The elevator was always silent. Not the kind of silence you hear when the doors close, but the kind that lingers between the walls, pressing against your ears like a whisper you can't quite understand. It was an old building, one of those forgotten structures with creaking floors and doors that groaned like they were alive. The elevator had no name, just a faded number on its door: 7. No one knew how long it had been there. Some said it was part of the original construction, others claimed it had appeared overnight after a fire in the 1950s. The people who lived in the building didn’t use it much—too many stories about strange noises, sudden stops, and lights flickering without reason. But for those who did, it was a place of quiet unease. Lena first noticed something when she was late for work. She had taken the stairs, but the elevator was still running. She watched as it climbed slowly, stopping at floor three, then five, then seven. Then it stopped again, and the light went out. She waited, but no one came. When the power returned, the elevator was empty. No sign of anyone inside. She told her friend Marco about it, and he laughed. "You're just tired," he said. But Lena wasn’t sure. That night, she saw the elevator open on its own. It wasn’t moving, yet the doors slid apart with a soft hiss. Inside, the lights were dim, casting long shadows on the metal walls. She stood frozen, watching as the numbers above the door changed from 7 to 6, then 5, then 4. Each time, the doors closed with a mechanical sigh. The next day, she found a note inside her apartment. It was written in a shaky hand: “Don’t go to 7.” She tore it up, but the next morning, another note appeared under her door. This one was more detailed: “They are not gone. They wait.” Marco started to believe her after the incident with the janitor. He had seen the elevator stop on the 13th floor, even though there was no 13th floor. The building only had 12. He swore he heard someone inside calling his name, but when he opened the door, the elevator was empty. The janitor had quit shortly after, saying he’d seen things he couldn’t explain. Lena began to notice other details. The elevator’s buttons never worked properly. Sometimes, pressing the button for floor 1 would take her to 7. Other times, it would take her to a floor that didn’t exist. The walls seemed to shift slightly when she wasn’t looking, and the air grew colder every time she entered. The most unsettling thing was the sound—whispers, too faint to understand, but always there. One night, she decided to test it. She took the elevator alone, pressing the button for floor 7. The doors closed, and the ride began. The lights flickered, and the hum of the motor deepened. As the elevator climbed, the temperature dropped. She reached the top, and the doors opened onto a hallway she didn’t recognize. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper, and the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. In the distance, she heard a voice—soft, pleading. She followed the sound, stepping into a room where the walls were lined with mirrors. Each one reflected a different version of herself, some smiling, some crying, some with eyes that stared back. She turned around and saw the elevator behind her, but it was gone. The door was sealed shut. Suddenly, the mirrors began to crack. The whispers grew louder, and the temperature plummeted. She ran, pushing through the door, but the hallway was now a maze of endless corridors. She tried to find her way back, but every turn led to the same room. The mirrors reflected her fear, her panic, her confusion. Finally, she found a door. It was the same one she had entered from, but the hallway was gone. She stepped through and found herself back in the elevator. The doors closed, and the ride began again. This time, the numbers moved faster, skipping over floors she had never seen. When the elevator finally stopped, the doors opened to her apartment. She collapsed on the floor, trembling. The next day, she asked the building manager about the elevator. He looked at her strangely and said, "There's no 7. The building only has 12 floors." But Lena knew better. She had seen the truth, felt the weight of the silence. And though the elevator no longer responded to her, she sometimes still hears the whispers in the walls. She doesn’t know if it’s real or just her mind playing tricks. But she also knows that the elevator is still waiting, and that one day, it might come for her again.