"Nightwatch: The Mystery of Unit 47—It Wasn't Here Yesterday, But Now It Holds Dark Secrets"

“Nightwatch: The Mystery of Unit 47—It Wasn’t Here Yesterday, But Now It Holds Dark Secrets”

Chapter 1: An Unsettling Discovery

Before we begin this tale, if you enjoy unsettling stories that blur the line between reality and the impossible, hit that subscribe button and turn on notifications. You won’t want to miss what happens next.

I’ve worked overnight security at Riverside Storage for three years. I know every unit by number, every door by the sound it makes when it closes, and every lock by the weight of its metal. So when Unit 47 appeared overnight in the middle of Row D—a row that only had 46 units the night before—I knew something had gone very, very wrong.

Riverside Storage sits on the industrial edge of town, wedged between an old textile mill that’s been shuttered since the ’90s and a stretch of cracked asphalt that used to be a truck depot. It’s the kind of place you pass without noticing—a low sprawling compound of corrugated metal buildings and concrete rows surrounded by chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire that’s more for show than security.

Chapter 2: The Routine

The job itself is simple. Clock in at 10:00 p.m., lock the main gate at 11:00, walk the rows twice per shift—once around midnight and again at 4:00 a.m. Check for broken locks, open doors, signs of forced entry. Make sure no one’s sleeping in the unlocked units or trying to break into the secured ones. Clock out at 7:00 a.m. when the day manager arrives. That’s it. Eight hours, five nights a week. The pay is barely above minimum wage, the benefits non-existent, and the break room has a microwave that sparks when you use it and a coffee maker that’s been broken since before I started.

The security cameras are supposed to cover every row, but at least a third of them haven’t worked in years. Management says they’ll fix them eventually. They never do. I work alone most nights. There’s supposed to be two guards on shift, but turnover is high. People don’t last long here. They get the job through temp agencies or court-ordered employment programs, show up for a week or two, then disappear without notice. I’ve stopped learning their names; there’s no point.

Chapter 3: The Oddity of Unit 47

Row D is one of the older sections—46 units, all rented or abandoned but still locked. I know because I’ve walked it hundreds of times. Unit 12 has graffiti carved into the paint; someone’s initials scratched with a key. Unit 23’s lock is loose and rattles when the wind picks up. Unit 38 has a dent in the bottom corner from where someone backed a truck into it three years ago and never reported it.

But Unit 47 wasn’t supposed to be there. I walked Row D every shift for three years, and I knew it like the back of my hand. That’s why I noticed immediately that Unit 47 wasn’t there on Monday night when I did my rounds. By Tuesday night, it was.

There’s no handbook for this job, no training manual, no orientation video, no official guidelines beyond locking the gate and not letting anyone steal anything. But there are rules—unwritten ones, the kind you learn by watching, by listening, by noticing what people don’t say. Don’t ask questions about units with overdue payments that still show as current in the system. Don’t open a unit unless the renter is physically present with ID and the rental agreement. Don’t go into the office storage room in the back—that’s where they keep the old contracts, the equipment that doesn’t work, and things that aren’t supposed to be discussed.

Chapter 4: The Warning

Most importantly, don’t touch units that aren’t on the master list. I learned that last one from Patrick Hower, the day manager who’s been here longer than anyone else. Patrick’s in his late 50s, built like someone who used to work construction before his knees gave out. He’s the only constant in this place. Everyone else cycles through. But Patrick shows up every morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp, unlocks the office, and spends his shift doing whatever it is day managers do—filing paperwork, talking to renters, pretending the cameras work.

He’s the one who told me about the discrepancies. It was my second week on the job. I’d found a unit with no number on the door, tucked at the end of Row A behind a dumpster that hadn’t been emptied in months. I asked Patrick about it during shift change. Casual question. Thought maybe it was being renovated or something.

Patrick stopped mid-sip of his coffee, set the cup down slowly. “Which row?” he asked.

“Row A. No number on it. Should I log it for maintenance?”

He stared at me for a long moment, then pulled out a clipboard, flipped through several pages of unit listings, and shook his head. “It doesn’t exist.”

“But I saw it.”

