Speaker 1: When I first started working at the Lost Airline luggage warehouse,
I thought it would be the kind of job you
could do an autopilot, you know, sorting through suitcases, matching
tags and occasionally finding the weird stuff people left behind,
like that one time someone backed an entire taxidermid raccoon.
But after a few months, the novelty wore off and
it became just rose and rose of unclaimed baggage waiting
for someone who was never going to show up. The
place is massive, like a graveyard for forgotten lives. We
hold onto bags for ninety days. If no one claims them,
the contents are auctioned off and the cycle starts over.
My supervisor, Dale once joked that every suitcase holds a secret,
but most of the time it's just dirty laundry and
charges for phones no one uses anymore. But then I
noticed something strange. A section of the warehouse I hadn't
paid much attention to before. It was tucked in the
back past the rows of unclaimed baggage. The area was
marked with a faded sign that just said claimed. At
first I didn't think much of it. I figured they
were bags people had come to collect, But the weird
thing was they were all still there, perfectly stacked, perfectly clean,
no dust, no tags, no signs of wear, and they
didn't show up on the logs. One night, during inventory,
I asked Dale about it. What's the deal with the
claimed bags? I said, trying to sound casual. He didn't
even look up from his clipboard. Some things are better
left alone. He must then change the subject to tomorrow's
auction prep. That answer should have been enough for me
to let it go, but the bag stuck in my head,
something about how pristine they looked, like they didn't belong there,
or maybe belonged too much, like they'd always been there.
The thing about working late in a place like this
is that your mind starts to play tricks on you.
The warehouse is dead quiet after hours, except for the
hum of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of
the metal shelves. It's the kind of silence that makes
you jump at your own shadow. One night, I was
wrapping up some inventory when I heard it shuffling. Something
was moving in the far corner of the warehouse. My
first thought was a stray animal, maybe a raccoon that
snuck in somehow, or knowing Dale, it could have been
some dumb prank to spook the new guy. I grabbed
a flashlight and headed toward the sound. The shuffling stopped
as soon as I got close to the claim section.
There was nothing there, just the same neat rows of
pristine bags untouched. But when I looked closer, one of
the bags was out of place. It had been moved
to a different aisle. I was sure of it. I
called out, Dale, you're messing with me. No answer. I
stood there for a while, listening, but all I heard
was the hum of the light and my own heart beat.
Finally I choked it up to me being tired and
went back to my work. The next day, I didn't
stop thinking about that bag. It didn't make sense. No
one else had been in the warehouse that night, and
the logs didn't show anything unusual. Curiosity got the better
of me, and I decided to take a closer look.
I picked a bag at random, a sleek black duffel
with no tags or identifying marks. My hands were shaking
as I unzipped it, half expecting to find something gruesome
like those urban legends about body parts in lost luggage. Instead,
I found my childhood. The first thing I pulled out
was a tattered copy of The Hobbit, the exact same
edition my dad used to read me when I was little.
The corners were bent in the same way, like someone
a dog eared the pages. Then there was a faded
red jacket, my mom's jacket. I hadn't seen it in years,
but I recognized the frayed cuffs and the small ink
stain on the pocket. And then I saw the photo.
It was a picture of me as a teenager, standing
in front of what looked like a campfire. For the
people around me, I didn't know any of them. They
were smiling, leaning in like we were all best friends,
but I couldn't place a single face. What really got me, though,
was the photo itself. It wasn't just old, It looked wrong.
The edges were warped, like the image had been stretched
too far, and the sky in the background was a
sickly shade of green. As it did, the bag up
and shoved it back on the shelf, my heart pounding.
Maybe it was some kind of elaborate joke, maybe someone
had found my stuff online or dug through records to
mess with me. But deep down I knew better. I
should have let it go. I should have zipped that
bag up and walked away for good. But when you
see pieces of your own life staring back at you
things you can't explain, you can't just ignore it. At
least I couldn't. The next night, I stayed late again.
