The old building on 12th Avenue had always been a place of whispered rumors. Its red brick walls were weathered, its windows cracked, and the air inside seemed to hold its breath. Most people avoided it, but for those who lived in the surrounding area, it was an unavoidable part of life. The elevator, however, was the most peculiar feature of all. It was an old, creaking machine with a rusted metal door that groaned when it opened. The buttons were faded, some missing entirely, and the numbers flickered like dying stars. No one knew when it was installed or why it had never been replaced. But every morning, people would step inside, press the button for their floor, and hope for the best. Lena worked as a cleaner in the building, and she had learned to avoid the elevator if possible. But on certain days, when the stairwell was too crowded or the heat was unbearable, she had no choice. She always kept her eyes on the floor, never looking up at the mirror that reflected the narrow space behind her. It was strange how the mirror never showed her face properly—only the back of her head, or sometimes nothing at all. One day, while cleaning the 7th floor, Lena overheard two workers talking about the elevator. "Did you know," one said, "that it used to be called the 'Ghost Elevator'? They say it's haunted by someone who died in there." "Who?" the other asked, leaning closer. "No one knows. But if you hear the bell ring when no one is inside, you should leave immediately. That’s when the ghost comes for you." Lena didn’t believe in ghosts, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the elevator. One afternoon, she decided to test it. She pressed the button for the 3rd floor and stepped inside. The door closed with a soft hiss, and the lights flickered. As the elevator began to move, she noticed something odd—the mirror behind her showed not just her reflection, but another figure standing behind her, motionless. She turned around. No one was there. The elevator stopped with a jolt, and the door opened onto the 3rd floor. She stepped out, heart pounding, and looked back. The elevator was empty, the door still open, as if waiting for someone else. That night, Lena couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the mirror, the figure, the way the elevator felt like it was watching her. She told herself it was just her imagination, but the next day, she found a small note tucked under her office door. It read: "Don't go to the 13th floor." She had never heard of a 13th floor. The building only had 10 floors. But the note was real, and it was written in neat, looping handwriting. She tried to ignore it, but the words stayed with her. The following week, she took the elevator again. This time, she pressed the 13th floor button. The number wasn’t even listed on the panel. But when she did, the elevator shuddered and the light flickered violently. A low hum filled the cabin, and the mirror showed a different image this time. There was a woman standing behind her, dressed in a long black dress, her face pale and expressionless. Lena’s breath caught in her throat. She turned around again. No one was there. The elevator continued moving, slower now, as if reluctant to go any further. When it finally reached the top, the door opened into a hallway she had never seen before. It was dark, the walls covered in peeling paint, and the air smelled of mildew and old paper. She stepped out, heart racing, and turned to see the elevator door closing behind her. It was gone. No sign of it anywhere. She ran down the hallway, but the doors led to nothing but dead ends and empty rooms. Eventually, she found a staircase and climbed down, trembling with fear. Back in the building, she asked the other staff if anyone had ever seen a 13th floor. They all looked at her strangely. "There's no 13th floor," they said. "You must have taken the wrong elevator." But Lena knew what she had seen. And she knew that the elevator was more than just a machine. It was a doorway. A threshold between worlds. And somewhere, deep in the building, it waited for the next person to step inside.