It happened to a foreign employee working late in a certain office building in Japan.
—You wish to hear it, then.
So be it… but keep your light close.
He was a diligent man.
Three years had passed since his transfer to Tokyo, and he had grown used to Japan’s ways—its rhythm, its politeness, its endless work.
That night, only his desk lamp still burned in the silent office.
The clock was approaching one in the morning.
Finally, he packed his things and stood up.
The city lights shimmered through the glass wall, far below.
Everyone else had gone home hours ago.
He pressed the elevator button and waited for the familiar ding.
When the doors opened, he stepped inside and pressed 1.
The car moved with a low hum, but when the doors slid open again— he was on the top floor.
“…I must’ve pressed the wrong one,” he thought, tiredly. He pressed 1 again.
The elevator moved… stopped… and opened.
Once more—the top floor.
He frowned, tried again.
The display flickered strangely—letters and symbols flashed briefly:B,R,8…
He felt an odd chill crawl up his spine.
Taking out his phone, he called the building’s night manager.
“Excuse me, the elevator isn’t working properly.”
The voice on the other end was groggy, annoyed.
“It’s quite late, sir. Please use the stairs tonight.
We’ll have it checked in the morning.”
Sighing, he hung up and walked toward the emergency stairwell.
Only the dim emergency lights glowed along the concrete walls.
As he opened the door, he saw a figure ahead—
someone was walking up the stairs.
“…Someone else is still here?”
Relieved to see another worker, he thought to warn them about the broken elevator.
He followed, climbing step after step.
The stairway ended at the rooftop door.
He pushed it open—cold night air rushed against his face.
The rooftop was empty.
No footsteps, no sound but the wind.
No corners to hide, no paths to cross.
“…I must be seeing things.”
He turned to go back down.
Then he noticed it.
A pair of white high heels, neatly placed side by side by the door.
He was sure they hadn’t been there before.
Perhaps he had missed them in the dark, he told himself.
He started down the stairs again.
Clack… clack…
His leather shoes echoed sharply in the empty stairwell.
Cold concrete, faint green light, a breath of silence.
Another set of footsteps.
At first he thought it was an echo.
But the rhythm was wrong—half a beat behind his own.
As though someone were following him… matching his pace.
He stopped.
The other footsteps stopped, too.
A cold sweat ran down his back.
He didn’t turn around. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the next step,
and slowly—very slowly—descended, one step at a time.
After what felt like an eternity,
he reached the first floor landing.
That was when he heard it—
a faint whisper of wind behind him.
…But how could there be wind inside a sealed building?
He turned.
There was nothing.
Only the dark lobby stretching before him.
The next morning, he told a colleague about it.
At first the man laughed—until the story reached the part about the rooftop.
Then his face changed.
“…You went up there?”
“Yes. I thought I saw someone.”
The colleague sighed.
“Years ago, there was a woman who worked here.
She couldn’t handle the pressure… the endless hours.
One night, she went up to that roof—and never came down.”
The foreigner said nothing.
In his mind, he could still see those white heels, neatly placed by the door.
It was an age when Japan believed that hard work alone could save a soul.
“Can you fight for twenty-four hours?”—that was the proud, poisonous slogan.
People worshiped diligence, and exhaustion was a badge of honor.
But some… worked until their hearts broke.
And sometimes, they left their spirits behind—in the very offices that consumed them.
He left the company not long after.
“I feel as though that voice might call me again,” he said quietly.
On his final day, when he came to clear his locker,
someone had placed one white heel on top of it.
No one ever admitted to leaving it there.
No one knew who had.
When we lose our way—
when we walk unfamiliar paths—
a sudden shadow or figure can feel like comfort.
We follow it without thinking.
But be careful.
That shadow you follow…
may not belong to the living.
Leave the light on, if you can.
Shadows linger after stories like this.
We will meet again… when you are ready to hear another.
Heh… heh…
Japan Ghost Tales Story Art Collection
Oh… has a cold sweat already begun to break out upon you?
Phantom Joe has prepared a token—an artwork from the“Japan Ghost Tales Story Art Collection.”
Perhaps… you would dare to keep tonight’s tale as a memento?