"The Man Who Lives on Floor 13"

The Man Who Lives on Floor 13

By Ahmar

The first time I heard about Floor 13, I thought it was a joke.

I'd just moved into the Elmridge Tower Apartments, a weathered 20-story building nestled in a quiet corner of the city. The rent was suspiciously low, but I chalked that up to the building’s age and the faded green carpets that lined the hallways like moss. My unit was on the 14th floor. Or so the elevator said.

“You know it’s really the 13th,” said Marcy, the elderly woman who lived next door to me, as she handed over a plate of stale cookies. “They skip the number. Bad luck, you see.”

I smiled politely and nodded, not giving it another thought. Superstition and old architecture — that was all.

But then I started hearing noises.

Not the usual apartment sounds: plumbing groans, distant footsteps, or muffled arguments. No, this was different. Around 2 a.m. every night, I’d hear what sounded like slow, deliberate dragging — like someone pulling something heavy across the floor above mine. But I was on the top floor.

Or I was supposed to be.

I asked the building manager, Mr. Keene, about it.

“Floor 14 is the highest,” he said without looking up from his clipboard. “No one lives above you.”

“But I hear things,” I insisted. “Like furniture being moved. Walking.”

He blinked once, slowly. “Old building. Pipes bang, walls creak. You’ll get used to it.”

I didn’t.

One night, the dragging stopped abruptly, replaced by a soft tapping — three knocks, always spaced five seconds apart. I pressed my ear to the ceiling and held my breath. The knocking stopped.

Then it came again — but from my front door.

I opened it to an empty hallway. No footsteps, no echoes. Just the dim hum of fluorescent lights and the faint scent of old carpet.

I asked around. Marcy was the only neighbor who acknowledged anything strange.

“There’s a man,” she whispered one morning, glancing down the hall as if afraid he might hear. “Used to live in 1306. Tall, quiet. Wore gloves even in the summer. People said he had a nervous condition. Never left his apartment. Never came down.”

“But there is no 13th floor,” I said, remembering the elevator panel. “It goes from 12 to 14.”

Marcy nodded solemnly. “That’s what they want you to think.”

I laughed it off, but her words stuck with me.

That night, curiosity got the better of me.

I waited until 3 a.m., when the building felt half-asleep, and took the elevator down to 12. Then I climbed the stairs one floor up. According to logic and the numbered brass plaques on each landing, I should have ended up back on 14.

But halfway up, I saw a faded plaque nailed to the wall. The number was scratched out, but beneath the scrape marks, you could just barely make out a “13.”

My breath caught in my throat.

The door was unlocked.

The hallway beyond was colder, darker. The wallpaper was peeling in long strips, and the light fixtures above buzzed and flickered. I passed one door after another — 1301, 1302, 1303 — all silent. Then I stopped in front of 1306.

Something about the air in front of it felt… wrong. Thick. Electric.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I knocked — three times.

Silence.

Then, from behind the door: a single, slow knock in return.

I ran.

The next morning, I tried to go back, but the stairwell ended at 14 again. The scratched-out plaque was gone.

That night, I set up a camera facing the hallway outside my door. I let it run while I slept.

Reviewing the footage the next morning made my skin crawl. At 2:57 a.m., the hallway lights flickered. The elevator dinged, though no one stepped out. Then — at 2:59 — a tall figure walked into frame.

He moved slowly, as though unused to walking, his limbs jerky and stiff. He wore an old gray coat and leather gloves. His face… wasn't quite right. The proportions were off, the mouth too wide, the eyes too still.

He stopped in front of my door. Tilted his head. Then he reached out and gently touched the doorknob.

The camera glitched, static filling the screen.

When the image returned, he was gone.

I went to the police. Showed them the footage.

“There’s nothing here,” the officer said, handing back the USB stick.

I checked it again at home. The folder was empty. No video. Just a single file titled: WELCOMEHOME13.

That night, the knocks returned. Three of them. Then silence.

Then my doorknob turned.

I locked it, always did — but the knob kept twisting. Not violently. Patiently.

That’s when I saw the number plaque on my apartment door.

It didn’t say 1407 anymore.

It said 1306.

I haven’t left since.

If you ever move into Elmridge Tower, and your floor says 14, look again. Count the stairs. Watch for the knocks. And if a tall man in gloves comes to your door, don’t answer.

Because he doesn't leave the 13th floor.

But sometimes, he likes company.