I told myself I was finishing inventory, but really I
couldn't stop thinking about that bag. I needed to see
if what I found was still inside. Maybe I'd imagined it,
maybe someone was screwing with me. But when I opened it,
the contents had changed. It wasn't the book or jacket anymore.
This time there was a watch, my watch, the one
i'd lost three years ago on a camping trip. Next
To it was a folded up piece of paper, and
when I opened it, I nearly dropped it. It was
a note written in my handwriting, You're almost there, keep looking,
but I didn't remember writing it. And then there was
the toy plane. It was identical to one I used
to have as a kid, right down to the chipped
wing and the faded blue paint. It couldn't have been coincidence,
it just couldn't. I zipped the bag back up, my
hand shaking and shoved it back in the shelf. For
the rest of the night, I tried to act normal,
but my head was spinning. What the hell was happening,
Who could have put those things in there? And why?
Day things got weirder. Dale was jumpy more than usual.
He barely looked at me when I clocked in, and
at one point I caught him on the phone. He
was pacing near the breakroom, muttering under his breath, but
I swear I heard him say another one's getting close.
When he noticed me, he hung up fast and walked off,
pretending like nothing had happened. Other people started noticing things too.
A couple of the guys joked about hearing whispers when
they passed the claim section. One of them, Chris, said
it sounded like someone was calling his name, but he
laughed it off. This place as creepy as hell at night, man,
he said, shaking his head. I'm not going near that
corner again. And then the dream started. The first one
wasn't bad, just strange. I was sitting at a dinner
table with a family that felt familiar, like I should
have known them, but I didn't. They were laughing, talking,
passing dishes around. It was warm, comfortable, But when I
woke up, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
I don't have a family like that. I never have.
Then exttreme was worse. I was standing in a church
wearing a tuxedo, holding someone's hand, a bride. I couldn't
see her face, but I knew, I knew I was
supposed to know her. My heart was raising, not from fear,
but from something else, like longing or regret. When I
woke up, I felt this crushing emptiness, like I'd lost
something I never even had. Every night there was something new,
a birthday. I'd never been to a road trip, I
never took a life that didn't belong to me, but
somehow felt like it did. It was like the bag
wasn't just holding objects, he was holding memories, pieces of
a life that I was starting to think might have
been mine, or could have been mine. I couldn't stop
thinking about it. I couldn't stop going back. It was
around midnight when I was finally alone, and I decided
to investigate anything that could tell me what was going on.
I only had enough access in the computers to check
data on the main luggage. We sorted. Dale was a
stand up guy, but not the smartest when it came
to technology, so getting into his account was easy. His
password was on a sticky note under the monitor. The
claim section wasn't in any of the official documentation. It
was like it didn't exist. The first thing I noticed
was how sparse the records were. There were no flight numbers,
no name of passengers, no airports of origin, just dates
and vague location tags. But then I scrolled further back
and my stomach dropped. The logs listed names, names of people,
former employees, frequent travelers, even a couple of warehouse delivery drivers.
Each name was flagged as unaccounted for missing. The timestamps
in the logs didn't make sense either. They showed dates weeks,
sometimes months after these people had supposedly vanished, like the
system was still tracking them even though they were gone.
I didn't sleep that night. Every sound in my apartment
made me jump, and every shadow felt like it was
creeping closer. By the next morning, I knew I couldn't
keep this to myself. I cornered Dale during lunch, catching
him off guard as he stood by the vending machines. Dale,
what's going on? Were the claimed bags? I asked, keeping
my voice low. His expression shifted instantly. It wasn't just fear,
it was resignation, like he'd been waiting for this. You've
been poking around too much, he muttered, glancing nervously toward
the security cameras. Why are their names tied to the bags?
People who went missing? What the hell is this place?
I demanded, dale side, his shoulders slumping. You weren't supposed
to dig this deep. Look those bags they're not normal.
They don't belong to any airline, any traveler. They belong
to people have been taken, taken by who? Not who? What?
