The Man Who Lives on Floor 13

The Man Who Lives on Floor 13

by Mohammd Arif

No one talks about Floor 13.

That’s not just a superstition in my building—it’s a design choice. The elevator panel jumps from 12 to 14. The floor plans stop at 12. The superintendent, George, once told me it was removed from the blueprints to “keep the tenants comfortable.” But I’m not comfortable. Not since I started hearing footsteps above me.

I live on the top floor. Four years now. Apartment 1203. It’s quiet up here, or at least it used to be. Late at night, sometime around 2:17 AM—almost like clockwork—I hear slow, deliberate pacing above my ceiling. Not rats. Not the building settling. Steps. Human ones.

At first, I thought it might be some kind of structural quirk. Maybe a boiler room or some unused maintenance floor. But I checked. I even cornered George in the lobby.

“There’s nothing up there,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “There’s no floor above you. Just the roof.”

“But I hear footsteps,” I insisted.

“Buildings make noise,” he muttered, turning away.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the couch, lights off, phone ready to record. At exactly 2:17 AM, the steps began. Slow. Methodical. As if someone were walking in circles, directly above me. When I played back the recording the next morning, all I heard was static.

By the end of that week, I wasn’t just hearing the steps—I was seeing things. Shadows that didn’t match anything in the room. A reflection in my TV screen of someone standing behind me, only to find the room empty when I turned around. Once, I came home and found muddy footprints leading from my front door to my bedroom window. The window was locked. I live twelve stories up.

It was driving me insane. So I did something reckless.

I waited in the elevator until 2:15 AM. Then I pressed “14” and held my finger there. The elevator started to move—and kept going after 12.

My stomach dropped as the numbers flickered on the panel: 12... then nothing... then 14. But for a moment—just a moment—I swear the elevator paused, as if stopping on a floor that didn’t officially exist.

The doors didn’t open.

Back in my apartment, my door was ajar. Nothing was missing, but everything was wrong. The drawers were slightly open, the couch cushions misaligned. My framed photo of my sister and me was turned face-down. It felt like a message.

I started knocking on my neighbors’ doors, desperate to know if anyone else had seen or heard anything. Most said no. A few looked at me like I was nuts. But old Mrs. Redfern in 1201 took my hand and said softly, “He’s back, isn’t he?”

I asked who.

She pulled me inside, drew the curtains, and whispered, “The man on Floor 13. We used to call him Mr. Lyle. Moved in before the building ever had tenants. Maintenance guy or something. One night, a woman screamed. Next morning, her apartment was empty. She was never seen again. Management scrubbed everything—removed 13 from the elevator, covered it all up. But some of us... we still remember.”

That night, I bolted my door and didn’t sleep. At 2:17 AM, I sat in the hallway, just outside my apartment, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The footsteps came again. Slower this time. Heavier. They stopped above me. I swear I could hear breathing—deep, labored, like something monstrous and close.

I screamed up at the ceiling. “What do you want from me?!”

Silence.

Until I heard a soft knock. Not at my door. At the ceiling.

I moved out the next day. Left most of my things behind. I told people it was a job transfer. Said I needed a change of pace. But I knew the truth: I wasn’t welcome there anymore.

Two months later, curiosity got the better of me. I went back—not inside, just across the street. Watched the building, waited.

At 2:17 AM, a light came on in the window directly above my old apartment. A man stood there. Tall. Still. Watching.

There’s no window there. Not unless Floor 13 exists.

And I think it does.

It just doesn’t want to be found.