I quit my job at the tanning salon.

I don’t think I ever could have guessed that I’d be working at a tanning salon at some point in this lifetime. I’ve never been interested in being a part of that crowd. I was brought up with the belief that cooking yourself into another skin tone will only give you cancer at some point.

I got the job my sophomore year in high school. My dad was good friends with the manager of the salon and he’d put in the good word for me. Having a job was new to me; I didn’t really care what the job was, I was just excited to be making my own money for the first time. Not to mention, I had plans to go to college and I needed the funds.

I was all set to meet my boss for an interview. I had dressed up and applied my makeup as I’d been told to do- you’re supposed to look nice at a job interview, first impressions and all that. When I got there, things were already not as I’d expected they’d be. My boss was in sweatpants and a tank top and, Lord, I’d never seen fingernails longer than hers. We introduced ourselves and instead of sitting me down and asking me questions like, what made me right for this job or how could I better her business, she was showing me how everything worked and then, how soon could I start?

The salon is essentially a long hallway. You walk in and there’s the front desk and a couch, and beyond that it’s a path down to the back with all the rooms on your right. The walls are this tacky red color and there are posters that have clearly been hanging there, collecting dust, for the better half of a decade. Speaking of which, everything is covered in dust except the tanning beds themselves that we’re instructed to clean after each use. If I had to guess the cause of the thick dusty layer I’d say it’s because, unlike a normal building, there are no ceiling tiles in the ceiling. There are metal rafters that crisscross over the whole thing where you can see the ceiling tiles would go if there were any. Above those rafters, everything is painted black. The walls, the vents, everything. The only thing you can really see if you look up are the electrical wires connecting to the lights and the security cameras. And those wires are fuzzy since they're all covered in thick layers of spider web after hanging up there for who knows how long. The building itself resides in a shopping plaza sandwiched between a paint store and an empty space available for lease. I say all this in present tense because the place is still very much in business as far as I know. How long it will be in business for? I couldn’t tell you that. I left so I wouldn't have to be there to find out.

Now, my boss was, and probably still is, cheap. She would only pay one person to work the salon at a time, so that meant it was my job to run the computer, clean the beds, and maintain the place from 12PM to 9PM Wednesday through Saturday.

There were a couple of strict rules I should mention because they hold significance. I was not allowed, under any circumstance to take the garbage to the dumpster at night. I was to throw it in the back room (which was to remain locked any other time) and leave it for the girl who worked the morning shift. It made sense to me. We were in a town that was known for drug related trouble and people that weren’t the safest to be around at night. Plus, in the back of the building sat a small parking lot, which broke into forest five miles deep farther on, so wild animals were a concern. I was also instructed to never give out my boss’ phone number to anyone who called or asked in person. I was never told why; I always figured she got sick of telemarketers pestering her about things. I wish this was still the most reasonable explanation I could come up with. And lastly I was told to make sure that I swept the floors often and dusted the shelves with merchandise on them. They were all fairly reasonable requests, and it wasn’t until shit started to happen that I realized there could be dark motives behind even the most mundane instructions.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a tanning salon, but when the beds are running, it’s loud. The fans kick in and all you can hear is the hum of air rattling the walls. It’s a hassle to answer the phones when the beds are running cause you can’t hear a damn thing. And in the summer, when the AC is on too? Forget it.

All of my coworkers were girls who fit the “tanning salon” image far better than me. The bronzed, leathery skin, too much makeup, and MTV reality shows blasting over the sound of the beds. When no one was in the building and the beds weren’t running, you still couldn’t hear anything over the TV. I, on the other hand, was never a huge TV watcher. I preferred to read. So I made good use of the rare slow day, making it almost silent in the salon save for the soft buzzing of the lights. Unfortunately, in this newfound quiet I started hearing things almost immediately, and that’s when it started.

There would be a lull in the day when no one would come in for hours. I’d sit at the desk and read or do my homework quietly, trying not to jump at the slightest sound of the building settling. And that’s what I thought it was for a long time- just the walls stretching and compacting like most do.

Then came the tapping. I know I’m not crazy because one of the other girls who worked there said she had heard it too while she was opening the salon one morning. She’d figured it was some weirdo in the paint store next to us tapping on the wall to freak her out. I wished that the paint store didn’t open two hours after we do.

I had been working there for about a year before the tapping moved into the space above me, instead of the wall across from where I sat. Now, remember that ceiling I mentioned before? I can’t describe the feeling of dread that pools in your stomach when you’re alone and you look up and there’s this expanse of black right above your head. This time, I chalked it up to pressure settling in the vents or something science-y like that.

Things only got worse as time went on.

I should mention that there are two rooms only employees are allowed to go in. The first is the laundry room where we, you know, do the laundry. It’s also where we keep the vacuum and the safe for all the register money in a closet, so you’re probably in and out of that room at least three times a shift. When you face the washing machine or the closet, your back is turned on the door that leads back out into the hallway.

