The city was alive with its usual hum of activity when I first moved into the building. A sleek, modern high-rise nestled in the heart of downtown, it boasted all the amenities I could ask for: a fitness center, rooftop pool, 24-hour concierge service. The rent was steep, but the convenience was worth every penny—or so I thought.
There was one peculiar thing about the building, though. It didn’t have a thirteenth floor. I’d noticed it during my initial tour when the leasing agent pressed the elevator button to show me the fourteenth-floor units. My curiosity got the better of me, and I asked her about it.
“Oh, you know how it is,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “Superstition. A lot of buildings skip the thirteenth floor because people find it unlucky.”
Her explanation seemed plausible enough. I’d heard of similar practices in other places, so I didn’t think much of it at the time. After all, who was I to question architectural quirks? I signed the lease and moved in two weeks later.
For the first few months, everything was as normal as one could expect. My job kept me busy during the day, and my evenings were spent either at the gym or unwinding in my apartment. The building’s staff were courteous, my neighbors were polite yet distant, and the elevators—though a bit slow—functioned just fine.
Until that night.
It was late, well past midnight, when I returned home after an exhausting day at work. The lobby was eerily quiet, devoid of its usual bustle. The air felt heavy, almost oppressive, but I chalked it up to my own fatigue. I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.
The ride started normally enough. The elevator ascended smoothly, pausing briefly at the twelfth floor as it always did before skipping directly to fourteen. But something was different this time. Instead of continuing its usual brisk pace, the elevator slowed down—almost imperceptibly at first, then more noticeably. A faint ding echoed through the enclosed space.
I frowned and glanced at the display panel above the doors. It wasn’t showing any numbers. Just a blank light.
The elevator resumed its ascent, but this time at an unnervingly slow crawl. My reflection in the polished steel doors stared back at me, pale and tired. Then, out of nowhere, I saw it—another figure standing just behind me.
I froze.
The reflection was indistinct at first, little more than a shadowy outline. But as I stared, it became clearer—a person, standing far too close for comfort. My heart raced. I wanted to turn around, to confront whoever or whatever was there, but my body refused to cooperate. It was as if an invisible force had rooted me to the spot.
I reached out to press the emergency button on the panel, but nothing happened. The button didn’t light up; there was no reassuring beep. I tried to call out for help, but my voice seemed to catch in my throat. Panic set in.
Ding.
The doors slid open.
I stepped forward instinctively, desperate to escape the confines of the elevator. But this wasn’t my floor—or any floor I recognized. The hallway stretched out before me, dimly lit and unsettlingly quiet. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper that looked decades old, peeling in some places to reveal patches of discolored plaster beneath. There were no room numbers on the doors, no exit signs to guide me.
And then I saw them.
A figure stood at the far end of the hallway, their head bowed as if in prayer or contemplation. They didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge my presence at all. For a moment, I considered calling out to them—perhaps they could explain where I was or how I could get back to my floor—but something about their stillness stopped me.
Before I could make up my mind, they began to move. Slowly at first, then with unsettling speed, they closed the distance between us in what felt like seconds. My heart pounded in my chest as they reached out and pressed the “Close” button on the elevator’s control panel.
The doors began to shut.
Just as they were about to close completely, the figure lifted their head and looked directly at me. Their face was pale and expressionless, their eyes dark and empty. But it wasn’t their face that unnerved me most—it was their shadow. Or rather, their lack of one.
The doors snapped shut with a metallic clang.
When they reopened moments later, I was back on the fourteenth floor. Everything looked normal again—the bright lighting, the clean carpets, the familiar layout of my hallway. For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing—a trick of an overtired mind.
But then I noticed something strange: my watch had stopped at exactly 3:00 a.m.
The following days passed uneventfully, though I couldn’t shake the memory of that night. I avoided using the elevator whenever possible, opting instead to take the stairs—a grueling fourteen-flight climb that left me winded but reassured. Still, curiosity gnawed at me. What had happened? And more importantly—why?
I began asking subtle questions around the building—casual inquiries directed at neighbors and staff alike. Most people dismissed my concerns with polite indifference or vague reassurances about “old wiring” and “quirky mechanics.” But one night, while retrieving my mail from the lobby, an elderly woman approached me.
“You’ve seen it too,” she said in a low voice.
I hesitated. “Seen what?”
“The floor that shouldn’t exist,” she replied. Her eyes darted nervously around the room as if she feared being overheard.
I felt a chill run down my spine but forced myself to remain calm. “What do you mean?”
She leaned in closer and whispered, “This building wasn’t always like this. There used to be a thirteenth floor—a real one. But something happened there years ago… something terrible.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No one knows for sure. The management covered it up, sealed off the entire floor like it never existed. They even renumbered everything so no one would ask questions.”
Her words sent a shiver through me. Could it be true? Was there really a hidden thirteenth floor? And if so—what had happened there?
That night, unable to sleep, I found myself standing outside the elevator once again. It was 2:59 a.m., and my heart raced as I pressed the button for fourteen. The elevator arrived with its usual chime, and I stepped inside.
As expected, it stopped between floors at exactly 3:00 a.m.
This time, I was ready—or so I thought.
The display panel flickered before going blank once more. The air grew colder; my breath formed faint clouds in front of me. And then it happened again—the figure appeared behind me in the reflection.
But this time… they spoke.
“You shouldn’t be here,” they whispered—a voice barely audible yet filled with an undeniable weight of authority.
Before I could respond or even process their words, the elevator jolted violently and began descending rapidly—far faster than it should have been able to move safely.
When it finally came to an abrupt halt and the doors opened again… I found myself standing in that same eerie hallway from before—the one with no room numbers or exit signs.
Except this time… there were voices.
Faint whispers echoed through the corridor—indistinct yet undeniably human. They seemed to come from every direction at once—growing louder with each passing second until they became an overwhelming cacophony that threatened to drown out my thoughts entirely.
I stumbled backward into the elevator just as its doors began closing again—this time without anyone pressing any buttons—and found myself back on fourteen moments later.
It’s been weeks since that night now—and though nothing else has happened since then—I can’t shake off this lingering sense of unease every time I step into those elevators again…
After all… some floors aren’t truly missing—they’re just not meant for us anymore…