My Apartment Building Only Has 10 Floors. The Elevator Just Stopped At Floor 11.

My Apartment Building Only Has 10 Floors. The Elevator Just Stopped At Floor 11.

​I’ve lived in the "Eclipse Towers" for five years. It’s a standard, boring concrete block in the city center. Ten floors. Four apartments per floor. I live on the 8th. I know every crack in the sidewalk and every stain on the carpet.

​Tonight, I was coming home late from a double shift. It was 3:00 AM. My body was aching, and my brain was on autopilot. I walked into the lobby, nodded at the empty security desk (the guard, old Mr. Henderson, was likely asleep in the back), and stepped into the elevator.

​I pressed the button for "8".

​The doors closed. The familiar hum of the lift began. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, waiting for the ding.

​The elevator went up. And up. And up.

​After about thirty seconds, I frowned. It shouldn't take this long to get to the 8th floor. I looked at the digital display above the door.

​The red numbers were flickering.

8... 9... 10...

​I expected it to stop. The building ends at 10. The roof is above that.

​But the numbers kept going.

11.

​My stomach dropped. "What the hell?" I muttered, reaching out to press the 'Door Open' button or the 'Emergency Stop'.

​Ding.

​The elevator jerked to a halt. The metal doors slid open smoothly.

​I wasn't looking at the roof. I wasn't looking at the sky.

​I was looking at a hallway.

​It looked almost exactly like my hallway on the 8th floor. Same beige carpet. Same flickering fluorescent light at the end. Same smell of stale cleaning supplies.

​But something was wrong. Viscerally wrong.

​I stepped out cautiously. "Hello?"

​Silence. Not just quiet—it was a dead, heavy silence where sound seemed to die instantly.

​I looked at the apartment doors. On my floor, they are numbered 801, 802, 803.

Here, the first door had no number. It just had a symbol. A circle with a line through it.

​I walked down the hall. The proportions were slightly off. The ceiling was a few inches too low, making me want to duck. The distance between doors was too wide. It felt like a memory of a hallway, reconstructed by something that didn't quite understand how buildings worked.

​I reached the end of the hall where the window should be. On every other floor, this window looks out over the city skyline.

​I looked through the glass.

​There was no city. No lights. No stars. Just a churning, grey mist pressing against the glass. It looked like the world outside had been deleted.

​Panic set in. I turned around to run back to the elevator.

​That’s when I saw him.

​Standing in front of the elevator doors, blocking my exit, was a man. He was wearing the same uniform as Mr. Henderson, the security guard downstairs.

​"Mr. Henderson?" I exhaled in relief. "What is this place? The elevator malfunctioned."

​The man turned around.

​It wasn't Mr. Henderson. It was a mannequin. A plastic, smooth-skinned doll wearing Mr. Henderson’s uniform. Its face was blank. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just smooth, peach-colored plastic.

​Then, the plastic skin on where its mouth should be began to tear open. A jagged, vertical rip appeared.

​A sound came out. It sounded like Mr. Henderson’s voice, but played backward and slowed down.

​"You... are... not... supposed... to... be... up... here."

​The lights in the hallway turned red. The doors to the apartments on either side of me started to rattle. Thump. Thump. Thump. People—or things—were trying to get out.

​I sprinted. I dodged the mannequin, which swiped at me with stiff, plastic fingers. I threw myself into the elevator and smashed the button for the Lobby.

​The doors closed just as the apartment doors burst open. I saw a glimpse of long, grey limbs spilling out into the hallway before the metal doors shut.

​The elevator dropped like a stone.

​I woke up on the floor of the lobby. Mr. Henderson was shaking me. "Son? You okay? You passed out in the elevator."

​I scrambled up, terrified. "The 11th floor! There’s an 11th floor!"

​He looked at me with pity. "Go get some sleep, kid."

​I went to my apartment. I locked the door. I tried to convince myself it was a dream.

​But then I went to the bathroom to wash my face. I looked in the mirror.

​In the pocket of my jacket, there was something tucked in. I pulled it out.

​It was a piece of beige carpet. And written on the back of it in thick, black ink were the words:

WE SAW YOU. WE ARE COMING DOWN.