I work overnight security at a mall. The escalators keep remembering me wrong. - Part 1

Like the title says. I work overnight security at a mall. I won't say exactly where, but it’s a large one in the Midwest. 

Something I can’t explain happened to me while I was working one night. Before I can dive into that, though, I have to throw a few things out on the table so I can illustrate a bigger picture for you.

I’ve never lived alone before. Moved from my parents' to a single bedroom with my high school girlfriend at 20. I’m 26 now and I’ve been on my own for a year now. 

I’ve gained a taste for solitude and some of the other tokens of adult life. Like nesting, for instance. 

The geometry and symmetry of my living room. How many inches sit between the orange area rug and each wall? The diagonal angle of my olive green sofa. My glass coffee table, shaped more like an artist's palette than a surface to place the TV remote. 

I love the mid-century aesthetic. That 1960s American dream gripped by fear of imminent nuclear holocaust vibe. Chefs kiss. 

Which is why last week, while patrolling the second floor, I walked past this home goods store. I pass this store a few times a night—12 AM, then 2 AM, and again at 4 AM. Anyway, I saw this pair of table lamps. Yellow. Glass. Even the shade. All sunshine and bubbly optimism. 

I have a nice floor lamp. The kind that hangs over the couch like a bug's antenna. But a room should have at least 3 light sources. The right ones can make everything else look different. Change the entire character of a room.

For the 15 seconds I stood at that display window, I imagined how they’d look accenting the caramel stain of my acacia wood side tables. Decided they would look good. And then resumed patrols. 

They drifted near the edge of my mind the rest of the night. Flicking on and off in the dark. I almost considered picking them up after shift when the mall opens. Then I recall the number printed on the price-tag tucked under the base of one.
Deferred purchase.

The lamps don’t have anything to do with what happened. Well, at least not in the way you’re probably imagining. When I recall how things worked out. I always circle back to the lamps. The first chartable, observable thing I did that wasn’t part of my job description.

My job runs on a loop. Sunday nights are early nights. You’ll hear the metal clatter of gates around 6:55 and I have to spend the next 20 minutes asking people to leave the food court too loudly and waving the air behind old people who only come to the mall to walk circles in the AC and call it exercise. 

From there it's walking routes, locking doors, checking gates, switching off lights. Usually, I end up walking one or more of the girls from the make-up and body stores to their car after having to stay late for inventory or a new floor set.
I always liked doing that.

For lunch I always stop by the food court before closing so I can pick up hot wings and a Coke that I’ll keep on ice in the security room fridge until break.
I always get hot wings because they also have wet napkins, and I can ask whoever is working to throw a few handfuls in the bag for me. 

You see, I have a problem with germs. Bad enough that it became work for everyone around me, like my ex. I won’t go into specifics but I’m better now.
And the parts that stuck around—counting, clocking, cataloging—turned out pretty helpful for this job.

I was on the second floor in the security room, wiping the orange ring of heat from around my lips after finishing lunch. I cram several packets into my left pocket after I finish wiping my hands and step out of the office. The first stop on my route is the north exit of the parking garage.

I whistle along to ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’ as it plays over the speakers. I love this song. Actually, I’d argue it’s one of the greatest songs ever.
Tooth and nail.

I aim my flashlight through the window after giving each door a solid rattle. Unit 214 sits to the right when I turn around. It’s been empty for a few months now. 

What used to be one of those fast fashion brands that sew together tissue paper and call it a tee shirt, was now nothing but a concrete box with exposed ventilation.

 I push through the employee exit between the shoe and jewelry store and take the stairs back down to head to the south entrance and restart my loop. 

The mall has 4 main entrances, 2 stories, 2 escalators, and more than 260 stores and restaurants. So you can imagine I spend a lot of time counting, checking off lists—making sure everything is still the same as it was 2 hours ago. Security spiral.

When I reach the bottom of the escalator, I tear open a wet napkin, fold and press it onto the handrail. I watch it turn dark and sheen like a black marker as the grimy buildup from thousands of hands wipes clean. 

