, blurred, reaching across static.

When Hale wrote: ‘I stepped forward,’ I froze. My pulse pounded in my ears. I wanted to close the file, to shove it across the desk and leave it for someone braver—but my hands wouldn’t move. So I swallowed and read on.

Section 7 – Epilogue (Media Follow-Up)

Source: Eastwood Daily Chronicle

Date: September 5, 2020

Headline: “Lead Detective in Oakwood Case Missing – Investigation Deepens”

EASTWOOD, ME – Detective Marcus Hale, 41, has been reported missing. His vehicle was found abandoned outside Oakwood Apartments.

Hale was lead investigator in the ongoing disappearance of ninety-four residents. His personal writings, described by sources as “disturbing,” were recovered but not released.

Authorities provide no explanation. The Oakwood case remains unsolved.

Case Status: UNSOLVED

File Closed (Pending Further Evidence)

The pages lay still, but my pulse did not. The word hummed in my skull. For a long moment, I sat frozen in the basement, the silence pressing in. Hale’s final entry clung to my mind: The boy waved.

Hale himself was gone, leaving the file status UNSOLVED.

The fluorescent hum above sounded different now—lower, deeper, vibrating in my bones. I looked toward the wall at the far end of the room. For the briefest moment, it seemed to shimmer, like heat rising off asphalt.

I half-expected to hear footsteps in the stairwell above, or see a pale blur flicker at the edge of my vision.

The file waited, its red stamp glaring up like a warning.

I closed it gently, sliding the folder back across the desk. The air felt thicker now. The silence did not return. The humming stayed.

And though I was alone in the basement, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—no, something—was on the other side of the wall.

Waiting.