The elevator was always silent. Not the kind of silence that came from being empty, but the kind that pressed against your ears like a heavy blanket. It had been installed in the old apartment building on Maple Street decades ago, long before anyone remembered who built it or why. The building itself was a relic, its walls thick with dust and secrets, and the elevator was the only thing that still worked properly. It was called "the ghost elevator" by the few tenants who still lived there. Most people avoided it, preferring the creaking stairwell that smelled faintly of mildew and old wood. But for those who had no choice, like the janitor, Mr. Hargrove, or the young woman named Clara who moved in after her parents passed away, the elevator was a necessity. Clara first noticed something strange on her third night in the apartment. She had just returned from work, exhausted and ready for bed. As she stepped into the elevator, the doors closed behind her with a soft hiss. The light flickered once, then stabilized. The numbers on the panel glowed dimly, as if unsure whether to be on or off. When the elevator began to move, it didn’t go up or down—it just hovered, as though waiting. She pressed the button for the seventh floor. Nothing happened. The numbers didn’t change. She tried again, then again. Her breath quickened. Then, without warning, the elevator shuddered and dropped a few inches, as if something had caught it mid-motion. A cold wind rushed through the small space, carrying with it a whisper—soft, low, and almost human. Clara pressed the emergency button. There was no response. The lights dimmed further, casting the elevator in an eerie blue glow. She heard footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing from somewhere above. They weren’t hers. She turned around, expecting to see someone, but the elevator was empty. Then the doors opened. Not on the seventh floor. Not on any floor at all. It opened into a dark hallway that didn’t exist in the building’s blueprint. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and burning wax. Clara backed out quickly, slamming the doors shut. The elevator groaned, as if in protest, and then resumed its normal function. It took her to the seventh floor without a sound. From that day on, Clara kept a small notebook by her bedside, where she recorded every strange occurrence. She wrote about the time the elevator stopped between floors and the lights went out, only for the sound of a child laughing to echo from the ceiling. She wrote about the man in a tuxedo who appeared in the mirror one morning, standing behind her as she brushed her teeth. He never spoke, but he watched her until she turned around. Mr. Hargrove, the janitor, knew more than he let on. He would sometimes find the elevator locked when it shouldn’t be, or hear voices coming from inside when no one was there. He said the building had a history of disappearances—people who entered the elevator and never came out. He claimed they were taken, not by anything physical, but by something else entirely. One night, Clara decided to investigate. She waited until the building was quiet, then slipped into the elevator alone. The doors closed slowly, as if reluctant. This time, the numbers on the panel started to change. They climbed past the seventh floor, then the eighth, the ninth, and beyond. The elevator kept going, higher and higher, until the numbers disappeared altogether. A door appeared in front of her, glowing faintly. She reached out and touched it. It was warm, almost inviting. The moment her hand made contact, the elevator stopped. The doors slid open, revealing a room that looked like it belonged to another time. Faded portraits lined the walls, and a grand piano sat in the corner, untouched by dust. In the center of the room stood a man, dressed in a suit that seemed too clean, too perfect. He turned toward her, his face obscured by shadows. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, his voice like a whisper carried on the wind. Clara tried to speak, but no words came out. The man stepped forward, and the room began to fade. The elevator doors slammed shut, and the lights flickered back to life. She found herself standing in the lobby, panting, her hands trembling. The next morning, the building was empty. No one had left, but no one was there either. The elevator remained operational, but no one dared to use it. Some say it still waits, holding onto the echoes of those who entered and never returned. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, you can hear the faint sound of a child laughing from deep within the building—lost, forgotten, but never truly gone.