“Doesn’t matter. If it’s not on the master list, you don’t log it. You don’t mention it. You walk past it like it’s not there.”

Chapter 5: The Consequences

I must have looked confused because Patrick sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “Look,” he said, “this place has been here since the ’70s. Buildings get added, rows get expanded, units get renumbered. Sometimes the paperwork doesn’t match the reality. Sometimes things slip through the cracks. Management doesn’t care as long as the numbers add up at the end of the month. So if you find a unit that’s not on the list, you leave it alone. You don’t open it. You don’t report it. You forget you saw it.”

“Why?”

Patrick’s expression hardened. “Because people who don’t follow that rule don’t last long here. And I’m tired of training replacements.”

That was three years ago. I haven’t asked about unmarked units since, but Unit 47 wasn’t unmarked. It had a number—a clean, freshly painted 47 stenciled on the door in the same font as every other unit in Row D. It had a lock, a padlock that looked identical to the standard issue ones management hands out to renters. It looked like it belonged there, except it didn’t. Row D only goes up to 46.

Chapter 6: The Audit

The email came on a Wednesday morning, just as I was finishing my shift. I don’t usually check my work email. Most communication happens through the logbook or face-to-face during shift changes, but my phone buzzed while I was locking up the office, and I glanced at the screen out of habit.

Subject line: Mandatory Facility Audit. All units compliance required.

It was one of those corporate mass emails sent from some regional office three states away, the kind written in aggressive bold text with words like immediate and non-negotiable scattered throughout. Every unit needed to be photographed, inventoried, and logged by the end of the month. Physical inspection required, no exceptions.

I forwarded it to Patrick and went home to sleep. When I came back that night, Patrick was waiting for me in the parking lot, leaning against his truck, arms crossed, looking like he hadn’t slept. The sun was setting behind him, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

“Did you read the email?” I asked.

“Yeah,” his voice was flat. “Did you reply to it?”

“No, I figured you’d handle it.”

Patrick nodded slowly, still not looking at me. “Don’t respond. Don’t acknowledge it. I’m handling it with management.”

“It says every unit. That’s five rows, 200 units.”

“I said I’m handling it.”

There was an edge in his voice I hadn’t heard before—not anger, exactly, but something closer to fear.

“What about Unit 47?” I asked.

Patrick’s jaw tightened. “What about it?”

“It’s in Row D. It appeared two nights ago. It’s not on the master list.”

“Then it doesn’t exist.”

Patrick, I’ve walked Row D a thousand times. On Tuesday, there were 46. The door is real. The lock is real. The number is painted on it.”

He finally looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed with dark circles. “Listen to me very carefully. You’re going to forget about Unit 47. You’re going to skip it on your rounds. You’re not going to photograph it. You’re not going to log it. And you’re not going to open it. Do you understand?”

Chapter 7: The Investigation

But the audit…

“Forget the audit. I’ll handle corporate. You just do your job and stay away from 47.”

He got in his truck and drove off without another word. I stood in the parking lot as the last of the daylight bled out of the sky, watching his taillights disappear down the access road. Then I turned and looked at the facility. The rows of metal doors stretched out in neat lines, catching the orange glow of the setting sun. From where I stood, I could just make out Row D. In the distance, I could see Unit 47 from here—third from the end.

The door looked identical to all the others. Same corrugated metal, same paint, same everything. If I hadn’t walked that row hundreds of times before, I never would have noticed it was new. But I had noticed. And now I couldn’t stop noticing.

That night, I ran into Sherry Klein in the parking lot during her smoke break. Sherry was one of the temp workers—been here maybe two weeks. She was young, early 20s, with tired eyes and a nervous energy that made her talk fast.

“Hey, weird question,” she said, flicking ash off her cigarette. “You ever notice anything strange about Row D?”

My stomach dropped. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Just wrong, I guess. Like there are more doors than there should be.”

I stared at her. “When did you notice that?”

She shrugged. “Tonight. First time I walked it. Why? Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Should I?”

I thought about Patrick’s warning. Then I thought about the look in his eyes. “No,” I said. “Don’t mention it to anyone.”

Sherry stubbed out her cigarette and went back inside. I didn’t see her again after that night.

