The Elevator That Stopped at Thirteen

The building I worked in had only twelve floors. Everyone knew that. The number thirteen was skipped entirely, like in most old office towers, out of superstition or habit. I had worked there for almost three years and never questioned it. The elevator buttons went from twelve straight to fourteen, and that was that.

One night, I stayed late to finish a report. The office was empty by the time I shut down my computer. The lights dimmed automatically as I walked toward the elevator, and the silence felt heavier than usual. When the doors opened, I stepped inside without thinking and pressed the button for the ground floor.

The doors slid shut, and the elevator began to descend.

Halfway down, it jolted.

The lights flickered, and the elevator slowed before stopping completely. A soft chime echoed, followed by a sound I had never heard before. The display above the door glowed faintly.

My stomach dropped. I stared at the number, certain it was a malfunction. The doors began to open slowly, revealing a hallway that should not have existed. The carpet was old and dark, the lights dim and yellow. The air smelled like dust and something stale, like a room closed for too long.

I stood frozen as the doors opened fully.

Against every instinct, I stepped out.

The hallway was silent, stretching farther than the building’s layout allowed. Doors lined both sides, each one slightly different, as if taken from different times. Some looked modern, others cracked and wooden. All of them were closed.

Behind me, the elevator doors shut quietly.

Panic rushed through me. I ran back and pressed the call button, but nothing happened. The display was blank. I was alone.

As I walked down the hallway, I noticed faint sounds coming from behind the doors. Soft crying. Murmurs. Occasional laughter that stopped abruptly. I passed one door where a nameplate caught my eye.

It had my name on it.

My heart hammered in my chest. I reached out, then pulled my hand back, afraid of what I might find. From inside, I heard typing. Fast. Familiar. It sounded exactly like how I typed when I was nervous.

“Hello?” I whispered.

The typing stopped. Footsteps approached the door from the other side. A voice spoke softly. My voice.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

I backed away, shaking. Further down the hallway, a door opened slowly. A woman stepped out, her face pale and tired. She looked at me with empty eyes.

“Did you miss your time?” she asked quietly.

“What is this place?” I demanded.

She gave a sad smile. “It’s where we wait.”

Before I could ask more, she walked back into her room and closed the door. The crying returned, louder now, filling the hallway with quiet despair.

The lights flickered again. At the far end of the corridor, the elevator doors appeared. Relief flooded me. I ran toward them, my footsteps echoing loudly. As I reached the doors, a hand grabbed my wrist.

It was me.

Or something that looked exactly like me. Same face. Same clothes. But its eyes were dull, empty, as if all the life had been drained out.

“You’re early,” it said calmly. “If you leave now, you don’t come back.

“I don’t want to come back,” I shouted, pulling free.

It smiled sadly. “Everyone says that.”

I slammed the elevator button repeatedly. The doors opened just as the hallway lights went out completely. I jumped inside, and the doors closed hard. The elevator shook violently as it descended.

When the doors finally opened, I was on the ground floor. The lobby looked normal. Bright. Safe.

I quit my job the next day.

Sometimes, when I ride an elevator late at night, my finger hovers over the buttons. And sometimes, for just a second, I swear I see a faint reflection of the number thirteen glowing back at me, waiting for the doors to open again.