The Elevator That Only Stops For One Person
Every night at the same time, the elevator reached a floor that didn’t exist.
The hospital elevator had six floors.
Everyone knew that.
Ayaan worked the late reception shift, 8 p.m. to 4 a.m., when the corridors emptied and the building sounded less like a hospital and more like a memory trying to breathe.
At night, machines hummed louder. Lights flickered slower. Even footsteps echoed longer than they should.
But the strangest thing was the elevator.
Every night at 3:03 a.m., it moved.
No one called it.
No one entered it.
No floor button lit up.
It simply left the ground floor… and stopped somewhere between the third and fourth.
The display didn’t show a number.
Just a dash.
—
The first time Ayaan noticed it, he thought maintenance was testing the system. The second time, curiosity won.
On the third night, he waited.
At exactly 3:02 a.m., he stood in front of the steel doors, arms crossed, staring at the silent panel.
3:03.
The elevator dinged.
The doors slid open.
Empty.
Cold air rolled out — colder than hospital air-conditioning. The kind of cold that belongs outdoors at dawn.
Ayaan hesitated… then stepped inside.
The ground floor button was already lit.
Then it turned off.
The doors closed behind him.
The elevator began rising.
1
2
3
It slowed.
Then kept going.
The display flickered once… twice…
The doors opened.
Ayaan expected a corridor.
Instead, he saw a hospital floor that looked older. The lights were dimmer and yellow. The paint was faded green instead of white. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic.
No nurses.
No patients.
No sound.
The sign above read:
MATERNITY WARD
But this hospital hadn’t had a maternity ward for almost 15 years.
His chest tightened.
“Hello?” he called softly.
A baby cried somewhere down the hallway.
Ayaan froze.
Another cry answered it — then another — until the corridor filled with distant newborn wails echoing through empty rooms.
One room door stood slightly open.
Against every instinct, he walked toward it.
Inside, a woman lay on a hospital bed, turned away from him. Her hair spread across the pillow. A cradle stood beside her.
The crying stopped.
Slowly… the cradle began rocking by itself.
The woman spoke without turning.
“You’re late.”
Ayaan’s throat dried. “I think… I’m in the wrong place.”
“You always are,” she said gently. “You never came back.”
His heartbeat stumbled.
“I don’t know you.”
Now the cradle stopped.
The woman sat up.
Her hospital gown was stained dark at the back.
“You left before meeting her,” she whispered. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
The overhead light flickered.
The room suddenly felt familiar.
The walls. The window. The shape of the bed.
Memories pressed against his mind like something trying to enter.
He staggered back. “This floor was closed before I worked here…”
The woman slowly turned.
Ayaan couldn’t breathe.
It was his mother.
Young. Pale. Exactly as she looked in the photo taken the day he was born.
Her eyes were full of tears.
“You never visited,” she said softly.
“I visit your grave every year,” he whispered.
Her expression broke.
“You visit the end,” she replied. “But you never visit the beginning.”
The cradle creaked again.
A tiny hand reached over the edge.
Small.
Newborn.
Waiting.
“Come meet yourself,” she said.
The elevator dinged behind him.
The doors were open again.
Ayaan stepped backward, shaking violently.
“I can’t.”
The baby began crying louder — desperate now.
The lights started shutting off one by one down the corridor.
His mother’s voice followed him.
“You always leave at 3:04.”
The doors closed.
He collapsed to the floor as the elevator dropped.
Ground floor.
3:04 a.m.
The reception desk phone rang.
A nurse’s voice came through:
“Did you call maternity records?”
Ayaan stared at the elevator.
“We don’t have maternity,” he said weakly.
Pause.
“Sir… we received an old automatic log entry from the archive system,” she replied. “Visitor sign-in just registered.”
His hands trembled. “Name?”
The nurse hesitated.
“…Ayaan. Newborn visitor.”
Behind him, the elevator dinged again.
The display showed:
7
About the Creator
shakir hamid
A passionate writer sharing well-researched true stories, real-life events, and thought-provoking content. My work focuses on clarity, depth, and storytelling that keeps readers informed and engaged.
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