The second room with restricted access is the “back room” where we throw the garbage at night for the morning girl to take out to the dumpster. The room is L shaped and there’s nothing in it except for paint cans to keep the door propped open. If you go all the way to the back there’s another door that sticks when it’s humid and is almost impossible to pull shut behind you so it’s almost always ajar. This door leads outside to the dumpster, the parking lot, and the woods behind that. Since that door is so hard to close, the one that leads back inside locks from the inside.

A loud whine sounds whenever the front or the back door to the salon opens so you always know when a customer walks in. I can’t hear that sound now without getting chills.

It was April of my senior year and I was working my evening shift. I think it was about 7PM and it was a slow day. There was no one in the salon except me. I was sweeping the floor like I would any other day. I bent down to collect all the dirt and hair I’d swept into a pile when I heard the doorbell. I made my way up to the front desk since customers can’t get in through the back way cause the door’s locked. There was no one there. I went to the window and looked out at the sidewalk, (it wasn’t uncommon for paint store customers to walk in by mistake) but there wasn’t a soul in sight. I jumped when the price scanner chirped behind me.

Severely disturbed, I went behind the desk to see what was going on with the system. Everything was fine, nothing out of place, no weird Ring-esque footage on the screen or anything. I reached for my phone to text a friend, just so I wouldn’t feel alone, when there was a slam in the hallway. The broom I’d propped up against the wall had fallen onto the floor. At this point I was shedding a cold sweat.

I called my manager because I didn’t know what else to do. When she answered I stuttered out some string of semi coherent phrases about the computer system acting up. She told me to turn it off and then back on again in a bored tone and hung up.

Then it was early May and I was pulling hair out of the dryer. It’s something I’d grown accustomed to. In a tanning salon, most people tan naked or almost naked so there’s always “human debris” to clean up afterwards be it skin, sweat, or hair. So there I was, picking it out of a freshly dried towel when I got that creeping sensation of eyes watching me from behind. I’m just being paranoid, I told myself and refused to turn and look. With the pile of towels in one arm, I closed the door to the dryer and screeched as a sting of electricity shot through my fingers. Stupid fucking machine probably isn’t grounded properly.

The phone rang as I folded the towels at the desk. It was a woman with a southern drawl asking if she could speak to my boss. I told her she wasn’t in and asked if I could take a message. The woman assured me that wouldn’t be necessary if I could just give her my boss’ phone number--she’d deliver the message herself. Acting as the loyal employee, I informed her that I was not at liberty to give it out. There was a long silence on the other end before she asked me if I was really sure about that. Her voice sounded thin as she went on to explain that she needed to speak with my boss about something urgent that “would effect a good number of people if not resolved soon.”

This woman wasn’t the first to pester me about the phone number, but she was hands down the most persistent. Even so, I didn’t want to risk getting fired so I insisted it was impossible. The woman said nothing before she hung up. I left a note for my boss on the counter, telling her that someone had tried to reach her. I found that note in one of the trash cans during my shift the next day.

My last day working at the salon was in August of that same year. I still dream about what I saw that night and I still don’t totally understand it.

I was closing up that night. It was 9:06PM and I’d stayed after to finish sweeping. I was getting frustrated because the floors refused to stay clean. I’d get to the end of the building only to see that I’d missed another strand of long, dark hair. I’d pick it up, throw it out, and find another as soon as I turned around. Finally, I gave up and left it for the morning girl to deal with.

The light switches were on the wall behind the desk. All I had to do at the end of each night was clock myself out of the computer system, turn the lights off, and set the alarm before walking out and locking the door behind me.

I hated this part because those seven steps between the desk and the door were so incredibly dark once the lights were off. After a day of noise, seven noiseless steps in a stretch of space devoid of even the lights’ familiar buzzing stretched into an eternity of walking. I had just switched the last one off when I heard a loud banging coming from the ceiling at the other end of the hallway. I froze in absolute terror, keys in hand, straining my eyes against that unfathomable darkness. It was getting closer, faster.

I willed myself to move and made it to the door, but not before I saw that fucking thing. The only light in the entire salon came from the sleeping computer but it was enough to illuminate a figure crab-walking along the vent in the ceiling. Pale skin, spidery arms, long inky hair that hung down like a curtain. My heartbeat pounded in my throat. I dashed outside on trembling legs and slammed the door shut. I fumbled for the key, jammed it into the lock and turned it as a blanched hand slapped against the glass in front of my face with a dry papery crunch.

I sat in my car, crying, fumbling with my phone. When my boss picked up, I told her I wouldn’t be coming back. She answered as if she’d been expecting it.

I do not know what is in that tanning salon amongst the spiderwebs and dead skin. But I think it’s been there for a while. I think my boss knows about it. I think she must go to great lengths to hide whatever it is exactly she knows. I think that she’s under pressure to keep whatever it is under wraps.

I don’t know what used to be in that empty space next to the salon but no one’s come forth to lease it or anything. I don’t think ours is the first place to inhabit that creature, and I’m not waiting around to find out how long it’ll take for the salon to disappear, leaving another deserted, empty hallway in the plaza.

I haven’t seen anything like it since, but to this day at my new workplace, if there’s a strand of hair on the ground, I can’t shake the urge to look up.