Charles had always been particularly sensitive to the supernatural, a trait that set him apart from his peers. Some called it a gift, others a curse. For him, it was a reality that he lived with every day. His sensitivity would soon turn an ordinary evening into a night of terror.

It was during his polytechnic days at Ngee Ann, a time filled with assignments, late-night projects, and the camaraderie of friends. He was pursuing a diploma in Film, Sound, and Video, a course that combined his passion for storytelling with the technical skills needed to bring his visions to life. The incident began on a regular evening in the TV studio, a place where creativity and technology merged to produce innovative media. Charles and his girlfriend were the last two people to leave the studio that night, wrapping up their work around 11 PM. The TV studio, located on the seventh floor of Block 53, had always been a second home to them, a place where they spent countless hours editing footage and brainstorming ideas. But that night, the familiar surroundings took on an eerie quality.

As they packed their equipment and prepared to leave, a palpable presence filled the room. It was as if someone, or something, was watching them, lingering in the shadows. The hair on the back of Charles's neck stood up, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. His girlfriend felt it too, the oppressive weight of unseen eyes following their every move.

They exited the studio, the silence of the empty hallways amplifying their unease. The lift landing, usually a mundane waiting area, felt like a portal to another realm. As they approached the lift, the window next to it reflected their anxious faces. But there was something else—a white figure moved in the reflection, swift and ghostly. They turned around, but there was nothing there.

The lift arrived with a soft ding, and they stepped inside, the doors closing behind them with an ominous thud. As the lift descended from the seventh floor, the feeling of being watched intensified. It felt as though someone was standing right behind them, breathing down their necks. Charles's heart pounded in his chest, and he could tell his girlfriend was equally terrified.

When the lift finally reached the ground floor and the doors slid open, they heard footsteps. They weren't theirs—they were the only two people in the lift. The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, but the source was invisible. Charles mustered up some courage, a mix of bravado and curiosity, and decided to investigate.

He peeked behind the door of the left-side exit to the lift landing, expecting to find someone, anyone, to explain the eerie noises. But there was no one. The corridor was empty, the shadows playing tricks on his mind. Just as he turned back, he felt a cold breath on his left ear, followed by a distant, low wail. It was inhuman, echoing around him, near and distant at the same time. The sound was a mournful cry that seemed to come from another world.

Charles's legs went soft, and fear gripped him. He ran, bolting past his girlfriend without a word. She, sensing his terror, followed suit, and they sprinted out of the building, their breaths ragged with panic. That night, their relationship changed forever. The experience left an indelible mark on them, and his girlfriend couldn't shake the feeling that Charles wouldn't be able to protect her in times of danger. They broke up shortly after that incident, the shadow of that night haunting them both.