Chapter 8: The Investigation

I started with the filing cabinets in the back office. Patrick had told me not to go in there, but he wasn’t around at 2:00 a.m., and I needed answers. The room was small, windowless, and smelled like mildew and old paper. Four tall filing cabinets lined the walls, each one crammed with decades of rental agreements, payment records, and maintenance logs.

I started with the drawer labeled Row D. Current. The files were organized by unit number. I flipped through them one by one—Units 1 through 46. All accounted for. No Unit 47. I checked the archive drawer. Same thing. Contracts dating back to the ’80s. Some on paper so old it was turning brown at the edges. Still nothing.

The blueprints were worse. Every version I found—1973, 1985, 1992, 2003—showed the same thing: Row D ended at Unit 46. The space where Unit 47 stood was marked as exterior wall.

Chapter 9: The Unraveling

I sat back on my heels, staring at the blueprints spread across the floor. The fluorescent light above me buzzed and flickered. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed shut, though I knew I was alone. That’s when I found the incident reports buried in a drawer marked administrative minimal—three thin folders that made my hands go cold.

In 2019, a night guard named Derek Ble reported structural anomalies in Row D. No specifics, just a note that he’d filed a maintenance request. The request was stamped “resolved” in red ink, but there was no description of what had been done. Derek quit two weeks later. No notice, no forwarding address.

In 2016, a renter named Sophia Graange complained about hearing noises from the unit next to hers that doesn’t exist. She’d been in Unit 46. The complaint was logged, marked “no action required,” and her contract was terminated the following month. The termination reason was listed as “voluntary surrender.”

I looked up her contact information. The phone number was disconnected. The email bounced back.

In 2013, a day manager filed an inventory discrepancy report. Row D unit count does not match master list. Request audit. The form was stamped “DNA.” The day manager’s employment ended a week later. Reason listed: “position eliminated.”

Chapter 10: The Smell of Fear

I was still sitting on the floor surrounded by papers when I noticed the smell—concrete and rust, like standing water in a closed room. It was coming from the hallway, from the direction of Row D. My phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number: Stop looking.

I stared at the screen, typed back, Who is this? Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again. Someone who made the same mistakes you’re making. Leave Unit 47 alone.

What happens if I don’t? The response came immediately. You become part of it. I tried calling the number. It rang once, then disconnected. When I tried again, the number was no longer in service.

I gathered up all the documents, photographed the last few incident reports, and carefully put everything back where I found it. My hands were steadier now. The fear had crystallized into something else—determination, maybe, or just stubborn curiosity.

Chapter 11: The Confrontation

I checked my watch. 3:47 a.m. Time for my second round of the night. This time I was going to Row D with a flashlight and a camera, and I was going to document everything about Unit 47 whether Patrick liked it or not.

I stood in front of Unit 47 for a long time that night, just staring at it. The door looked completely normal. Standard corrugated metal painted the same industrial beige as every other unit in Row D. The number 47 was stenciled in black. The paint was fresh and clean. No weathering, no rust, no signs of age. A brass padlock hung from the latch, identical to the ones we handed out to renters.

Chapter 12: The Decision

I circled around to the side of Row D where the exterior wall should have been according to the blueprints. The wall was there—solid concrete block, weathered and stained. But when I pressed my hand against it, the concrete was warm—not sun-warm, body-warm, like something living was on the other side.

I pulled my hand back fast. I paced off the measurements, counting my steps. The wall was exactly where it should be, which meant Unit 47 wasn’t taking up physical space. It was just there, occupying a location that shouldn’t exist.

I thought about the text message: You become part of it. I’d been thinking about it for days now, turning it over in my mind during the long hours between rounds, trying to make sense of what I’d found in the files, the blueprints, the incident reports, trying to understand what Patrick was so afraid of.

Chapter 13: The Pattern

The pattern was clear once you knew to look for it. Unit 47 appeared periodically—not permanently, not constantly, just sometimes. And when it did, people noticed. They asked questions. They filed reports. And then those people disappeared. Not dramatically, not violently. They just stopped working here. Quit without notice. Contracts terminated, phone numbers disconnected.

The facility made them go away, or something did. But why? What was the point? I circled back to Unit 47, my heart racing.

Chapter 14: The Confrontation