The Holloway Haunting: Year Two

A full year had passed since the Halloween shift when Marcus, Elena, and Darius disappeared inside the Holloway Insurance building. Their story had already settled into rumor, told in hushed tones around supply closets and whispered over cigarette breaks: three cleaners went in, none came out.

The strangest part wasn’t their vanishing—it was the building itself. For twelve months, no matter how many weeks went by without scheduled service, Holloway remained spotless. Floors gleamed, glass shone, wastebaskets stayed empty. It was as if unseen hands carried on the work every single night.

But contracts are contracts, and clients can be demanding. AB Clean’s management couldn’t avoid Holloway forever. And so, the job was reassigned. This time, Clara, one of the newer supervisors, stepped up. “Buildings don’t clean themselves,” she insisted to her boss. “If Holloway wants us back, we’ll go. Simple as that.”

On Halloween night, she drove a fresh AB Clean van to the site, flanked by two recruits: Isaiah, quiet and steady, and Naomi, sharp-tongued and skeptical, who laughed at the idea of being spooked by a dusty old office.

The building loomed ahead through the October fog, windows black and unblinking. Inside, the lobby air was cold enough to sting their lungs, and the familiar bite of ammonia lingered as though someone had just scrubbed the place minutes before. Naomi let out a low whistle. “Whoever disappeared last year, at least they did a good job.”

Clara shot her a look. “Don’t joke about that.”

Isaiah said nothing. His eyes lingered on the lobby mirror before he followed the others inside.

They began their rounds. Naomi powered up a vacuum on the top floor, Clara dusted and sanitized the offices, and Isaiah descended into the basement. Everything was unnaturally clean, yet unsettling details emerged. A trash can already filled with soaked paper towels, though they hadn’t touched it. A mop leaning in the corner, damp, as though just set aside.

And on one desk lay a clipboard with every box checked off.

Clara picked it up. The tasks were scrawled in an unfamiliar, jagged hand. At the bottom, a single line had been added:

“Keep it clean. Forever.”

Naomi tried to laugh, but her voice cracked. “Somebody’s pulling a prank.”

Isaiah shook his head. “This isn’t new.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “It’s their handwriting.”

Clara frowned. “Whose?”

Isaiah didn’t answer.

Around midnight, the Holloway building began to stir. The steady hum of vacuums rose from empty stairwells. Spray bottles hissed from offices no one was in. A mop bucket squeaked across tile with slow, deliberate rhythm.

The three regrouped near the elevators, unsettled and silent. The air grew heavy with the smell of bleach, sharp and chemical, until it burned their throats.

Then came the footsteps. Wet, dragging, uneven—approaching from the hall though no one was there. Fresh prints appeared on the polished marble floor, one after another, leading toward them.

The elevator chimed. Its doors slid open.

Inside sat a cleaning cart. On its top were three folded uniforms.

Marcus. Elena. Darius.

Naomi’s laugh died in her throat. “Nope,” she whispered, stepping back.

The elevator doors began to close. For a heartbeat Clara swore she saw figures inside—three cleaners, pale and silent, staring from the shadows. She lunged forward, slammed the

“Open” button, but the car was empty again. The cart was gone.

That was when Naomi screamed. The floor beneath her rippled like water. She flailed for something to grab, but her vacuum cord snapped taut and then went slack as she was pulled down into the marble. The surface sealed smooth as glass.

Isaiah bolted for the lobby doors, but they refused to open. He pounded the glass until his reflection shifted. The face staring back wasn’t his—it was Marcus, blank-eyed, hand pressed against the other side of the mirror. Isaiah’s own hand rose without his control, and then his body folded into the reflection, vanishing like smoke.

Clara was alone. She clutched the clipboard, her only anchor, and stumbled backward as the sound of wheels squeaked closer. A cart rolled into view, slow and steady.

On top lay a single uniform. The name stitched into the chest was hers.

The lights blinked. The air turned icy. And then she, too, was gone.

Morning came, and the building manager found Holloway pristine as ever. Not a speck of dust. Not a streak on the glass. The new AB Clean van sat outside, locked, keys on the dash.

Inside, on the lobby cart, were five uniforms folded neatly.

Marcus. Elena. Darius. Naomi. Isaiah.

Clara’s was missing.

That night, when the manager checked the lobby mirror, he swore he saw five cleaners behind him. Standing silently, mops in hand.

But the sixth figure was absent.

As if she were still somewhere inside, cleaning.

Forever.