You Shouldn’t Be Standing There. | Noir Jazz Playlist скачать в хорошем качестве

You Shouldn’t Be Standing There. | Noir Jazz Playlist

The hallway wasn’t long, but it never felt short. It ran from the lobby to the back stairwell, narrow enough that two people had to turn their shoulders to pass. The lights stayed on even during the day, humming softly, as if the building didn’t trust sunlight to do the job right. I noticed the mark on the carpet the first night. A darker rectangle, just off center. Not a stain—no spill pattern, no smell. More like something had stood there for a long time. Long enough to press the fibers down and teach them a new shape. People avoided it without knowing why. They slowed before it. Took half a step to the side. Adjusted bags. Checked their phones. No one stopped there. Until the man on the third floor disappeared. His name was Collins. Middle-aged. Quiet. Paid rent on time. He worked nights, which meant most of us only saw him in passing—eyes tired, keys already in hand, always moving like someone late for a place he didn’t want to be. The last time anyone saw him was Tuesday. Security footage showed him entering the hallway at 11:42 p.m. He didn’t reach the stairwell. The camera didn’t cover the center of the hall. Only the edges. Only the doors. Management called it a blind spot. I called it intentional. They asked me to take a look because I’d noticed the mark. Because I asked questions when people preferred maintenance requests and silence. I went down there that night, alone. The lights hummed. The air felt cooler, heavier. I stood at the edge of the dark rectangle and felt the urge to step around it, like everyone else. I didn’t. I stepped onto it. Nothing happened at first. Then the sound changed. Not louder. Quieter. As if the hallway had leaned in to listen. The hum dropped an octave. My own breathing sounded too close to my ears. “You shouldn’t be standing there.” The voice came from behind me. I turned slowly. A woman stood near the lobby doors. Late thirties, maybe. Coat buttoned wrong. Hair pulled back like she’d done it without a mirror. “I was just—” I started. “Everyone says that,” she said. “Then they move.” She didn’t step closer. She didn’t step back. “Do you know Collins?” I asked. Her eyes flicked to the carpet. Just for a second. “He stood there,” she said. “Longer than most.” “Why?” She shook her head. “That’s the wrong question.” The lights flickered once. Not enough to notice unless you were already watching. “What’s the right one?” I asked. She hesitated. “Why didn’t he move when he felt it?” “Felt what?” She smiled thinly. Not unkind. Resigned. “The pause,” she said. I looked down. The carpet beneath my shoes felt denser, almost sticky, like it remembered pressure. Like it wanted more. “How many people?” I asked. She didn’t answer directly. “Enough that the building learned,” she said. “Enough that it expects it now.” I stepped off the mark. The hum returned to normal. The air loosened. The woman exhaled, as if she’d been holding her breath for me. “They’ll clean it,” she said. “New carpet, new color. Doesn’t matter.” “What happens to them?” I asked. “To the ones who stay?” She shrugged. “They stop being where they were supposed to be.” I checked the footage again the next day. At 11:42, Collins entered the hallway. He slowed near the center. He stopped. The camera didn’t show what happened next. But the timestamp jumped forward by forty-seven seconds. When the feed resumed, the hallway was empty. No movement. No exit. Just the mark. I went back that night. The urge to avoid it was stronger now, sharper. Like instinct catching up. I stepped on it anyway. The sound dropped. The lights dimmed—not off, just enough. I felt it then. The pause. A moment where nothing moved because something was waiting for permission. “You came back,” the woman said, somewhere behind me. “Did Collins hear a voice?” I asked. “Yes.” “What did it say?” “It told him exactly where to stand.” The carpet shifted under my feet. Just a fraction. “Move,” she said. Not urgently. “Now.” I didn’t ask another question. I stepped away. The hallway released the sound like a held note finally ending. Behind us, the carpet fibers slowly rose. As if disappointed. The next morning, management announced renovations. New flooring. Temporary closure of the back stairwell. They called Collins missing. No suspects. No leads. The woman moved out that week. Before she left, she passed me in the lobby and said one last thing. “It only works,” she said, “if you believe standing still is safer than stepping aside.” I don’t walk down the center of hallways anymore. Neither does anyone else. The mark is gone. But sometimes, late at night, when the lights hum a little too low, I feel the building pause— as if waiting for someone to forget where they’re supposed to stand. - Original stories and music created for quiet, now. Ⓒ quiet, now. All rights reserved.