He said, his voice dropping to a whisper. Those bags
are like anchors. They're tied to something else, somewhere else.
When you open one, you're inviting it in. It starts
pulling pieces of you, rewriting things. The more you interact,
the harder it is to stay here. Eventually, you just go.
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying.
It sounded insane, but every strange thing I'd seen in
that warehouse suddenly felt like a puzzle snapping into place.
Why didn't you warn me, I asked, my voice shaking.
I tried, he said, but curiosity always wins. It's why
they keep sending people like us to work here, people
who need the job but won't be missed. If something happens. Now,
you're in too deep. Whatever's in those bags, it's noticed you.
That night, when I walked into the warehouse for my shift,
the first thing I saw was a new bag in
the claim section. It wasn't there before. It was smaller
than the others, almost like a carry on. My name
was printed on the tag. My froze, my stomach twisting into.
The bag was locked, but as I stood there, I
heard it a faint tapping from inside, like someone was
knocking to get out. I knew I was in over
my head, but by this point, the bag with my
name on it was all I could think about. It
wasn't just curiosity anymore. It felt like a compulsion, a
pull I couldn't ignore. That night, I waited until the
warehouse was empty and the cameras were angled away. My
hands were shaking when I broke it open. Inside there
was no clothing or trinkets, no personal items, just a shimmering,
mirror like surface. It was unnatural, almost liquid, but solid
at the same time. I leaned closer, and my reflection
stared back at me, except it wasn't quite right. My
face looked older, tired, The scar on my chin from
middle school wasn't there. Before I could process it, the
surface rippled and I felt myself being pulled forward. I
tried to step back, but my legs wouldn't move. The
world around me blurred, and suddenly I was somewhere else.
The warehouse was still there, but it wasn't the same.
The lights flickered erratically, casting long, distorted shadows. The air
was thick, suffocating, and everything was silent, not the kind
of silence where you could hear you and breathing, but
avoid like didn't exist. The aisles stretched endlessly in every direction,
and every bag in the claim section was there, stacked
high and moving ever so slightly on their own. Then
I saw him, another me. He stepped out from one
of the aisles, and I almost screamed. He looked just
like me, but older, maybe by ten twenty years. His
eyes were sunken, his skin pale and gaunt. He moved
like every step was painful. But there was something worse
than his appearance. It was the look on his face. Desperation.
You shouldn't have opened it, he said, his voice hoarse
but clear. You need to leave now. What is this?
Who are you? I demanded, though my voice cracked halfway through.
I'm you, he said, his voice tinged with something close
to regret. Oh I was, And if you don't leave,
you'll become me. I didn't understand, how could I? But
he kept talking, fast and frantic, like he was running
out of time. The bags aren't just lost luggage, they're markers.
If you open yours, you'll bound to this place, this
other version of the warehouse. He'll lose everything, your life,
your memories. You'll become a part of it. I tried
to speak, but then I saw them, shadowy figures emerging
from the aisles, moving slowly but deliberately. Arms were vague
like smoke, trying to take shape, but I could see
the hints of faces, some anguished, some expressionless. They were
the ones who would open their bags, victims trapped here forever.
They'll take you if you stay, the other me said,
his voice trembling. Please don't let them take you. I
could barely breathe. The figures were getting closer, the void
like silence pressing down on me. The other me reached
into his own bag, his version of my bag, and
pulled out the mirror like surface. This here's your way out,
he said, use it, don't look back. I hesitated, my
mind raising, but then I saw the figures reach for him.
His face twisted in panic as he sh the mirror
towards me. Go, he screamed. I grabbed it and felt
the pull again, the same sensation as before, but reversed.
