I'm A Night Guard And The Cameras See Things That Aren't There

I'm A Night Guard And The Cameras See Things That Aren't ThereI never asked for the graveyard shift, but it paid more. Three weeks in, a motion sensor pinged at 2:07 a.m. The cameras showed nothing. That's when I learned warehouses keep secrets that breathe.This video presents a *scary* story about a graveyard shift gone wrong, filled with *mystery**. Prepare for an eerie **haunt* as the narrator shares their *creepy* experience and the *paranormal* events that unfolded, possibly involving a **ghost**.

Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Epic Reddit story if it's true. I'm a night guard and the
cameras see things that aren't there.
I never asked for the graveyard shift.
Believe me, it just paid an extra 250 an hour.
And let's be real, rent doesn't pay itself.
Three weeks in, the motion sensor pinged at 2:07 AM.
Cameras showed nobody. And that's when I learned

(00:20):
warehouses keep secrets that breathe.
You think you know what quiet is?
Try a place like this after midnight.
It'll teach you things. The job nobody wants.
Picture this. A colossal slab of corrugated
metal dropped smack dab between endless soybean fields and a
County Road that hasn't seen a dime of tax money since, well,

(00:41):
probably the 90s. That's Ridge Point logistics for
you. 20 loading docks, 0 windows, Not a single one.
And one ancient soda machine that eats singles faster than it
dispenses lukewarm Cokes. They handed me a dented thermos
that smelled faintly of old coffee, a key ring heavier than
my actual phone, and a folding chair.

(01:03):
My entire workstation was just that chair, aimed squarely at 16
flickering CCTV feeds. Orientation lasted maybe 8
minutes. It ended with my supervisor, a
guy named Frank who perpetually smelled like stale cigarettes,
shrugging and muttering. Just don't burn the place down,
kid. Real confidence booster, right?

(01:23):
My checklist was pretty simple, Logger patrol every hour, note
anything even remotely weird, and for God's sake stay awake.
The first month was pure unadulterated monotony.
I swear the highlight of my Tuesday was watching a spider
build a web in Camera 7's blind spot.
But the second week that almost ended with a full blown heart
attack. I still hear those phantom

(01:45):
footsteps when the fridge kicks on at home.
Sometimes. It's funny what your brain
latches onto. First ping night 14, the clock
on the monitor bank load 207 AMA.
Sharp digital chirp from the system ripped me out of 1/2
doze, snapping my neck off the chair.
Back zone 4 rear loading door. It flashed an angry red on my

(02:06):
screen. I leaned in, squinting, fully
expecting to see a raccoon rummaging through a dumpster, or
maybe just a particularly aggressive gust of wind.
Instead, the grainy grayscale feed showed the steel roll shut,
door locked tight, the keypad outside glowing, its routine
unremarkable cyan. Nothing.
Not a single thing moved. I clicked rewind.

(02:28):
Watch the last 30 seconds again.Same result.
Empty. Still, I logged it.
Better to look overly diligent than unemployed, right?
Zone 4 sensor activation. No visual confirmation of
intrusion. Possible fault. 10 minutes
later, the same damn sensor fired again.
Chirp red zone 4. My stomach did that slow,

(02:50):
nauseating roll you get when a roller coaster clicks up its
first hill. Rewind, pause, zoom.
Still an empty threshold, but now the motion overlay on the
screen was dancing like digital confetti, a flurry of green
squares popping up where nothingtangible existed.
I told myself it was a temperature drop, or maybe a

(03:10):
faulty wire. Anything rational.
I radioed the dispatcher, a sleepy voice named Brenda, to
note a glitch and kept watching,my heart thumping a little
faster. The third chirp never came for
Zone 4, so I poured myself another cup of the burnt tar
like coffee and reluctantly resumed my patrol.
I really, really should have kept my eyes glued to the roof

(03:32):
feed. Footsteps overhead.
Patrol minute, hour 3. The warehouse aisles usually
just chilly. Felt 10° colder near the freezer
racks tonight. It was the kind of cold that
sinks into your bones, not just your skin.
Halfway through I heard it, a distinct sound, like boot soles
scraping gravel, except the gravel was tar and asphalt

(03:53):
outside, and the sound was definitely coming from above.
Slow, deliberate scuff, pause, scuff.
I froze dead under the harsh sodium lights, my Maglite
trembling in my hand like a tuning fork struck too hard.
There was no roof access from inside.
Management had sealed the Hatch after a leak repair last spring.

