不可思議傳說｜第七篇 – 失落的樓層 | The Missing Thirteenth Floor: A Haunted Elevator Story of the Floor That Should Not Exist
我搬進這棟老舊的建築已經半年，這裡的一切都顯得普通又平靜。這是一棟二十層的住宅樓，雖然有些年頭，但管理還算得上井井有條。唯一讓人覺得奇怪的，是這棟建築並沒有第十三層。
電梯的按鈕面板從十二層直接跳到十四層，這種設計並不罕見。聽說是因為某些文化禁忌，十三這個數字被認為不吉利，因此許多建築乾脆省略了這一層。我初搬進來時也沒多想，畢竟現代人哪還會在意這些陳舊的迷信。直到某一天夜裡，一件詭異的事徹底改變了我的看法。
那天晚上，我加班到很晚，回到家時已是凌晨兩點多。整個大廳空蕩蕩的，只有昏黃的燈光打在光滑的大理石地板上，映出電梯門的冷光。我按下了電梯按鈕，等待著它從上面的樓層緩緩降下。
「叮——」電梯門打開了，我走進去，按下十四層的按鈕。電梯門關上後，熟悉的上升感傳來。我靠在電梯牆上，疲憊地閉上眼睛。
當電梯經過十二層時，它突然開始減速。這種情況我以前從未遇到過。緩慢的運行讓人不安，就像某種無形的力量在阻止它繼續上升一樣。接著，電梯內的顯示面板突然熄滅，只剩下一盞微弱的燈光閃爍著。
「這是怎麼回事？」我喃喃自語，心中升起一股莫名的不安。我按下開門鍵，但電梯毫無反應，就像完全失去了控制。
就在這時，電梯猛地一震，隨後停了下來。「叮——」一聲輕響，門緩緩打開。我抬起頭，看向外面。
那不是十四層，也不是任何我熟悉的樓層。眼前是一條狹長而昏暗的走廊，牆壁斑駁剝落，地毯上覆滿了灰塵與污跡。走廊兩側沒有門牌號碼，也沒有出口標誌，只有一排古舊的燈泡散發著微弱的光芒。空氣中瀰漫著一股濕霉味，讓人感到窒息。
我站在電梯裡，沒有勇氣踏出去。這裡的一切都透著詭異與不安，彷彿是一個被遺忘的空間。我伸手去按關門鍵，但按了幾次都沒有反應。正當我不知所措時，一個模糊的身影突然出現在走廊盡頭。
那是一個男人，他低著頭站在陰影中，看不清面容。他慢慢地朝我走來，每一步都像是踩在我的心跳上。我僵在原地，心跳聲越來越大，幾乎要掩蓋住耳邊的一切聲音。
他走到電梯門口停下來，仍舊低著頭不說話。我屏住呼吸，不敢發出任何聲音。他緩緩伸出一隻蒼白的手，按下了電梯上的關門鍵。在門即將完全閉合前，他抬起頭看向我。
那一瞬間，我幾乎尖叫出聲。他臉上的五官模糊不清，就像被水沖刷過一般，而更令人毛骨悚然的是，他的身體竟然沒有影子。
電梯門終於關上了，我癱坐在地上，大口喘著氣。電梯再次啟動，速度逐漸恢復正常。不一會兒，「叮——」的一聲響起，我回到了十四層。眼前熟悉的走廊和房門讓我感到一絲安心，但心中的恐懼仍然揮之不去。
回到房間後，我躺在床上輾轉反側，那個男人模糊的臉龐不斷浮現在腦海中。我試圖說服自己，那只是因為過度疲勞產生的幻覺，但心底總有個聲音告訴我，那是真實發生過的事。
接下來的幾天，我開始留意關於這棟建築的一切。我發現，每天凌晨三點左右，電梯總會莫名其妙地在樓層間停下來。住戶們雖然偶爾會提起，但都認為這只是老舊設備的故障問題。然而，我注意到，自從那天晚上之後，再也沒有人在凌晨三點使用電梯。
有一天，我鼓起勇氣詢問大樓管理員是否知道這棟建築有什麼奇怪的事情發生。他聽完我的問題後臉色一變，但很快又恢復了平靜，只是簡單地回答：「這棟樓建得很久了，有些事，不知道反而比較好。」
他的話讓我更加疑惑，也更加害怕。我開始翻閱關於這棟建築的歷史資料，希望能找到一些線索。然而，不論是網絡還是圖書館，都找不到任何與第十三層相關的信息，就好像它從未存在過一樣。
直到某一天，我無意間在地下室的一個角落裡發現了一份發黃的舊文件。那是一份建築藍圖，上面清楚地標示著第十三層。我的心跳加速了起來——原來這座建築原本是有第十三層的！但為什麼現在卻完全消失了？
我繼續翻看文件，發現了一些令人毛骨悚然的記錄：幾十年前，第十三層曾經發生過一起火災，那裡的人幾乎無人生還。而更詭異的是，有目擊者聲稱，在火災撲滅後，他們曾看到一些模糊的人影徘徊在廢墟中。
從那天起，第十三層就被封閉了。為了掩蓋這段黑暗歷史，建築公司乾脆將電梯面板上的十三層按鈕移除，讓人們以為它從未存在過。
然而，那晚經歷的一切告訴我，第十三層並沒有真正消失，它只是成了一個不該被打擾的地方。而那些曾經住在那裡的人，也許至今仍然徘徊在那片空間裡，不願離去。
自此之後，我再也不敢在深夜搭乘電梯。每當午夜降臨，我總會聽見遠處傳來微弱的「叮」聲，那是電梯停下時發出的聲音。我知道，它又一次停在了那個不存在的樓層，而那裡，也許正有什麼東西在等待著下一個誤闖進去的人。
有些樓層並未真正被遺忘，它們只是被設定為不再適合人類造訪的地方。而那些選擇忽視的人，也許才是最安全的——至少，他們不會知道，那些遺失之地究竟隱藏著什麼樣的秘密與恐懼。
English Version
I had been living in that aging residential building for about six months, long enough for everything to feel routine and uneventful, the kind of place where daily life moved quietly without interruption, a twenty-story structure that, despite its age, was maintained well enough to avoid drawing attention, yet there was one detail that stood out from the beginning, something I initially dismissed as a common architectural quirk—the absence of a thirteenth floor, with the elevator panel jumping directly from twelve to fourteen, a design choice often explained away by cultural superstition surrounding the number thirteen, and at the time I saw no reason to question it, assuming it was merely a symbolic omission rather than anything of consequence however, that assumption began to unravel one night when I returned home unusually late, sometime after two in the morning, the building lobby empty and silent except for the dim glow of overhead lights reflecting off the polished marble floor, creating a cold, sterile atmosphere that amplified the sense of isolation as I pressed the elevator button and waited for it to descend; when the doors