I step onto the metal just as my mark of purity comes back around. It takes 34 seconds to complete the circuit. During that time, 43 steps disappear into the metal comb. 43 yesterday. 43 the day before.

I never liked those things. 

The metal teeth.

When I was 6, one lace from a new pair of AIR Jordans my dad had just bought me accidentally got swallowed while stepping off an escalator. 

The only thing I remember was the sound of the invisible machinery underneath. Working with a purpose I didn’t understand. It didn’t feel hostile while eating my shoe. Just cold and indifferent. Paper shredder.

I step off when I reach the top and toss the napkin. Dig through my pocket. Tear open another and wipe down my hands—which I also throw in the garbage. I make my rounds. Rattle gates. Sweep my light over window displays. Make a mental checklist of what every mannequin wears. Glance at the titles and authors printed on the spines packed into cases behind glass. But I never linger long enough.

Eventually, I stop at the home goods store. And like before, stare for too long at that pair of yellow table lamps. My mind searches for methods to acquire them the same way an addict schemes for drugs.

A sigh passes through me as I let the urge die.

“After payday.” I breathe.

I always say that.     

I make my way back to the north entrance. My light sweeps over the empty parking garage through the windows. I rattle the gate and spin. But, instead of taking the employee stairs, I walk along the storefronts back to the escalators.
I adjust my route once I lock all the doors and gates for the night. From there it’s not about locking everything up quickly. But making sure everything is still where it belongs.

Most nights I’ll complete about 5 or 6 laps, maybe more if I'm bored. Tonight I end up doing more than ever. I can’t tell you what compelled me on this particular shift that differed from any other. 

I execute the same ritual on the escalator going down. The two cross one another in an ‘X’ shape. One goes up, the other down. I commit to this same loop 10 times. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I wanted time to go by faster and was too restless to stare at the wall of monitors with my feet up all night.

It was ride 10 that did it. I step on right as my marker returns. I’m looking down at the comb. Watching the stairs fold out of its teeth. Counting each one under my breath.

“41, 42, 43—44…”

I stop counting. The escalator doesn’t.

Recount. 44 again. My brain stumbles. 

My heels almost hit the top comb. And I feel it nipping at my ankles. I step over. Stare down at the teeth. The machinery underneath glows. Too bright. Brighter than I remember. 

All at once, I get this feeling like I’m standing under a net of eyes. I shake my head. Shake the feeling and turn. 

A cold weight plunges through me. Dead elevator.

My light slowly dithers over storefronts. From one window to the next. My hand, shaking. The beam, shivering. Every single mannequin has reoriented itself and is now staring directly at me. 

No—not at me, but more like the spot they knew I would arrive at.

I break into a cold sweat. My hands fumble. There’s a loud crack as my flashlight hits the metal stairs and rolls back. The sound of metal on metal splitting the air over and over, reverberating off every angle in the dark. 

My heart claws its way up into my throat. And I clamber after in a panic as it tumbles against the stairs' current.

It loses momentum halfway down, but so do I. The stairs carry me back to the top as my flashlight rolls in place. Every time it falls off one step and onto the one below, the beam switches off. But—once the flashlight gains a couple feet of elevation—the beam switches back on. Almost like flickering between two realities.

I swallow. Craggy fear crumbles into my stomach. Rockslide. 

At first, I walk down the stairs, but they carry me upward faster than I can descend. After several attempts and near topples, I wrap my fingers around the cold metal and—

The beam vanishes. 

For a split second, and I know this part sounds crazy—the mall disappears. It felt like whatever was watching me chose that exact moment to blink.

The beam returns. Visual contact restored. And I ride to the top and step off. I turn. Slowly. My breathing finally catches up with me. I pace a few steps back and forth. The mannequins' faces don’t follow me. They stay locked onto the top platform of the escalator. Waiting. Reserved seating.  

For me? 

Or someone else. 

The idea alone makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle. 

Because I’m seeing—anomalies. And because it’s my job—I continue patrolling my route. 

The beam of my light dithering here and there. My brain suddenly gaslighting itself at every storefront. Was that like that before? The only things out of place are the mannequins around the escalator. I think. At least from what I can see. Corrupted memory.

