The Elevator Does Not Stop on Floor 6

It started with a note taped to the elevator panel:

"Out of Order – Do Not Press 6."

Written in shaky black marker on a crumpled sticky note, the warning looked unofficial—lazy, like a prank.

Rida didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in concrete, glass, and code—things she could touch, build, debug. The new tech firm she joined had moved into an old, partially renovated high-rise downtown, where flickering lights and dusty hallways were just growing pains of progress. Her team worked on the 12th floor.

On her third day, Rida stayed late. She was the last one in the office. Her laptop pinged its final compile, and the silence settled like fog. She grabbed her bag, yawning as she walked to the elevator.

She pressed the down button. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened with a tired sigh.

She got in.

Pressed G for ground.

Then, out of curiosity, she peeled back the corner of the sticky note.

“Do Not Press 6.”

Without thinking too much, she pressed 6.

The elevator jerked mid-descent. The lights inside dimmed, turned red. Then black. A cold blue emergency light flickered on, pulsing like a heartbeat. The display blinked erratically.

5... 6... 6... 6...

It stopped.

The doors slid open.

Pitch-black hallway. No lights, no sound. Not a whisper. Just a hum—a low, vibrating hum that didn’t belong in any building.

She should’ve stayed in the elevator. Should’ve pressed G again. But the moment she reached out to touch the panel—

The panel turned off.

No buttons. No floor numbers. Just smooth glass. Dead.

Behind her, the corridor yawned. Her reflection in the mirrored elevator doors looked... off. Like it lagged by a second. And blinked when she didn’t.

“Hello?” she called into the darkness.

No answer.

She stepped out.

The hallway was endless. Faded carpet, torn in places. Every office door on both sides was shut tight, numbers missing. Room 603... 605... then 666, scribbled in child-like scrawl across one wooden door. No 607, 608, 609. Just—666.

She turned back.

The elevator was gone.

Not closed. Gone. Only wall.

Her breath caught in her throat. She ran to where the elevator had been, pounding on the wall. Cold concrete. No seams. No indication it was ever there.

She turned around, heart hammering.

The hallway was shorter now.

What?

Where once there had been a dozen doors, now only three. And then one.

The door marked 666.

It creaked open.

Inside, a child's room. Faded wallpaper. Torn teddy bear on the floor. Broken nightlight, still faintly glowing red. A cot. Something lay in the cot, covered in a cloth.

She couldn’t move.

Something was whispering her name. “Rida... Rida...”

No one knew she was here. Not her team. Not her family. No one even knew she pressed the button.

The cloth shifted.

She didn’t want to look.

She looked.

There was nothing inside.

Only teeth.

The scream never came out of her mouth.

She was standing at her desk the next morning. Still dressed for work. Her manager shook her gently. “You okay? You’ve been... staring for like ten minutes.”

She blinked.

Her hands were bleeding.

On the elevator panel behind her, the sticky note was gone.

But etched into the metal, just beneath 6, were words that hadn’t been there before.

"She Came Back. Will You?"