The elevator was always silent. Not the kind of silence that comes from a lack of noise, but the kind that presses against your ears like a hand wrapped around your throat. It had been installed in the old office building on 5th and Maple for as long as anyone could remember, though no one could say exactly when. The walls were painted a dull beige, the buttons worn down to the metal beneath, and the floor creaked with every step. Most people didn’t use it. The stairwell was just a few steps away, and the elevators were often out of service or mysteriously stuck. But there were those who claimed they had seen something strange inside. A flicker of movement, a shadow that wasn’t there, a voice whispering in a language no one understood. No one ever confirmed it, but the stories grew anyway. One evening, a man named Eliot found himself trapped in the elevator. He had been working late, finishing up some reports, when he noticed the power flickering. The lights dimmed, then came back on. He shrugged it off and headed to the elevator, only to find the door open and empty. He stepped in, pressed the button for the first floor, and the doors closed behind him. Then the lights went out. For a moment, everything was black. Then, slowly, the emergency light flickered on—a sickly green glow that cast long shadows across the small space. Eliot’s breath quickened. He pressed the call button, but nothing happened. The numbers on the panel blinked erratically, as if the elevator itself was confused about where it was going. A soft sound echoed from the ceiling. It was not the usual hum of machinery, but something else—something like a child’s laughter, distant and echoing. Eliot froze. He turned his head toward the ceiling, but there was nothing there. Just the metal grid above, and the faint outline of a vent. He tried pressing the buttons again. The first floor, the second, the third—none responded. The elevator began to move, but not smoothly. It jolted forward, then stopped abruptly. A cold wind blew through the cabin, carrying with it the scent of old paper and something metallic, like blood. Then, a voice. It was not loud, but it was clear. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Eliot spun around, but the elevator was still empty. He swallowed hard. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. No answer. Only the sound of the elevator groaning, as if it were alive. He reached for his phone, but it had no signal. He tried the emergency button again, but it remained unresponsive. Panic set in. He pounded on the door, shouting for help. Nothing. The elevator began to move again, this time descending. Eliot’s heart pounded in his chest. The numbers on the panel changed—1, 0, -1. Then the doors opened onto what looked like an abandoned basement. Dust hung in the air, and the walls were covered in peeling paint. There was no one there, but the air felt heavy, as if something had just passed through. He stepped out, trembling. The doors closed behind him, and the elevator was gone. Eliot ran. He found the stairs and climbed them, fast and frantic, until he reached the lobby. No one was there. The building was empty, as if it had never been occupied at all. He called the police, but they said no one had reported anything unusual. No one remembered the elevator being broken, or anyone being trapped. In the weeks that followed, Eliot became obsessed. He researched the building, digging through old records and talking to former employees. He found nothing concrete—just a series of oddities. A worker who had vanished without a trace in the 1970s, a fire that had burned the lower levels years ago, and a name etched into the wall of the basement that no one recognized. He returned to the elevator one night, determined to uncover the truth. He stood before the door, heart pounding, and pressed the button. The doors slid open, revealing the same dark interior. He stepped inside, and the doors closed behind him. This time, the lights stayed on. But the numbers on the panel didn’t match any floor he knew. They shifted, changing rapidly, like a heartbeat. And then, the voice came again. “You’re still here.” Eliot turned, but the elevator was empty. He reached for the door, but it wouldn’t open. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped. Then, the elevator began to move again—but this time, it was not going up or down. It was moving sideways, through the walls, as if the building itself had shifted. And as it moved, the walls began to change. The beige paint faded, replaced by faded posters, cracked tiles, and old graffiti. The air smelled of dust and decay. The numbers on the panel now read “1987.” Eliot gasped. He had never been in this building before. But the numbers told a different story. Then, the elevator stopped. The doors opened to a room that should not exist. A small, empty space with a single chair and a mirror on the wall. In the mirror, he saw someone else standing behind him. A man in a suit, holding a clipboard, watching him with a calm, knowing expression. “Welcome back,” the man said. Eliot turned, but the room was empty. The mirror showed only his reflection. The elevator doors closed, and the lights went out. When the power came back on, the elevator was gone. The building was quiet once more, and no one ever spoke of the strange occurrences again. But some say that if you press the wrong button at the right time, the elevator will take you somewhere you weren’t meant to go. And sometimes, when the lights flicker, you can see a figure standing in the corner, waiting.