The Man on Floor Thirteen

Athour.....shahjhan

No one lived on Floor Thirteen. The building didn’t even acknowledge its existence. The elevator skipped from Twelve to Fourteen as if the number itself was cursed. But Ava knew it was there. She’d seen the door.

It started with a key.

She found it in the mailroom, wedged between two boxes that weren’t hers. Old brass, antique maybe, with a faded red tag: 13. No apartment number. Just that lonely number burned into the leather.

She asked the doorman, Pete, about it.

“No thirteenth floor,” he said without looking up from his crossword. “Superstitious nonsense.”

“But—”

He raised a finger. “Don't go poking where you don't belong.”

That night, Ava couldn’t sleep. She sat on her couch, turning the key in her fingers. She didn’t believe in ghosts or omens. She believed in facts. And the fact was: the building had twelve floors, but her window, which should’ve overlooked floor twelve, faced a blank wall… two stories down.

There was a thirteenth floor.

At 2:13 AM, curiosity won.

She grabbed the key, put on sneakers, and took the stairs. As she ascended past the twelfth floor, something changed. The walls grew narrower. Dust lined the railings. The air smelled like rotting newspapers and damp stone.

And then—there it was.

A metal door, unnumbered, dust-covered, and locked. Except… when she inserted the key, it turned with a soft click.

The door creaked open.

Inside, the hallway stretched longer than seemed possible. Old wallpaper peeled like dead skin. Light flickered overhead. And at the very end, a single apartment door: 13-F.

It stood slightly ajar.

She should’ve left. She knew it in her gut. But her feet moved on their own, carrying her closer, until she was inside.

The apartment was... preserved. Not abandoned. Not decaying. Preserved.

A grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner. A fire crackled in the hearth. And on the far side of the room, sitting in an armchair with a newspaper from August 5, 1955, was a man.

He looked up.

“Oh,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You're early.”

Ava froze. “Who… who are you?”

“I’m the tenant of 13-F,” he said simply. “Name’s irrelevant. Yours is Ava.”

She swallowed hard. “How do you know that?”

He folded the paper and set it down. “Because I’ve met you before. Many times. Every visitor here is drawn the same way. They find the key, open the door, and come inside.”

“You mean... others have come here?”

He nodded. “Yes. But none leave.”

Ava backed toward the hallway. “No. I—I’m leaving now.”

“Are you?” he asked gently.

The moment she turned, the door slammed shut. When she yanked it open, there was only brick behind it.

“I don’t want to stay,” she whispered.

“You already have,” he said, his voice softer now, like an echo in a canyon. “Time doesn’t move here, Ava. Not the way it does upstairs. You stepped out of your life the moment you stepped in.”

She looked down. Her clothes were different. A blouse she didn’t own. Shoes out of style. Her phone was gone. Her hands—were they older?

“No,” she said. “No, this can’t be.”

The man stood, suddenly inches from her.

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yes!” she cried.

“Then someone else must take your place.”

Her breath caught.

He reached into the coat pocket and pulled out the key. The same one. Only now, the tag said: Ava – 13-F.

“You’ll forget, eventually,” he said. “That’s the worst part. You’ll wait here, just like me. And when someone finally comes through that door again, you’ll say, ‘Oh, you’re early.’ Just like I did.”

The fireplace hissed. The walls seemed to breathe. And Ava screamed.

---

Three days later, Pete the doorman found a brass key in the mailroom, wedged between two Amazon boxes.

He held it up, squinting. The tag read:

13 – Pete

He frowned. “Damn kids messing around.”

He shoved it in his pocket.

And the elevator chimed softly in the distance.