The Alarm System
In our modest municipal office the security is deliberately minimal: a panic button on the desk and a home alarm that I arm every night after the last client leaves. The routine is simple – turn the lights off, press the arming switch, and the system watches over the empty rooms until dawn.
The Unusual Client
That day I wasn’t alone; my colleague was sitting beside me. A woman entered, her passport showing an age of about eighty, yet her voice was bright and youthful. The contrast set off an alarm in my mind before the real one ever rang.
She blurted out, “Do you give money here? Then give it to me.” A quick check of the database revealed a single entry: a solitary senior who had never applied before.
We began to list the required documents, but within minutes her speech turned into an unending stream of curses. She insulted bureaucrats, wished injuries on me and my family, and cursed my ancestors down to the seventh generation. My partner gave me a silent signal – “We’ll have to remove her by force.” The internal guidelines state that a client may be abusive, but staff are not allowed to raise their voices.
I tried to stay calm, ignoring the invectives while continuing the paperwork. After two hours she staggered toward the door, hurling a final malediction: “You’ve driven me to the edge, scoundrel! My heart hurts now, but don’t rejoice – I’ll die and come back to you!” The office fell silent as she left, but a sense of unease lingered.
The Sudden Lockdown
At 18:00 I switched off the lights, engaged the alarm, and pressed the usual sequence of buttons. Instead of the soft chime I expect, the system emitted a wild, high‑pitched wail. All phones in the apartment died, and the doors slammed shut automatically.
I called the central dispatch, only to hear the canned reply:
“You probably have a client still inside… please check everything carefully.”
The dispatcher didn’t believe me. He accused me of being drunk and of harassing the system.
My partner and I stood in total darkness; the doors would not budge, and the windows were locked from the inside. The dispatcher’s voice grew angrier:
“Hold on for a patrol unit while we sort this out.”
The Call to Dispatch
The recorded log showed a perimeter breach, yet the room was empty. I begged for the lock to be released, but the operator only repeated the same hostile script.
Police Arrival
A few minutes later, uniformed officers arrived at the door. As soon as they forced it open, we were literally thrown out into the hallway. Ten minutes after that, the same officers returned, puzzled, scanning the apartment:
“There’s no damage, but someone definitely walked around in here. We’ve never seen anything like this.”
We powered down the alarm, left the apartment, and the next day a technician inspected every component – everything was functioning perfectly.
Aftermath
Since that night I repeatedly search the database for the mysterious grandmother, but I cannot bring myself to open her full record. Was it a genuine technical glitch, or a nervous breakdown after a grueling shift where every client feels like a manifestation of rage?
The incident reminded me how thin the line is between ordinary bureaucracy and the uncanny.
If you ever encounter a similar situation, remember: sometimes the scariest alarm is the one inside your own mind.
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