Who Lives on Floor 13

They say every building has its secrets. Ours hides them between Floor 12 and 14 — a space no one talks about, and no button exists for.

I moved into the Briarstone Apartments six months ago. A clean, brutalist structure in the city’s quieter quadrant. The kind of place that feels like it had seen too much before you even got there. Rent was suspiciously low, but I was told the tenants were quiet, and most of the units were owned by "professionals who kept to themselves." That suited me fine. I was looking for solitude after... well, let’s just say a breakdown of the usual sort. I needed quiet. I needed to reset.

I didn’t notice it at first — the missing button. I lived on the 9th floor. Hit that button every day, no need to look above. But once, coming back from work with a neighbor named Maria, she leaned over the elevator panel and frowned.

“Always thought that was weird,” she said, pointing at the gap between 12 and 14. “No floor 13.”

“Superstition,” I shrugged.

She smiled, sort of. “Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was her tone — uncertain, as if she were saying something else entirely.

Days passed. I kept thinking about it. So I did what any bored, mildly paranoid person would: I started asking questions.

The building super, a leathery man named Frank who always smelled like stale coffee, gave me the corporate line. “There’s no 13th floor, pal. They skip it to make people feel better. Lots of buildings do it.”

“But there's space,” I said. “Look at the elevator shaft. There's room between floors.”

He stared at me for a second too long. “Don’t go poking around, okay? People who poke around don’t stay long.”

That night I dreamed of a long hallway, flickering overhead lights, and a man standing still at the end — as if waiting for someone to arrive.

A week later, I was in the elevator with an older woman. Frail. Pale. Eyes fixed ahead. She was holding a box of cat food, but I’d never heard a single meow from her apartment.

As we passed Floor 12, the elevator jerked — barely. Almost like it hesitated.

Her grip tightened on the box. She looked at me and whispered, “He doesn't like being watched.”

“Who?” I asked, my voice coming out in a near-croak.

But she didn’t answer. She just stepped off at 14 without another word.

That was the first time I tried to feel it. The space. On the way up the next day, I leaned against the panel, watching the digital floor counter. It blinked from 12 to 14. A one-second pause. Barely noticeable.

But it was there.

I started to linger in the elevator, riding it late at night. Watching the numbers. Once, just once, I caught a glimpse: as the floor ticked up, the number “13” flickered — just briefly — before changing to 14. I swear I saw it.

I told Maria. She looked like I’d hit her. “Don’t. Please. Don’t say it out loud.”

“What? The number?”

She closed her eyes. “There’s someone on that floor. We don’t talk about him.”

I laughed. Nervous. “Are you messing with me?”

She didn’t answer. Just walked away.

That night, the elevator stopped on its own.

I was going up to 9. Alone. It was just past midnight, and I was tipsy, if I’m being honest. I leaned against the mirrored wall and waited for the chime. Instead, the elevator jerked to a halt between 12 and 14.

The doors opened.

No number on the wall. No hallway like the others. Just dim light, yellowing like old teeth, and wallpaper that looked like it was from the 1970s, peeling in the corners. There was only one door — apartment 1301.

Something primal told me to stay put. But I stepped out. One foot. Then two.

It was... quiet. But not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses against your eardrums. The kind that waits.

The door opened before I touched it.

A man stood there.

Dressed in a grey bathrobe. Thin. Paper-skinned. His eyes were like fogged glass.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said.

I turned and ran. The door didn’t slam. It just... closed.

The elevator was still open. I pressed 9. Over and over.

As the doors closed, I saw his reflection — not outside. Inside. Standing behind me. Smiling. Then gone.

Since then, things have been... wrong.

I see him sometimes. In the corners of mirrors. Watching. Always from behind. I don’t sleep. Maria won’t speak to me anymore. The old woman disappeared — her cat food box still outside her door. Frank the super is gone too. Someone else is wearing his clothes, but it isn’t him. His eyes are wrong.

And the worst part? Floor 13 is on the panel now.

Every day I ride the elevator and pretend not to see it.

It’s always lit.

Waiting.