The Elevator to Floor Thirteen

The corporate tower in the center of the city had twenty floors, though if you looked closely at the elevator panel, you would notice something strange. The numbers jumped from twelve to fourteen. Officially, there was no thirteenth floor. Management claimed it was removed to respect superstition, a common architectural decision. Most employees never questioned it. They were too busy meeting deadlines and chasing promotions.

Farhan had recently joined the company as a junior analyst. Ambitious and determined, he often stayed late, hoping to impress his supervisors. One evening, after nearly everyone had left, he packed his bag and headed toward the elevators. The lobby was quiet, lights dimmed to half brightness. The security guard nodded at him from behind the desk, barely glancing up from his phone.

Farhan stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors slid shut with a smooth mechanical hum. As the elevator descended, the lights flickered briefly. Farhan frowned but dismissed it as a minor electrical issue. Then the elevator jolted slightly—and stopped.

The digital display read “13.”

Farhan stared at the number. That was impossible. There was no button for thirteen. Confused, he pressed the ground floor button again. Nothing happened. Instead, the doors slid open slowly.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit with a pale, almost gray glow. The air looked hazy, as if dust particles floated thickly in the space. The corridor stretched longer than any other floor he had seen, lined with identical office doors. There were no windows. No sound. Not even the distant hum of air conditioning.

Against his better judgment, Farhan stepped out. The elevator doors closed behind him without a sound. He spun around, pressing the call button repeatedly. It did not respond. His phone showed no signal. The silence pressed against his ears, heavy and unnatural.

As he walked down the corridor, he noticed something unsettling. Each office door had a nameplate—but the names were unfamiliar. He leaned closer to read one and felt a chill crawl up his spine. The name engraved on the metal plate was his own.

Farhan stepped back quickly. His breathing became shallow. The door creaked open slowly, though he had not touched it. Inside, the office looked exactly like his workspace upstairs—same desk, same computer, same stack of unfinished reports. But everything was coated in a thin layer of dust, as if abandoned for years.

A faint sound echoed behind him. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Approaching. He turned sharply, but the hallway remained empty. Yet the footsteps continued, growing louder, synchronized with his racing heartbeat.

Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered violently. The digital display at the end of the corridor flashed different numbers rapidly—10, 6, 2—before settling again on 13. The air grew colder. Farhan felt as though the floor itself was shifting beneath him.

In desperation, he ran back toward the elevator doors. To his relief, they stood open once more, waiting. He rushed inside and pressed the ground floor repeatedly. The doors closed instantly. The elevator dropped faster than normal, the sensation making his stomach twist.

When it stopped, the display read “G.” The doors opened to the familiar lobby. Bright lights. Normal air. The security guard looked up casually. “Working late again?” he asked, unaware of anything unusual.

Farhan stumbled out, glancing back at the elevator panel. The numbers displayed only 1 through 12, then 14 through 20. No thirteen.

The next morning, he requested building blueprints from maintenance under the excuse of curiosity. There was no record of a thirteenth floor. According to official documents, it had never existed.

Farhan stopped staying late after that. Yet sometimes, as he waited for the elevator during busy hours, he felt a strange hesitation before stepping inside. Because every so often, just for a second, he could swear the panel flickered—revealing a faint, glowing “13” that disappeared the moment he blinked.