The old building on 12th Street had always been a place of quiet mystery. Its brick walls were worn, its windows cracked, and the elevator—once a sleek steel marvel—had long since been abandoned for the newer, more efficient model in the lobby. But some people swore that if you took the wrong elevator at the right time, you could still hear the old one creaking down the shaft, as if it were still working. Elena had moved into the apartment on the seventh floor just weeks ago. She had never believed in ghosts, but she had heard the stories. The old elevator, they said, was haunted by a woman who had died inside it decades ago. No one knew exactly what had happened to her, only that the elevator had stopped suddenly one night, and when the doors opened, she was gone, and the elevator had never worked again. Elena ignored the stories. She was practical, a college student with a schedule to keep and no time for superstitions. But one evening, as she came home from class, the new elevator was out of service. A sign read: "Elevator Repair – Please Use Stairwell." She sighed, pulled out her phone, and started climbing the stairs. She reached the fifth floor, then the fourth, then the third. On the second floor, she paused, hearing something strange—a faint humming, like an old machine struggling to start. It was low, almost imperceptible, but it was there. She glanced back up the stairwell, but the lights were dimming. The hum grew louder, and then she heard the sound of metal grinding against metal, like the old elevator trying to descend. She turned around, heart pounding, and saw the door to the old elevator. It was open, revealing a narrow shaft lined with rusted tracks. She told herself it was just a trick of the light, but the hum was coming from within. Her breath quickened. She had never seen that door before. The building’s layout didn’t include an old elevator shaft. That wasn’t possible. She stepped closer, peering down the dark hole. Then, without warning, the hum stopped. Silence fell. And then, from somewhere deep below, she heard a voice—soft, almost like a whisper, but clear. “You shouldn’t be here.” Elena stumbled back, her hand flying to her chest. The voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight, a presence that made the air feel heavy. She ran down the remaining stairs, not stopping until she reached the ground floor. The lobby was empty, the main elevator running smoothly. She looked up at the second floor, where the door to the old elevator should have been—but it was gone. The wall was solid, as if it had never existed. The next day, she asked the building manager about the old elevator. He looked confused. “There was no old elevator,” he said. “We’ve never had one.” Elena felt a chill. She had seen it, heard it, felt it. But no one else remembered it. Days passed, and the whispers began again. Other tenants spoke of strange occurrences—lights flickering, voices echoing in empty halls, the feeling of being watched. Some claimed they had seen a woman in a white dress standing in the elevator, her face pale and sad. Others said the elevator doors would open on their own, even when no one was near. Elena tried to forget. She told herself it was stress, or sleep deprivation. But the dreams came. In them, she stood in the old elevator, its walls closing in, the woman watching her from the other side. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, and every time she tried to scream, the elevator would begin to descend. One night, she found herself standing outside the old elevator again. The door was open, and the hum returned, softer this time. She hesitated, then stepped inside. The doors closed behind her with a soft click. The buttons were all broken, but the elevator shuddered, then began to move. She clutched the rail, heart racing, as the elevator descended through darkness. When it finally stopped, the doors opened onto a small, dusty room. There was no one there, but the air was thick with memory. A single chair sat in the center, covered in dust. On the wall, a faded photograph hung—of a woman in a white dress, her eyes hollow, her expression unreadable. Elena turned around, but the elevator was gone. The door behind her was now a solid wall. She screamed, but no one answered. The silence pressed in, heavier than before. She realized, with a cold certainty, that she had been trapped. And as she stood alone in the dark, the whisper returned, softer this time, but unmistakable. “You’re not the first.”