The old office building on the edge of town had stood for over a century, its once-proud façade now cracked and weathered. Most of the offices had long since been abandoned, but one floor remained in use—a single, dimly lit space that no one ever seemed to know about. It was the 13th floor, or so the rumors said. But the elevators never stopped there. The elevator itself was an old model, with a brass button panel that flickered when touched. It had no number, only a single red light above it that glowed faintly even when no one was inside. People who had worked late sometimes took the elevator down from the 12th floor, only to find the doors opening onto a corridor they didn’t recognize. The lights were always dim, the air thick with the scent of dust and something older, something like decay. One night, a janitor named Martin found himself stuck in the elevator after closing time. He had been cleaning the 10th floor when the power went out, and the emergency lights barely flickered. The elevator doors opened into the lobby, but when he tried to go back up, the buttons didn’t work. He pressed them again, then again, until the red light above the elevator blinked twice, as if acknowledging his presence. When the doors finally closed, the elevator began to move. Not down, not up—but sideways. The walls shifted slightly, as if the metal was bending. Martin’s breath caught in his throat. He looked at the mirrored door and saw his reflection, but it wasn’t moving. It was staring back at him, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open with a low groan. Martin stepped out into a hallway that wasn’t in any blueprint he had ever seen. The floor was polished wood, and the walls were lined with pictures—faded, old photographs of people who looked familiar, though he couldn’t place why. Some of them were smiling, others weeping. One photo showed a man standing in front of the same elevator, holding a clipboard and looking directly at the camera. He turned around and saw the elevator door behind him, but when he reached for it, it was gone. In its place was a wooden door with a small plaque: "Room 13." He pushed it open and found a small office, empty except for a desk and a chair. On the desk lay a notebook, its pages filled with names and dates. He flipped through them, recognizing some of the names—people who had vanished years ago, their disappearances never explained. A cold wind blew through the room, and the door slammed shut behind him. He ran to the window and looked outside, but there was no city, no buildings—just endless fog. The phone on the desk rang, and he hesitated before answering. A voice, soft and distant, whispered, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Martin dropped the phone and ran back toward the door, but it was locked. The walls began to shift again, the floor creaking like it was alive. He heard footsteps echoing from the hallway, slow and deliberate. The mirror in the room reflected not his face, but the face of a woman, her eyes hollow, her mouth stretched in a silent cry. She reached out, her fingers brushing the glass. The next morning, the building was found empty, all the offices sealed. No one knew what had happened to Martin, or to the others who had disappeared over the years. Some claimed that the 13th floor still existed, hidden between floors, waiting for someone to stumble upon it. Others said the elevator was just a trick of the mind, a ghost of a place that had never truly been. But those who had seen the red light blinking in the dark, or heard the whisper of a name they had never spoken, knew better. They knew that somewhere, in the quiet spaces between floors, the elevator still waited. And it was never empty.