(04:15):
It was supposed to be impossibleto get up there without a ladder
and a key from the outside. My hand flew to my radio.
Bass, this is Unit 7. Possible trespasser on roof
requesting county. Nothing but static hiss.
My pulse hammered in my ears. Brenda's voice finally crackled
back, muffled and distant. Negative.
Unit 7, closest unit 30 minutes out. 30 minutes.

(04:37):
That might as well be next week out here.
I clicked the channel again, hoping for a clearer signal, but
all I heard was the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat.
The scraping stopped. I tried to rationalize it again.
Maybe it's just expansion joints, Maybe a raccoon with
delusions of grandeur. Then the motion sensor for Zone
4 lit up again. Same door, same nothing on

(04:59):
camera. That cold tingle at the base of
my skull started whispering a nasty little thought.
You're the one locked in, not him.
The tape shows faces back at themonitor bank.
My hands were shaking as I rewound the footage to 2:07 AM,
the time of that first phantom ping AT20948.

(05:19):
The feed glitched. Just one frame.
It was darker, like someone had momentarily dimmed reality
itself. My breath hitched.
I advanced frame by agonizing frame on the 4th.
Still there. It was, a silhouette standing
outside the rear loading door, right where the sensor had
tripped. Hat brim, broad shoulders, but

(05:39):
no discernible features. Just avoid.
Next frame gone. Vanished.
I almost convinced myself it wassome kind of compression
artifact, a digital ghost in themachine, until I checked the
time stamp. It matched the sensor activation
precisely. My blood ran cold.
I queued up the next hour of footage, my eyes darting between

(06:00):
the 16 screens, trying to anticipate what might come next.
At 3:12, a second figure materialized inside the loading
Bay. Not outside, inside, back turned
to the camera. Just standing there, staring at
a towering stack of pallets loaded with paper towels.
No badge swipe, no door movement, no truck.

(06:21):
Just there. My breathing forgot it's rhythm
entirely. My heart felt like it was trying
to punch it's way out of my chest.
I exported the segment to the flash drive we're required to
carry, my hands shaking so badlyI missed the USB port twice.
When I finally looked back at the live feed, the Bay was empty
again. The vast warehouse suddenly

(06:42):
sounded like a seashell pressed to my ear.
The hum of air handlers, the gurgle of coolant pumps, and
then something else. Something like a distant, hushed
conversation. I shut off the desk lamp,
plunging the small office into near darkness, hoping the
reflections wouldn't betray me. On the roof, the scraping

(07:03):
resumed, methodical now, matching my frantic heartbeat.
It felt synchronized, like the building itself wanted in on my
circulatory system. Roof check.
Protocol says wait for the deputies.
Instinct, however, screamed at me to learn the layout, to
understand what I was dealing with before backup wandered
blindly into this maze. I grabbed my gear.

(07:25):
East stairwell radio clipped high on my vest, Maglite
clutched in one hand, my extendable baton in the other.
Each step on the concrete stairsechoed like coins dropping down
a drainpipe, amplified by the oppressive silence at roof
level. I pushed against the heavy steel
door. It refused to budget, deadbolt
engaged from the outside. My own padlock, the one I'd put

(07:48):
on last week, hung open like a broken jaw, it's shackle
dangling uselessly. A cold, biting wind howled
through the gap as I finally managed to crack the door open,
forcing it inward. The asphalt roof stretched flat
and desolate under the pale moonlight, broken only by the
skeletal shapes of the HVAC huts.

(08:08):
I swept the beam of my Maglite across the surface.
No footprints, too breezy for any dust to settle.
Vents, antennas, nothing warm blooded, nothing that should be
there. Then, with a deafening clang
that made me jump, the metal access hatch slam shut behind
me. Not wind.
This was too decisive, too deliberate.

(08:29):
I spun around, baton raised, heart pounding like a drum, but
saw only the stark horizon, the endless soybean fields.
My radio squawked a burst of feedback before cutting dead.
Just like that. Silent.
That's when the footsteps started beneath me.
Inside now, walking the very aisles I just left, I was locked

(08:50):
on the roof and something was wearing my patrol route like
borrowed skin. The return.
I didn't think I just reacted. Descended 2 flights in three
frantic leaps, shoulder checked the interior door and barreled
toward the monitor wall. Live feed on Channel 9 showed
the guard chair empty, swivelingslowly as if someone had just

(09:12):
gotten up. Channel 12, aisle C7.
A figure clad in a security jacket identical to mine, back
to the camera, head tilted slightly as if counting pallets
under his breath. The jacket had the same distinct
grease smudge I'd gotten earlier, wedging a stuck pallet
Jack. He turned slow, deliberate.