I want to believe someone is messing with me. But I can’t put together a story where it makes sense. To move all of them during the time I was on the 1st floor you would need—access to the mall after hours, the keys to every store facing the escalator, enough time to reposition each one individually, and a deep resentment for me that goes beyond something personal.

I sweep the beam over the parking lot, nothing but gray concrete painted with yellow boxes and exposed pipe along the ceiling. I grab the gate and shake it. I look once more across the row of 6 white Nissan Rogues. The words ‘Security’ plastered in vinyl across the doors.

I turn to my left and start following the wall, but stop just short of Unit 214. A faint light glows from within. A long grid of shadow stretches out from the base of the gate. My body searches for a reason to ignore my mind with every cautious step I take. Administrative override. 

I grab my belt to steady my left hand while the beam in my right still jitters along the floor. The air in my lungs is getting heavier. I pause for barely a second to exhale before glancing around the corner into Unit 214.

It’s not a monster. Or a room packed with mannequins, all watching me. No, that would have been better in some ways. Because I can’t quite place why what I see is so much worse.

For a second, relief blooms in my chest, but then I take in the wrongness of it all, and the calm inside me wilts. Above is a mess of exposed pipes put together by something without eyes. The walls lean over the room, the floor wider than the roof. 

Sitting on the floor in the very center of the room. Only doing it wrong. 

The lamp. 

Both of them.
Together. No—not together. Not both of them. 

One of them. 

Duplicated. 

Glowing. 

My eyes trace for any evidence of a cord at all and come up empty. Despite this, their glowing persists. Painting the concrete in overlapping yellow rings.
Unsupported function.  

My heart kicks against my ribs. Whatever structural piece my knees require for standing gives out. I stumble back. The keyring on my belt chimes. I run. Back to the escalators. Feet echoing against tile. Pulse thudding in my neck. 

I circle around the landing to run for the security room. I need to breathe. Need to think. To count something persistent. To squeeze something real, and solid in my hands. Reference point.

My mind won’t stop spinning, won’t stop tumbling. But then it lands on a thought like an open Rolodex. I don’t know why I did it, but it just made sense. My body remembering something I don’t fully grasp yet. 

The flashlight. 

I gallop down the ascending escalator, then up the descending one. Each time counting the steps. Feeling lighter every time I complete the circuit. Pressure release. Until finally I’m sweating at the bottom of the escalator. Breathing through a mouthful of cotton and pennies. 

The 6 am lights bang on and begin their hum. I look around, eyes wide and wild. I spend the rest of the shift sitting in the office, staring at the wall of monitors until changeover. Checking the cameras around the escalator. Rewinding footage. Searching for answers. Diagnostic mode. 

The tapes are clean. Just another regular Sunday night. Just me walking in circles, jaw flapping as I count under my breath. But I never stop at Unit 214 for more than a second. Every loop is the same. I check doors, rattle gates, sweep my light over clothing racks and shoe walls.

I leave work exhausted and confused. Go to bed with questions in my mind that Google can’t answer. I try various phrases. Keywords. ‘Escalators,’ ‘Looping,’ ‘scary mall experience.’

I learn nothing valuable. I don't know if it's because I'm searching for the wrong things or the tools to calculate something like this don't exist. 

So I start with what is concrete. I recount all my actions after lunch. Eliminate variables. Pretty soon, a pattern emerges. One so subtle that I almost miss it. But it’s there. Real. Predictable. 

And scariest of all—reproducible. A system that behaved the same way every time. 

Like a game.

I spent the entire Monday—my only day off this week because I have to cover someone else’s shift on Tuesday—writing notes. 