The distorted warehouse blurred around me, and suddenly I was
back in the real one, sprawled on the cold concrete
floor next to the bag. It was zipped shut like
I'd never touched it. The silence was gone, replaced by
the hum of the fluorescent lights, but my hands wouldn't
stop shaking. I stared at the bag, half expecting it
to move, but it didn't. I scrambled to my feet
and ran, leaving everything behind. When I went back the
day after opening my bag, something felt half. I walked
into the break room and my usual coffee mug, this
old chips aamic one with my initials, wasn't on the counter. Instead,
there was a sleek, brand new travel mug I'd never
seen before. Some one probably just moved it, I thought.
But then I opened my locker. The photos of my
niece and nephew that i'd taped inside, gone, my spare
hoodie gone. In their place were things I didn't recognize.
A set of khakis I didn't own, a pair of
sunglasses I'd never seen before. They weren't just random items.
They felt like placeholders, substitutes for my own life. When
I asked Dale about it, he gave me this blank look,
like he didn't even know who I was. You knew
here or something, he asked, scratching his head. The guy
who trained me, who signed off my first paycheck, was
now acting like I was a stranger. I thought maybe
he was screwing with me, But the way he looked
at me, confused, almost scared, it didn't feel like a joke.
The worst part was the claim section. My bag wasn't
there anymore. I combed through every aisle, every shelf, but
it was gone. Instead. There were new bags, ones I
didn't recognize, and I swear some of them were moving
ever so slightly, like they were breathing. I couldn't stay there.
The warehouse had changed, or maybe I had. Either way,
I left, I didn't even bother clocking out. I just
got in my car and drove, telling myself i'd never
go back. For a day or two, I thought I
was in the clear. I stayed in bed, ignored my phone,
and tried to convince myself that everything was fine. But
then the bag started showing up. The first time it
was in my car. I unlocked the drive to the
grocery store, and there it was, sitting on the passenger
seat like it had always been there. It wasn't the
same bag I'd opened in the warehouse, but it was
unmistakably one of those bags, pristine, untagged and humming faintly
with that same low static sound. I left my car
in the lot and walked home. Then one appeared outside
my apartment door, same type, same unnerving hum. I didn't tell.
I stepped over it, slamming my door and shoved a
chair under the handle. When I finally worked up the
nerve to peek through the people a few hours later,
it was gone, but they kept coming, and I walked
to the park. I saw one sitting on a bench,
perfectly placed as if waiting for me. Another was on
the side of the road, half hidden in the weeds,
but I knew it was meant for me. They're not
just bags anymore, the markers, warnings, reminders. Then I can
feel them closing in. I thought quitting would end it.
I thought walking away from that damn warehouse would mean
I could finally sleep, that I could leave all this behind.
I was so wrong with the bags, those claimed bags.
They don't leave you alone. After I left, I moved
back in with my parents for a while, the thought
of being alone in an apartment made my skin crawl.
Even now, I keep my blinds drawn and double check
the locks on every door, every window, not that it helps.
The paranoia is always there, like something just out of
sight waiting. The bags don't stop, or at least the
feeling of them doesn't. Sometimes, when the house is quiet
and I'm trying to fall asleep, I hear faint tapping.
It's soft, rhythmic, like someone drumming their fingers on the floor.
It always comes from places where something could hide, a
closet under the bed, even the trunk of my car.
Once I'll sit up, heart pounding and tell myself it's nothing.
But I don't go locking, not anymore. Every now and
then I dream about the warehouse. I see the rows
of bags stretching into infinity, amaze I can't escape from.
Sometimes I hear Dale's voice echoing through the aisles, warning
me to stay away. Other Times I see myself, not
me as I am now, but a different version of me,
one who stayed, one who opened all the bags, one
who never left, and he just smiles like he knows
something I don't. I've tried to piece it all together
to make sense of it, but there's no explanation that satisfies.
The claim section wasn't unclaimed luggage. It was something else,
a doorway, maybe a trap, or maybe just the cruel
joke the universe decided to play on me. I don't
want anyone else to go through what I did. If
you ever lose your luggage, pray it's days last. Because
if you see your name on a bag that isn't yours,
don't open it, not even once,