(09:34):
The face was mine, only wrong. The eyes were too wide, too
vacant. The smile was pulled too far.
A grotesque parody. I stared at myself, watching
myself. The time stamp read real TIME.
My own face twisted into a silent, unsettling grin.
I stepped closer to the screen, my hand reaching out, but the on
screen figure didn't mirror my movement.

(09:55):
Instead, the doppelganger raiseda hand, pressed 1 long pale
finger directly to the camera lens, and the entire monitor
bank died. Black. 16 squares of
nothingness, just blank reflective glass.
In that dark reflection, I saw only my own terrified
silhouette, but the badge on my chest.

(10:15):
It glowed, a reverse mirror image, like it belonged to the
other one. I stumbled back, fumbling for
the wall switch, my fingers slick with sweat.
Fluorescence flickered, then hummed alive.
Every camera rebooted, displaying routine emptiness.
The flash drive still blinked inthe recorder, a tiny red eye.
Proof, I thought, or maybe just insanity with Ausb.

(10:37):
Connector 911 doesn't cover this.
I dialed emergency on the landline, my voice shaking worse
than a freshman giving a speech.Ridge Point Logistics, I blurted
out, my words tumbling over eachother, intruder inside, possibly
impersonating God. I, I think he's me.
The operator, bless her patient soul, started asking clarifying

(11:01):
questions, but the answers tangled on my tongue,
nonsensical and fragmented. While I talked, my eyes drifted
toward the front glass doors of the lobby.
They were fogging up as if someone was exhaling against
them. Slowly, deliberately, even
though I stood a good 20 yards away.
I hung up mid sentence, the receiver clattering against the

(11:22):
desk, and ran to lock the lobby doors.
I jammed the deadbolt into place, heard the satisfying
thunk, but then, almost immediately, it unlocked itself.
The cylinder spun, A frantic metallic whirring like a drill.
My heart leaped into my throat. I abandoned the doors, sprinting
back to the office, and yanked the hard drive rack from beneath

(11:43):
the desk. Two terabytes of footage rattled
free. A treasure trove of what,
exactly? I bagged it along with my flash
drive. If this building wanted to erase
evidence, it would need more than parlour tricks.
Somewhere deep within the warehouse, steel clanged.
Forklifts chimed a chorus of metal on concrete.

(12:05):
The entire building had become an instrument tuning itself to
some unheard, terrifying Symphony.
I realized then the only way outwas through the truck Bay.
Sensor or no sensor, I'd break the padlock if I had to.
The Bay. The loading lights blazed harsh
and blinding as I burst into theBay.
The roll shut door, the very onefrom Zone 4, stood wide open,

(12:29):
the cool night air pouring in onthe threshold.
Fresh boot prints let out, none coming in beyond the gaping more
of the door. The security camera.
Red dots glowed like predatory eyes in the darkness, watching.
I stepped outside, the gravel crunching too loud under my
feet, half expecting to meet myself on the asphalt.

(12:49):
Nothing. The door motors wind, a mournful
sound, and the shutter slam shutbehind me with a final echoing
crash, sealing me out. Inside the warehouse, the light
cycled off 1 section at a time, a creeping wave of darkness
chasing my exit until only the emergency exit sign glared, A
solitary beacon in the encroaching black.

(13:11):
I stood alone in the vast, emptyparking lot, clutching a cheap
plastic bag of hard drives and aflashlight that suddenly felt
ceremonial, Useless. Sirens wailed, distant at first,
then growing louder, closer. But I already knew the deputies
would find no intruder, no forced latch, nothing but a
tired guard with a bladder full of fear and a story fit only for

(13:33):
a campfire. The footprints at the threshold,
they'd vanished, smoothed away by a wind that only touched
dust. Aftermath.
They gave me a paid week off, sent a company psychologist who
used phrases like acute stress, hallucination and sleep
deprivation psychosis. I replayed the footage for her

(13:53):
on my laptop. The exported clip showed the
first silhouette outside, then the second figure inside, then
pixelated static where my doublehad appeared.
She blamed compression artifacts, fatigue, night
terrors. I blamed the building.
When HR offered me day shift at half pay, I quit on the spot.
I just couldn't. Now every squeak in my apartment

(14:15):
ceiling makes me scan for cameras I never installed.
Every unexpected shadow makes mejump.
I still keep that flash drive ina drawer beside my bed.
Some nights it warms up, the tiny LED blinking like it's
trying to upload itself straightinto my brain.
I unplug it, bury it under socks, tell myself it's just
cheap plastic memory, a faulty circuit.

(14:37):
But it doesn't matter. I already know what's burned
into my head won't ever delete.