When I first applied to the night shift job at ConnectPoint 24/7 Helpline, I thought I was lucky.
After months of unemployment, I didn’t care that the hours were brutal or the pay low. I just needed work.
They told me the night lines were “different.” I didn’t realize how different until my first shift.
Orientation: The Rules of the Call Center
The HR manager, Ms. Raynor, handed me a thin rule sheet before midnight.
“Read carefully,” she said. “Follow every one of them.”
The list looked absurd:
Rule #1: If a call comes from extension 000, do not answer.
Rule #2: If you hear someone breathing but no voice, stay silent for thirty seconds.
Rule #3: Never look into the hallway mirrors after 2 A.M.
Rule #4: If a voice repeats your name three times, disconnect and leave your headset on the desk.
Rule #5: If you smell burnt wires, check the power room — but don’t open the red door.
Rule #6: Never stay past sunrise.
She smiled stiffly. “Welcome to the after-hours division.”
It sounded like a prank.
But ConnectPoint had the best reviews on job boards for “reliable night work,” so I shrugged and signed the papers.
First Shift: Quiet Voices
The call center sat on the 13th floor of an old corporate tower.
Only six cubicles glowed under the humming lights.
The air smelled like dust and static.
My trainer, Leo, was an exhausted-looking guy who’d worked nights for years.
“Most calls are routine,” he said. “Lonely people, late-night crises, weird pranksters. Just stick to the script.”
The first few hours were dull — complaints about lost passwords, delivery issues, wrong numbers.
But at 1:13 A.M., my phone buzzed without ringing. The screen flashed 000.
I froze. Rule #1.
Leo looked over. His expression drained of color.
“Don’t,” he mouthed.
The line stayed open for fifteen seconds. I heard a faint hum — like someone breathing through static — then silence.
When the timer reset to zero, the air felt colder.
Second Shift: The Name on the Line
By the second night, I’d convinced myself it was a glitch.
But the phones behaved oddly again — faint voices whispering over other calls, bits of conversation that didn’t belong.
At 2:41 A.M., an elderly man’s voice came through my headset.
“I used to work there too,” he said.
“Where, sir?” I asked.
“At ConnectPoint. Back when it was called Meridian Communications.”
The name hit me like a memory I didn’t own.
That company had closed a decade ago after a fire.
Before I could reply, the line crackled.
He whispered my name. Once. Twice. Three times.
Every hair on my body rose. Rule #4.
I tore off my headset. The call dropped.
When I looked up, Leo’s cubicle was empty. His chair was still spinning.
Third Shift: The Red Door
The next evening, management said Leo had “quit unexpectedly.”
A new operator, Ava, replaced him — cheerful, calm, too normal for the eerie room we worked in.
At 3 A.M., the faint smell of burnt wiring filled the air. The lights flickered.
I remembered Rule #5: Check the power room, but don’t open the red door.
I took my flashlight and walked down the corridor.
The building felt ancient — wallpaper peeling, faint echoes of typewriters though we used computers.
The power room door was steel, painted red.
Behind it, someone was talking — muffled, rhythmic.
It sounded like dozens of overlapping voices whispering through an intercom.
I stepped back. My flashlight flickered. The whispers stopped.
When I returned to my desk, Ava was gone.
Her headset lay on the floor, still connected.
The display read 000 — 15 minutes connected.
The Recordings
By the fourth night, I was alone. No manager, no coworkers. Just me and the hum of fluorescent lights.
Every other workstation was dark.
My computer displayed a message I hadn’t seen before:
“Voice Logs: Restricted — 3:00 A.M. Files.”
Curiosity won. I clicked.
The first recording played a familiar sound — static, then a woman sobbing.
A second file contained my own voice saying, “Please don’t call again.”
The third file was labeled “Final Transmission — Operator 000.”
A distorted male tone spoke:
“You picked up the line. Now you belong to it.”
The screen glitched, displaying my employee ID under the tag “Active: Extension 000.”
The Truth About the Calls
The next day, I went to HR.
The office was empty except for Ms. Raynor.
When I asked about Ava and Leo, she frowned. “Who?”
She opened my personnel file — it listed me as Night Supervisor, Meridian Communications, dated 2014.
Ten years ago.
She closed the folder slowly. “Maybe you should rest. Some employees… forget the hours.”
I walked out of the building shaking. The sign above the entrance no longer said ConnectPoint.
It said Meridian.
Old, faded letters, half-peeled.
Final Shift: The Third Call
That night, I promised myself it would be my last.
I needed proof that what I’d seen wasn’t real — or that I was losing my mind.
At exactly 1:00 A.M., the extension light blinked: 000.
The screen showed no caller ID, just one word — RETURN.
Against every instinct, I answered.
A woman’s voice, soft, familiar: “Don’t worry. It’s not over yet.”
Static filled my ears. Then multiple voices whispered together — hundreds, maybe thousands.
Every voice said the same thing: Stay with us.
The lights went out. My monitor flashed a final message:
Shift completed. Welcome to the after-hours team.
Aftermath
That was six months ago.
I quit the call center — or maybe it quit me.
Now, whenever I plug in my headset for freelance remote jobs, I hear faint breathing between calls.
Last week I received a voicemail from an unknown number.
The transcript simply read:
Extension 000 connected. Thank you for returning.
Sometimes, when the line hums late at night, I almost answer.
Job-Related Horror and Real Lessons
Working nights at a 24/7 helpline taught me one truth: every job has rules for a reason.
In normal offices, breaking them costs you discipline.
At ConnectPoint, breaking them cost you reality.
If you ever accept a night shift job that feels too quiet, too cold, or too perfect — pay attention to what they don’t tell you in training.
Because some helplines don’t just reach people — they reach places.
And once you pick up, you can’t hang up for good.
