Basement Parking Area

James was a cunning and slick guy. He once noticed a poor man begging for alms, and people around were kind enough to spare him some change. That sight sparked an idea — if every stranger gave even a dollar, and he asked enough of them, the money would pile up.

So he decided to put his plan to the test.

He dressed in worn-out, tattered clothes, rubbed dirt onto his face and arms to appear homeless, and practiced a carefully crafted sob story. At first, he tried tourist spots, packed with people, but his “yield” was low. The crowds moved too fast, and most didn’t stop long enough to listen.

He realized he needed a different approach — a place where he could catch people off guard, where the odds of refusal would be lower. After some thought, he had his eureka moment: a basement parking lot. Dark, quiet, and isolated. Perfect for cornering unsuspecting targets.

He selected several major malls with large basement car parks and ran his scheme. The haul was far better, but he couldn’t stay long at any one location. Security grew suspicious, and customers started reporting him to mall representatives or posting about him online.

Eventually, James found what he considered the perfect hunting ground: an old, half-forgotten mall. The place still had decent foot traffic, but the basement parking was poorly maintained, damp, and dimly lit — enough to make anyone uneasy. Fear, he thought, was a shortcut to generosity.

From noon until late at night, James worked the lot, especially thriving on weekends thanks to a late-night cinema crowd. Vulnerable people, isolated in the dark — sometimes, when luck was on his side, his tone grew sharp enough to sound like a threat, and the money flowed even easier.

One night, he spotted a group of women heading to their cars. One of them wandered deeper into the lot, alone. James saw his moment and followed quietly. But just before he could approach her, an old man in a white robe, leaning on a wooden stick, appeared from the shadows and asked her for alms.

James froze.

His gut twisted with anger. That old man is stealing my idea!

Frustrated, he rushed toward them, but something felt... off. His legs were heavy, his movements sluggish, as if the air had thickened. By the time he reached them, the woman had already handed some cash to the old man, gotten into her car, and driven off.

James confronted the old man, voice sharp with annoyance.

“Woi, old man, why you steal my idea and my spot?”

The old man simply smiled and held out his hand for alms.

James, seething, lifted his foot to kick the old man — but before he could, the basement lights flickered violently, plunging the lot into pulses of blinding white and pitch darkness.

A calm, almost soothing voice echoed in the silence.

"You like this place? Alright... I shall let you have this place."

When the lights settled, the old man was gone. James stood alone.

Shaking it off, he muttered to himself, “Wah, nowadays so advanced... even got tricks like that.” He glanced at his watch. 3:00 AM. The second hand wasn’t moving.

Assuming he had stayed out too late, he decided to head home. But no matter how many turns he took, the exit was nowhere to be found. His phone showed the same time: 3:00 AM. No signal.

Panic began to swell. He called out for help, ran through the endless rows of cars, over and over. His voice cracked. His legs weakened. The time never changed.

But the parking lot... did.

It wasn’t just the exits that vanished. The layout itself seemed to shift. Ramps that should have led upward circled him back to the same row of shadowy cars. Signs he swore he passed only once appeared again and again. The sound of his own footsteps began to change, growing softer — as if the walls were swallowing the noise.

And then, suddenly, his phone rang. An unknown number.

Without hesitation, he answered, desperate for a way out. On the other end, only silence — until a familiar voice spoke:

"Why do you want to leave? Isn’t this your spot?"

James's eyes widened, his body moving against his will, his feet turning back toward the very spot where he had confronted the old man.

But the longer he walked, the stranger things became. The rows of cars, at first dark and worn with age, began to rust and decay, like they'd been abandoned for years. Water dripped from the cracked ceiling, each droplet landing with the same, steady, unnatural rhythm — like a ticking clock stuck in time.

When he finally reached the old spot, he found an old, crumpled blanket lying in the exact place where the old man had stood. Next to it, a single worn-out tin can sat on the cold cement. He knelt beside it, his body trembling, but his hands moved without his command, placing the can neatly in front of him.

And there he sat. Waiting.

Waiting for someone to spare him some change.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. James couldn’t tell anymore — time had no meaning in that place. His hunger and thirst vanished. The only thing that remained was the gnawing sensation that he had always been there.

Outside, the world moved on.

But some nights, long after the mall’s last lights had gone out, a beggar-like figure could be seen wandering aimlessly at the very bottom of the basement parking area. At exactly 3:00 AM, if you’re unlucky enough to still be inside, you might hear it — soft, desperate footsteps running, followed by faint, distant screams.

Some say it’s James. Others say it’s the old man looking for his next replacement.

Some places aren’t meant for second chances. Some things aren’t meant to be disturbed. And some spaces are best left alone, because once you enter, you may not leave the same — or at all.