"The Man Who Lives on Floor 13"

The Man Who Lives on Floor 13

your Ahmar

In the heart of a forgotten part of the city, where the air always smelled faintly of mildew and the streetlamps flickered like dying stars, stood the Elderpine Apartments—a towering, concrete relic from the 1970s with more secrets than tenants.

Emma Caldwell moved into the building in October, lured by the rent that was suspiciously cheap for a unit that overlooked the skyline. A fresh start, she told herself. After the breakdown, the failed engagement, and the job she barely escaped with her sanity, Elderpine was meant to be her refuge. The apartment was old, yes. The hallways a bit dim, the wallpaper faded and curling. But it was quiet. Peaceful.

At least, at first.

By the third week, Emma began to notice odd things. A door shutting softly down the hallway when no one else was home. Footsteps late at night, directly above her, despite the fact that her lease clearly stated she lived on the top floor—floor 12.

Then there was the elevator. It was ancient, all brass and clunky gears. Emma hadn’t thought much of it until one night she stepped inside and noticed the buttons: L, 1 through 12… and then a gap. A blank space where the number 13 should have been. No button. Just an odd, smooth panel as if someone had scraped the number away.

Curious, she asked her neighbor, Mr. Leary, a wrinkled man who smelled of pipe tobacco and regret.

“There’s no thirteenth floor,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing. “Superstition. Like in old hotels.”

“But there are thirteen floors,” she insisted. “I counted from outside.”

He only smiled grimly. “Some things you’re better off not counting.”

That night, Emma couldn’t sleep. She kept hearing it—movement upstairs. Not furniture shifting. Not plumbing. Footsteps. Measured. Pacing.

And once—at exactly 3:13 a.m.—a single, slow knock above her bed.

The next morning, she went to the building manager, a jittery man named Victor. She demanded to know who lived above her.

“No one,” he said too quickly. “You're on the top floor. There’s just maintenance storage up there.”

But she saw the hesitation. The darting of his eyes. The way his fingers trembled as he gripped his clipboard.

That night, she rode the elevator again. This time, she pressed 12, waited until the doors slid open, and then quickly hit the door close button. But before it could shut, she jammed her umbrella between the doors, keeping them ajar, and reached for the smooth panel where 13 should have been.

To her shock, her fingers touched something—a slight indentation. Instinctively, she pressed down. The elevator jerked. The lights flickered.

It moved up.

Just one floor.

When the doors opened, she stood face to face with a hallway that shouldn’t exist.

The carpet was red, not the moldy brown of the other floors. The wallpaper, an intricate floral design, peeling at the corners. The lights were dim, humming softly. The whole corridor had the feel of a forgotten hotel.

There were doors. Seven of them. All numbered 13-1 to 13-7.

And at the end of the hall, door 13-7 was ajar. Faint light spilled from within.

Emma stepped out.

Her feet sank slightly into the carpet as she crept forward. The air was thick, musty. Time felt slow, syrupy. A clock somewhere ticked with each step she took, though she could see no clocks.

She reached the door. 13-7.

Inside was a small room. Dust-covered furniture. Walls lined with black-and-white photos. And in the center, a man sitting in an armchair.

He turned toward her, slowly.

His face was oddly familiar. Pale. Eyes too wide. Smile too still.

“You made it,” he said, voice like dry leaves. “Most never do.”

Emma stepped back. “Who are you?”

“The same as you,” he said softly. “Once.”

He gestured to the photos. Emma glanced over. Each showed tenants—some from decades ago. She recognized one or two. One photo showed Mr. Leary, much younger, beside a woman Emma had seen in the building laundry room.

“They all came here,” the man said. “Eventually.”

She turned back to him. His face was changing. Or no—her face. It was mirroring hers. Line by line, feature by feature.

“No one ever really leaves Elderpine,” he whispered. “They just… forget.”

Panic surged in her chest. She turned and ran, down the hall, back to the elevator. She slammed the door-close button again and again until it shut. The lights flickered violently. Then she was descending.

When the doors opened again, she was back in the lobby.

But things had changed.

The wallpaper was new. The doorman was someone else. A calendar on the wall read July 2027. Two years had passed.

And no one remembered her.

She went back up to her apartment. It wasn’t hers anymore. A family lived there, and they slammed the door in her face.

Emma now lives in Elderpine, in apartment 13-7.

No one remembers her name. She wanders the halls, speaking to tenants who forget they’ve seen her seconds later.

And each night, at 3:13 a.m., she knocks softly from above… waiting for the next one to come looking for Floor 13.