***

Notes:

1. Mark a section of the black handrail. It doesn’t matter with what, just as long as it survives the machinery. A strip of white tape will work perfectly.
2. Ride the ascending escalator while counting every step.
3. Walk the upper balcony and ride back down while counting again after marking the section of rail where you step on. (Always step onto the escalator when your mark appears)
4. Repeat steps 2 & 3 until the marker disappears.
5. If the mannequins are all facing the top of the escalator on the tenth circuit, the loop has begun.
6. Every completed loop adds one step to the escalators. Observation and acknowledgement of this helps sustain the loop.
7. Do not allow any part of your body to touch the comb. (I don’t know why yet)
8. The mall will begin changing after the first additional step.
9. Always count. (VERY IMPORTANT)
10. If you stop counting, don’t panic. Just start over.

***

I go into work Tuesday night. My head buzzing. Hornet nest. The fear I felt on Sunday is gone now. Replaced by a feverish hunger for answers. I shoot a nervous glance from the notebook sitting atop my bag in the passenger seat to the dangling zipper that swings with every motion of the road.

A roll of white duct tape. White chalk marker. Laser pointer. Measuring tape. Research tools. The smell of cheap coffee and Chinese take-out slam into me when I open the office door. 

My boss spins in his chair to face me. Clocks the bag I’m shoving into my locker like I’m hiding evidence.

“The hell you got there?” he asks, brows pinching together.

“Just some clothes.” I lie, “Going to the gym when I’m off.”

His eyes start at my feet and travel up my frame to my shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good thing.” He snorts. “You look like you’d break in half from the AC kicking on.” He laughs.

“I’m gonna start pre-shift.” I say, shaking my head. 

“Whatever. Just be back by 7. I’m sick of waiting for you so I can leave.”

I check out a radio and flashlight from the utility room. Head to the food court to pick up my usual hot wings and Coke. My boss is already gone when I get back to the security office. I store my lunch in the fridge and clock in. 

The time clock chimes when I swipe my badge under the red laser. 

Boop-beep-boop.

I chase customers out of the mall with far less patience than Sunday night. An overweight guy yells at me when I tell him to keep moving every time he pauses his waddling gait to lean against a wall and breathe hard.
The lights finally bang off. The mall soundtrack echoes off empty walls. Fountains continue babbling in the dark. My flashlight glances off padlocked gates as I walk. The ritual ensues. Rattling doors and gates to make sure everything’s at home where it should be. 

My eyes snag for a moment on the yellow lamps in the home goods window as I make my way to the North parking garage exit. I finish locking down everything. Check the remaining boxes off in my head when—

A familiar ice spreads through my body. Cold ink.

I’m aware of Unit 214 to my right. 

But I don’t want to look. I breathe. A heavy sigh slips out of me, and I turn to face the empty store.

Normal. 

Just concrete. Exposed pipes neatly exploring the ceiling. 

I feel a twinge of disappointment. Which actually scares me more than if the lamps were there again. 

I take the employee exit stairs to the first floor and circle back to the bottom of the escalator. Execute my wet napkin cleansing ritual. Then I fish the roll of tape out of my bag. Neatly tear a 2 inch strip.

 I breathe. Remind myself I can do this. Slap the white tape on the rail when the smudge comes back. It seals like a glove. 

My eyes watch. My lips count. 30 seconds later the tape comes back. Perfect. I hitch a ride, counting the steps that disappear into the comb. When I reach the top, I trash the napkin before I circle around the balcony. Rinse and repeat. Slapping the white duct tape square on the grimy smudge once again. 

My heart misfires on loop 10. 

My grip tightens on the flashlight. At 23 steps, I hear the chorus of ‘Blue Bayou’ suddenly go flat. Like she forgot her own melodies. 

Cold dread beads on my forehead. 

That was it. 

The blink. 

At 43, I turn around and step over the comb. Somehow my legs already know not to go near it.

My stomach tightens. Wet noose. Once again, every mannequin surrounding the escalators is staring at the space where they remembered I’d be. That hunger returns, almost giddy and child-like. My legs move before my mind does, then I remember. I fish a wet napkin from my left pocket, tear it open and scrub my hands. 

I always fold them before I throw them away. I don’t know when it started. Just one day, I was already doing it. 

I twist to throw it into the garbage and stop. There’s already the used remains of a different one sticking out. I push the lid open with the one in my hand. Several soiled wet napkins fall to the floor. Someone didn’t take out this garbage. I make a mental note.