opened, I stepped inside and selected the fourteenth floor, leaning back against the wall as the elevator began its steady ascent, my exhaustion pulling me toward a half-conscious state, until something unusual interrupted the familiar rhythm—the elevator slowed as it passed the twelfth floor, not in the smooth, expected manner of a routine stop but with a hesitant, almost reluctant motion, as though encountering resistance from something unseen, and then the display panel flickered before going completely dark, leaving only a faint emergency light casting weak illumination inside the cabin; confusion quickly gave way to unease as I pressed the door open button repeatedly, only to find that it did not respond, the controls seemingly unresponsive, as if the elevator had slipped beyond my control, and just as I began to consider the possibility of a mechanical failure, the cabin jolted violently before coming to a sudden halt, followed by the soft chime of arrival, and as the doors slowly opened, I looked out expecting to see the familiar corridor of my floor, but what greeted me instead was something entirely different, a narrow, dimly lit hallway with peeling walls and a worn, dust-covered carpet that stretched into darkness, devoid of any recognizable markings such as room numbers or exit signs, the air thick with a damp, moldy scent that made it difficult to breathe, as though the space had been sealed off from time itself; I remained inside the elevator, unable to bring myself to step out, instinct warning me that this place did not belong to the building I knew, and when I tried again to close the doors, the button still failed to respond, trapping me in a moment that felt suspended between decision and consequence, until movement at the far end of the corridor caught my attention—a figure, indistinct and shadowed, standing motionless before slowly beginning to walk toward me, each step measured and deliberate, echoing faintly in the silence as if synchronized with the pounding of my own heart; I stood frozen, unable to move or speak, as the figure approached, its head lowered so that its face remained hidden, and when it finally reached the threshold of the elevator, it paused without lifting its gaze, the tension of the moment stretching unbearably as I held my breath, and then, without a word, it extended a pale hand and pressed the door close button that had refused to respond to me, and just before the doors sealed shut, it raised its head slightly, revealing a face whose features appeared blurred and indistinct, as though washed away, and more disturbingly, a body that cast no shadow at all; the doors closed completely, cutting off the sight of the corridor and the figure, and I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath as the elevator resumed movement, its operation returning to normal as if nothing had happened, and moments later, the familiar chime sounded again as the doors opened onto the fourteenth floor, where everything appeared exactly as it should, the ordinary hallway offering a fragile sense of relief that did little to calm the fear still coursing through me; back in my apartment, I lay awake, unable to escape