Transcript of Diana Torres' Interview

I’m not usually the last one out of the office. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d leave at five on the dot, you know? And most days, I do. And that week? I wanted to get out of there ASAP. Who wants to stay during hell week? Every article’s been reviewed, every spread checked; the entire magazine, cover to back, was already seen and touched by everyone, from the ground up. The November issue was locked.

But of course, Dex had to fuck—sorry, can I curse? I mean, my frustration is understandable, don’t you think? What kind of idiot forgets to cite his sources? The sources for our main interview? The son of a marketing executive who barely uses his journalism degree—that’s who. And what kind of idiot agrees to look it up for him? Because, of course, Sarah, I’m on it. The fresh grad who’s still on the tail end of her probation. That idiot.

[Someone coughs.]

So, I’m all alone on the eleventh floor, and I turned all the lights on because, well. It’s stupid, but I’ve heard ghost stories from my seniors who liked to stress out the new hires. I’m the only one left from my batch, by the way. They go through writers like crazy here; a new one drops dead every other week. Anyway, they used to scare us about this one editor who haunted the seventh-floor bathroom because they never had the chance to pee, or this writer who became a supernatural creature at night because he got cursed by the end of his interview—stories like that.

I didn’t believe them anyway. I mean, I thought they were just teasing us, and as soon as they had their back turned, we used to snicker amongst ourselves. But everyone’s gone, and the newer batch of new hires got their own thing going. That night was supposed to be the end of an already long month, but I was still up working. I canceled my Halloween plans with my best friend to get this done. Plus, my girlfriend and I just broke up. Is that… too personal? You did ask me to tell you everything.

[A woman sighs.]

Basically, if I looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows a certain way, I’d see something funny. After a few more minutes, it became less funny. Overworked writer, overactive brain—can you blame me for turning on a few lights? Although I’m still not sure if that was the main cause of it all. Can a few lights really start a fire?

[We’re just here to get a full account of the event, not to speculate more. What happened next?]

Midnight came, and I was combing through the article one last time when he came. See, I thought I knew everyone. There was Dan, who swept on Mondays and Wednesdays. Martin, who did Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays and weekends went to Fred. This man was new. He wore these dark blue overalls and a white shirt. Boots; old ones. I mostly remember how tall he was.

He was just mopping by the door when I finally noticed him. I said hi and that I was almost done. The press is, like, thirty minutes by car, and my hard deadline was 1 AM. I needed to get going if I had any hopes of going home. I was closing my desktop when I felt a long shadow over me. I looked up, and he was right there—this close to my face. I didn’t think to be surprised, I guess. I could see the lines on his face, his sunken eyes. Graying hair at his temples. He had a mole at the bottom of his left eye, and he looked...alright, this is going to sound ridiculous. But he kind of looked like my dad, you know?

My dad had the same mole on his face, and I don’t know. I asked him how his night was going. He smiled and started talking.

He started working in the building when he was younger and never really left. Married his high school sweetheart, had twins. They were in fourth grade now, and he was so proud of them being so smart. We started talking about good university options for them. He never had the chance to finish college, so he wanted the best for them. He looked really happy, and I guess I liked hearing his voice? I haven’t called my dad since I started working. It was nice to talk to someone who isn’t obsessed with belts.

But time runs fast in the office; everything’s urgent, the people at the press were calling, it was 1:30 AM, and I was rushing to get out. This next bit’s a blur, because I started thinking about how to get to the press, what to tell Sarah in my e-mail later, and the logistics of it all. He asked if there were any chances he could escort me to the elevator. Seemed old-fashioned, but this was an old man we’re talking about. I told him we could walk together. I got myself ready, and we started walking. I asked him if he had been working in this building all this time, but why did I never see him around? He chuckled and said he only took the graveyard shift. His mother-in-law lived with them, and someone had to stay home. He told me he never regretted putting his family first. I mean? That’s the sweetest shit I’ve heard this week.

[We'd really rather you stopped cursing. This is recorded, you know?]

Right, sorry. We were walking and finally stopped in front of the elevator. He smiled and thanked me. Told me I should get going. I agreed and went inside. He waved goodbye, and that was the last time I saw him.

[CCTV confirms you were in the elevator by 1:26 AM, which matches your account. We can’t confirm the man, as a glitch caused the feed to stop on your floor between 12:45 and 1 AM.]

Yeah, they sent out an e-mail about that. Budget cuts. Fewer people buying magazines, fewer advertisers. Print media’s dying; what else is there to say?

[Sure. They’re going to have a tough time battling it out in insurance. After all, the entire place went up in flames. Old building, faulty wiring. You’re really not in trouble, miss. We’re just checking all the boxes before submitting our report. Lucky you got out, though.]

Yeah. Um, so, you didn’t find out anything about the man I talked to?

[Everyone got out, and no casualties were reported. It was a clean fire. The man you described wasn’t ID’ed. And to confirm, you didn’t get his name?]

Oh, no. No, I didn’t.

[Then, we can’t really identify him.]

But… you believe me, right? That he was there? I know it’s silly to ask a policeman, but everyone in the office thinks I’ve gone insane. I’ve checked the personnel lists, the staff’s database, too, and I’m sure you have, as well. I didn’t, I didn’t see him, either.

[Well, maybe your seniors got it right or something, huh?]

Right, right. Am I… free to go? I’ve got to get back. HR wants to talk to me.

[Sure. Thanks for coming down to the station.]