No Sleep Was Given

Can Something Be That Frightening?

My father once told me that something could frighten a person so badly, that they would lose their voice. They would open their mouth and nothing would come out. No scream, no yell, no cry for help - nothing. No matter how desperately they needed another human being to save them, their voice would fail. For some reason this idea always stayed with me, and I would often wonder to myself: what would have to occur to produce such a profound reaction. Can something be that frightening? Recently, I found the answer for myself.

It was six months ago. I worked for a company which runs several nightclubs in the city where I live. A few weeks previous, I'd been promoted to assistant manager and given the task of opening a new bar, which would double as a nightclub after 11PM. I was excited about it. The job was a real step up the ladder for me.

The club has been renovated thoroughly (it had been a bar nearly a decade before) and is in a busy part of town, increasing its chances of success. Stairs lead down from two entrances to below street level; the club is basically a converted basement. There are four bars and together they hold about 750 people legally at fire capacity; although we quite regularly exceeded that during my time.

When the club was open at night, I had no problem working there: I liked the music, and we had a pretty good crowd - not too much trouble. It was when we were shut during the day that I hated being there. Every Wednesday morning we'd take in a delivery to be ready for the weekend, ordering in a couple hundred cases of alcohol to keep everybody happy, owners and customers alike. That was when I first noticed it - the silence of the place. Walking around the club during the day, a venue which was noisy and populated by hundreds of people each night, now quiet; I thought it was this contrast, and the fact that it was underground, which made me feel uneasy, but now I know it was something far more sinister.

On delivery day, I'd always be first in the building, usually about an hour or so before the rest of the day shift would turn up. They'd take any delivered cases to the stockroom. Even the thought of that place makes me shudder. Anyone who frequented the club wouldn't have known, but behind one of the fire doors there was a long, dimly lit corridor with once-white flaking walls, which led to where thousands of pounds worth of spirits, beer, and other beverages sat locked up, tight.

Part of my job was to walk from bar to bar each Wednesday morning and make sure nothing had been stolen during the night — an all too common event in the nightclub trade, often staff members taking what they liked, thinking no one would notice. I suspect now that the reason I was given this "duty", was because the general manager, my boss, knew there was something wrong with the building and didn't have the guts to do it himself.

And so, I'd walk hesitantly between the four rooms which housed the different bars and dance floors, only to be presented with that strange emptiness, which was completely at odds with how the place should have been. Then the moment I always dreaded: checking the stockroom. Each time I opened the fire door, which led into a long hallway, I was greeted by a cold draft of air which carried with it the stench of stale beer, a horrid musty smell which often made me feel queasy. It isn't an uncommon thing to encounter in a nightclub, especially where alcohol is stored, but that corridor always seemed to reek of it, more pronounced than anywhere else I have ever encountered.

I'd walk slowly down the corridor, my footsteps echoing between the flaking white walls, and each time the stale beer smell would make its way towards me on the chilled air. Then, feeling nervous, I would fumble for my keys and open the door to the stockroom (which was in fact two rooms, connected by an open doorway). I'd quickly switch on the lights and then leave as soon as everything seemed to be where it should.

This time was different.

Before I'd even thought about getting my keys out, I noticed something unusual - a small thin line of light squeezing its way between the double doors of the stockroom. The place always put me on edge, even though I had no real reason to be that way, but the unreasonableness of that sensation made me feel even more uncomfortable. I set my anxious feelings aside and unlocked the doors, pushing them wide open.

The first room seemed to be fine. As ordinary as it could be, just cases of alcohol stocked neatly on pallets; as far as I could tell nothing missing or broken. As I approached then open doorway to the second room, however, I heard a sound. Something unusual which made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck - a hissing noise which stopped me in my tracks. I paused for a moment, hesitant to continue, but then I rationalised it. The sound coming from the next room was surely CO2 seeping out from a canister. They were used to carbonate drinks, and it was with a sigh of relief that, when I finally gathered up my nerves to enter the second room, I discovered that indeed one of them seemed to be leaking.

The second room was narrower than the other, piled up cases of vodka partially obscuring my view of the source. When I squeezed past a couple of beer kegs, I found that one of the canisters had somehow unhooked from its line to the bars, and was hissing out CO2. I walked over to it and turned the valve shut. It was then that a chill gripped me, and I froze to the spot. I had turned the valve, shut it tight, but the hissing continued, and what was worse - it came from behind me, somewhere between me and the only exit.

I don't know how, but with every fibre of my being I knew something unearthly was in that room with me. I didn't want to turn around. I know this sounds strange, but, like a child, I felt that if I didn't see what was there, I would be safe. Whether that was a conscious choice or if I was just paralysed with fear, I'm uncertain. I stood staring down at the closed valve of the canister, almost in disbelief, hoping that I would be left alone.

The hissing noise continued, but it had taken on another characteristic. No longer did it sound like gas seeping out into the air. There was now an organic quality to it, something subtle, like the wet hiss of breath across tongue and through teeth. It pierced the silence of the room, oppressing all around it.

Then it was joined by another sound; an echo; that of a footstep.

Then another. And another.

As each footfall filled my mind with unimpeded fear, the hissing, too, grew louder. The stockroom felt colder than usual, and as the hissing drew nearer the temperature continued to plummet. I fought the impulse in my mind to turn around, I didn't want to see what was there. My mind and body had refused to accept the reality of it. And in that denial, terror had found a home. It was then that the footsteps ceased. Just as they stood right behind me.

I'm not sure how long I stood in that silence, and it stood behind me. It could have been seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Shivers swept across my body, and I noticed that the stench of stale beer had grown so potent that I felt sick to my stomach.

The hissing then blew into my ear.

I tried to scream. I tried to yell. Nothing came. I just stood there, petrified. I was incapable of acting. Then the hiss was replaced by a sound even more chilling: a quiet, mocking laugh which lasted only for a moment, like someone smirking perversely under their breath at another's anguish.

That somehow provoked a response in me. I was angry. Someone was trying to make a fool of me, perhaps one of my colleagues. I spun around only to see nothing, and to be greeted by the cluttered emptiness of the stockroom.

There was no one there, no noise, no laughing figure. Nothing.

I breathed a sigh of relief as my numbness receded. Then the pallid shape of a man came rushing through the doorway from the other room. He lurched towards me, his hands outstretched, letting out a blood curdling scream; his eyes filled with what I can only describe as hatred. It all happened so quickly, my only instinct was to avoid the touch of his languid skin. I tripped over in the process, and my back landed on the sharp spout of a metal beer keg, which gouged deep through my skin, tearing a muscle and causing excruciating pain. I looked up, dazed, as the man ran straight into, and then through, a wall. When I dragged myself to my feet, I could see no one. I quickly stumbled out of the stockroom, knowing that I would never set foot in there again.

I wish I could provide some meaning or explanation for that terrifying event. Maybe the leaking CO2 had made me hallucinate somehow, I just don't know. All I can say is that the general manager told me that other staff members had experienced strange goings on in the stockroom; the sense of being watched, footsteps, and that he himself had heard a strange hissing noise there.

Well, that's the end of it, really. I didn't last too long after that, and within a week I handed in my notice. I always wondered how frightened a person would have to be to lose their voice. On that day, in that cold and cramped room, I found out my limits, and I hope to never test them again.