the image of that faceless figure, replaying the encounter in my mind as I attempted to rationalize it as a hallucination brought on by exhaustion, yet deep down I knew that explanation was insufficient, because the experience had felt too vivid, too coherent to dismiss entirely; over the following days, I began to observe subtle patterns within the building, noticing that around three in the morning, the elevator would occasionally stop between floors without explanation, a behavior that other residents attributed to aging machinery, though I also realized that no one seemed willing to use the elevator at that hour anymore, as if an unspoken understanding had spread among them; driven by a need for answers, I approached the building manager and asked whether anything unusual had ever happened there, and although his expression briefly betrayed discomfort, he quickly composed himself and offered only a vague response, suggesting that some things were better left unknown, a statement that did nothing to ease my concerns but instead deepened them; unable to let the matter rest, I began researching the building’s history, searching for any records or references that might explain the anomaly, but official sources revealed nothing, no mention of a thirteenth floor or any incidents associated with it, as though it had been deliberately erased from existence, until one day, while exploring the basement, I discovered an old, yellowed blueprint tucked away in a forgotten corner, and there, clearly marked, was the thirteenth floor, undeniable proof that it had once been part of the building’s design; as I continued examining the documents, I uncovered fragments of a past that had been concealed—a fire that had occurred decades earlier, devastating the thirteenth floor and claiming multiple lives, followed by reports from witnesses who claimed to have seen shadowy figures lingering among the ruins even after the flames had been extinguished, and in response, the floor had been sealed off and removed from official records, its existence hidden to prevent panic and preserve the building’s reputation; yet my experience in the elevator made it clear that the floor had not truly disappeared, that it still existed in some form, accessible under circumstances that defied logic, and inhabited, perhaps, by the remnants of those who had perished there, unwilling or unable to leave; from that point on, I avoided using the elevator late at night, choosing instead the safety of the stairs whenever possible, though even then I could not escape the occasional distant chime echoing through the building at midnight, the unmistakable sound of the elevator stopping at a floor that should not exist, and each time I heard it, a chilling thought would surface—that somewhere within the structure, beyond the reach of ordinary perception, that lost floor remained, waiting quietly, its doors opening once more for whoever might be unfortunate enough to arrive there, because some places are not truly gone, they are merely hidden, set apart from the world we understand, and those who unknowingly cross into them may find that leaving is not as simple as pressing a button to return.