I walk toward the north parking garage entrance, slow and cautious. My beam searching. Skimming. Collecting. I spot the yellow glow off to my left behind a kiosk selling blind box toys. For the first time ever, I don’t check the garage doors first. Instead, I turn and face unit 214.

I swallow hard. Drywall dust.

The wrong scene has returned. Same error message. Walls leaning inward. World’s worst HVAC setup. 

The glass lamp. 

Sitting on the floor the wrong way, casting overlapping halos of yellow. 

4 now. 

They’re multiplying.

I un-shoulder my bag. Dig through for the laser pointer. My fingers close around the tiny piece of metal. Unspent round.

I pull the bag back onto my shoulder and grab hold of the gate with my left hand. I don’t know why. In case my legs decide to give up again, probably. I press the button. The beam slices through the air and lands on the wall behind the lamps. I slowly lower the red dot until it glances off the glass shade. 

Something moves on the lamp beside it. At first, I thought it was a reflection. But then I moved the laser. And it moved, too. 

Identical. Mirrored. Like the room just copied the result without understanding the reason. 

My stomach folds inward. Collapsed display.

I go back to the escalators, circle around the balcony to the descending stairs. I watch the glowing comb at the bottom swallow each step. I kneel. Pull the measuring tape from my bag. Begin feeding it down until it hooks one step. 

The numbers climb between my fingers. 10 feet. 20. 30. Suddenly the tape is alive. The steel warbling. The numbers flying through my fingers faster.

Climbing higher. 

50 feet—

60—

70—

An icy prickle crawls down my back. 

100—

110—

120— 

The tape runs out. The roll yanks from my hands so violently I sprawl to the floor. I watch on hands and knees as the tape measure disappears into the bottom teeth with a wet, mechanical slurp. 

For one second, my lungs forget how to breathe.

The 6-year-old boy in me that almost got eaten by machinery shivers.
I push myself up. Stand on wobbly legs. I look around wildly for something else to throw down there. My mind lands on the water bottle in my pack. The plastic crinkles under my grip when I release it onto the steps.

It rolls down the steps; when it reaches the bottom teeth, it flattens. Disappears. Next thing I know, I’m running down the steps and jumping over the teeth. I dig through my back pocket, unfold the wrinkled receipt I got from buying lunch earlier. I hold it over the comb. The paper flutters at first, then—the bottom edges elongate, stretching toward the comb’s teeth. I let go, and it vanishes into the metal seam. 

A terrible excitement balloons in my chest. I start dropping random objects into the glowing jaws. A pen, a palm leaf, a roll of towels from the bathroom—anything I can find that isn't bolted to the ground. I take a chalkboard display from outside a coffee stand and toss it on the steps. It stretches into taffy before something yanks it below. I throw a table and chair from the food court at it which curl into dead spiders before slipping under the metal.

Eventually the novelty wears off. Something unfamiliar replaces the fun. A slow, creeping anxiety. All over my body. Hairline crack.

Where is all of this stuff going? The machinery beneath sounds busier now. Like it’s got more energy after I fed it. 

I look back upstairs. What happens if I do the loop again? Another 10 maybe? I do just that. I wish I’d stopped right here. Just packed up and gone home. But I didn’t. Because only one question rings in my head. 

Not ‘why does the comb eat stuff?’ Or—‘Why are the lamps I want to buy in 214?’

How deep does this go?

On loop 15, I hear something below me. My first thought is; ‘Someone broke inside’ But then I realize the sound is following my footsteps. Mimicking me. It stops when I do, walks when I do. And—I swear—I think I can even hear someone counting.
Second mouth. 

The garbage can lids now bulge. Soiled wet napkins littering the floor.
The music has a strange texture now that I can’t place, like the room sounds submerged. A bad cassette. I stop in front of the sporting goods store on my way back to the descending escalator. My back foot sticks to the ground. I stop. Stare through the glass.

Each mannequin wears the same white tee, blue shorts, and basketball shoes. I shine my beam past them. The same basketball shoes line the wall. Like the store picked a favorite one.   

