The elevator was always silent, even when it was moving. That was the first thing that made people notice it. It was a small, old elevator in a building that had long since been abandoned, but for some reason, it still worked. No one knew who owned it or why it hadn't been dismantled. The building stood alone on the edge of town, its windows dark and broken, its doors rusted shut. But the elevator remained, as if waiting. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d go looking for trouble, but trouble found you anyway. A group of teenagers, curious and reckless, decided to explore the building one rainy evening. They had heard stories about the elevator—whispers of people disappearing inside, of voices coming from the shaft, of doors opening on floors that didn’t exist. But they laughed them off, convinced they were just urban legends. They found the elevator at the back of the building, behind a door that creaked open with little effort. Inside, the walls were covered in peeling paint, and the floor was sticky with something that smelled like old coffee and mildew. The buttons were labeled in a strange script, and none of them seemed to work. But when someone pressed the "down" button, the elevator shuddered and started to move. It went down, slowly, without any sound. The teenagers clutched each other, their laughter fading into nervous silence. When the doors finally opened, they stepped out into what looked like an empty hallway. But it wasn’t the same hallway they had entered. The walls were different, the lights flickering. They tried to go back, but the elevator had vanished. They wandered the corridors, trying to find their way out. The building felt wrong, like it was breathing around them. They passed rooms that shouldn’t have existed, each more decrepit than the last. At one point, they heard a woman’s voice whispering in a language they couldn’t understand. It sounded sad, almost pleading. Then, a child's laughter echoed from somewhere deep in the building. Eventually, they found a door that led to the outside. But when they stepped through, they realized something was wrong. The town was gone. The streets were empty, the buildings all collapsed or missing. They could hear the wind howling through the ruins, and the sky was a sickly green. It was as if time had stopped, and they had been left behind. They tried to re-enter the building, but the door had disappeared. The elevator was gone too. All that remained was the silence and the weight of the unknown pressing down on them. Days passed, though no one could tell how many. The teenagers grew weaker, their minds fraying. They spoke of things they couldn’t explain—shadows that moved without light, whispers that came from nowhere, and a presence that watched them from the corners of their eyes. One by one, they disappeared, leaving only their footprints in the dust. Years later, a new group of people stumbled upon the building. They had heard the stories, but they were skeptical. They found the elevator and, against all logic, it worked again. They rode it down, expecting nothing more than a cold, empty shaft. But when the doors opened, they saw something that made them freeze. Inside the elevator was a single chair, worn and cracked. On the wall, scrawled in blood, were the names of the teenagers who had gone missing. Below the names, a message: “You’re next.” The elevator doors closed before anyone could react. The building was silent once more, but the elevator remained, waiting for the next group of curious souls. Some say it still runs, carrying people down into a world that doesn’t exist, a place where time folds in on itself and memories are rewritten. No one knows how many have entered, or how many will. But the elevator is always there, ready to take you deeper than you ever wanted to go. And when the doors open, you might not be able to leave.