Loop 20. I think this is the part where most people would turn back. Because this is the first time you see ‘it’.

I step onto the descending escalator, lost in my head. Muttering digits under my breath while I stare at the glowing comb pulling me closer. When something catches my eye, something new. Someone—new.

“43—” I breathe.

A voice below me answers.

“44—”

My mouth hangs open. For a second, I think someone is mocking me. 

Then—

I look up. 

My heart grips fear and runs with it.

Now, because of the escalator's orientation, you only see the back of whoever is on the ascending escalator. And it’s a brief window. That’s how I spot the familiar security uniform. The back of its head. Jaw absently flapping. The small scar behind its ear where hair doesn’t grow. And then it’s out of sight. 

My feet arch wide over the comb. The seams now glowing orange like heat elements. I reach up and touch the raised mark behind my left ear. A cold fist clamps down on my insides. 

The lamps. Surfacing. Like some targeted social media ad. The wet napkins. Multiplying. The loop running my rituals without me. I’m being remembered. Referenced poorly. 

A worse realization dawns on me. If I go back up—it will be his turn to look at my back. The hair on my neck bristles. What happens if it spots me? And then, an even worse—or better—idea pops into my head. 

Camera 14. 

What if I only have access to the loop’s footage while I’m inside the Loop? New destination. 

I crouch on the way up. Press myself against the wall. The urge feels ridiculous. Like I’m hiding from a mirror.

“49—50—51”

The voice sounds like mine, only wrong. Reconstructed from memory. My heart spikes. The frantic rhythm almost throws off my count, and I stumble onto the second floor. Practically diving over the comb. 

I make a break for the security office. Footsteps echo on the floor below me. There’s a loud clatter from the first floor, like whatever rode the escalator down just barreled into a wet floor sign. 

I reach the door. Fumble for my badge. Relief washes over me when I hear the chime. 

Beeeeeep.

The door clicks shut behind me. I sink into my favorite rolling chair. A breath escapes me. Quiet valve release.
I lean over the controls. Camera 14. This camera makes no sense to me. It’s at a junction of the escalators where you can see both up and down. But the bottom of the descending steps and the top of the ascending steps both trail off camera because of the angle. 

I always thought it was useless until now.

I rewind camera 14. My finger hovers above pause/play. A horizontal, static hiss splits the screen. After a few minutes. I hit play and wait. The screen glitches. Skips frames. Me ducking, my back pressed against the metal, ascending. 

Then, *it—*appears.

My heart skips timing.

It looks like me, but assembled wrongly. The first draft. Its face and eyes—they’re…too tall. Its elbows hang below the waist. The security shirt looks tight around the shoulders. Because it’s supposed to fit me. Not it.

I rewind again. The video glitches again. Skips a frame. The double appears on the escalator from nowhere. And then it finally clicks. I rewind again, but this time, farther back. I see myself ascending into loop 20, the double already descending. 

My stomach drops a step too late. 

If I’m looking at its back—then it's already seen mine.  

***

Updated notes:

1. Always count out loud. If you miscount. Start over. (And pray nothing noticed.)
2. Mark the handrail with something that will survive the machinery. (Always board here.)
3. One step gets added per loop. Always acknowledge it. (The loop needs to know you noticed.)
4. Don’t touch the comb. Don’t feed it. (Yeah, I know. I did anyway.)
5. On the 11th loop, all the mannequins around the escalators will reorient. (The loop has pulled you in.)
6. Stores simplify as the loops compound, only selling one item. This is normal. (Memory compression?)
7. Objects you interact with gain significance within the loop. This effect compounds exponentially. (The mall remembers everything you do, but not why.)
8. You will hear the double before you see it. It will fully appear on loop 20.  IT WAS ALREADY THERE.
9. The loop’s geometry will prevent you and the double from meeting. Do not interfere with this. (I don’t know what would happen, and I don’t want to.)
10. The cameras within the loop only show the loop's reality. Not the outside world.
11. Stick to a routine. Acting unpredictably makes the loop chaotic.