The Terminal Floor You Can’t Leave

The curious lift in the old Waverley Building had always fascinated Eleanor. It was the last of its kind, still brimming with charm despite its tarnished brass panel and the faint whir of mechanics that was louder than the hum of traffic outside. The building housed modest offices and a few local businesses, but it was the lift that stirred her imagination. Legends circulated, murmured under breath like a ghost passing through the night, about the elusive Thirteenth Floor.

“What’s up with that lift? I heard it goes to a nonexistent floor,” Eleanor said during lunch, poking at her salad as she sat with her friend Rachel.

Rachel shrugged, her brow furrowing slightly. “The Thirteenth Floor is just rubbish, you know. People say people disappear up there, but it’s just an urban myth.”

“Disappearing? That sounds like a dare. What if we went up there just once. See if it really exists?” Eleanor was intrigued. Just the previous week, she’d stumbled upon an old forum discussion online that mentioned the urban legend and a recent surge of local interest sparked by TikTok challenges. Performers were dared to enter the lift, get off on that phantom floor, and return to tell the tale—an enthralling mix of thrill and danger.

Rachel narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Just stick to the normal floors. It’s a waste of time and energy.”

Eleanor was not dissuaded. She had always been fascinated by the unknown, the unexplored. Fresh out of uni and seeking excitement, this felt like her moment.

Later that week, after a particularly boring day of work, it seemed the right time to put the legend to the test. The Waverley Building was mostly empty by evening, the offices glaring with fluorescent lights like glaring eyes. She walked towards the lift, eyeing the brass button for the thirteenth floor with the same apprehension you’ve got when peeking into dark waters—you know you shouldn’t, but the thrill is too alluring.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed the button. The lift jolted before descending. When it halted, a chill ran through her. Twice, she pressed the button for the thirteenth floor. Both times, the lift went down a floor. Just as she was about to give up, the lights flickered, and the lift lurched, starting to ascend.

“Come on!” She gripped the side, her heart racing. As the numbers clicked past, the elevator slowed ominously at the thirteenth floor. The lights flickered once, twice, then went out completely.

She fumbled for her phone to light the dark; the lift doors opened with a sound so mechanical and grating it felt ominous, as though they were exhaling secrets. Standing there peering into shadow, she felt a pull—an irresistible urge to step outside even as her instincts warned her to turn back.

Eleanor hesitated at the threshold. The air felt thick with foreboding. The narrow hallway extended deeper into the building, draped in darkness. Rusted fire extinguishers and aged wood beckoned her closer. She stepped outside.

The floorboards creaked startlingly beneath her weight. Eleanor’s phone lit the space, revealing walls lined with peeling paint and dimly flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead. No one had been here in years. She walked, an uneasiness settling. A couple of doors loomed ahead. One was ajar, slightly swinging as if inviting her to investigate.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing unnaturally against the stillness. Only silence answered.

Before she could turn back, the door swung open fully before her and an unspeakable darkness poured from the room. Something slipped through, brushing against her ankle, causing her to jump back. It was a small black cat, blinking up at her with wide eyes before streaking away into the shadows.

Unease gnawed at her—was it mere coincidence, or did the presence in the air thicken? Heart hammering, she retreated to the lift, but when she reached the doors, they shuddered closed without returning to life. Panic surged as she pressed buttons in a frenzy. The lift was unmoving.

Hours or maybe even minutes dragged on; reality blurred as she paced, her breaths burning in her chest. The sensation of dread thickened as muffled voices erupted from the darkness. Faces and forms began to swirl in her thoughts. It was as if the hallway itself began to breathe, drawing her deeper, further into its heart, claiming her.

At last, the lift doors widened, letting a thin blade of light drench the corridor. With a burst of impulse, Eleanor rushed back, practically tumbling into the cabin before the doors slammed closed behind her. She gasped for air, her chest heaving as the lift resumed its descent downwards.

When the doors opened again, she stepped out into the familiar lobby, her heart racing in cruel disbelief. She could not shake the feeling that something had shifted within her. Her friends, long gone, no longer texted. She felt isolated. Days morphed into weeks.

It seemed odd when, weeks later, she attempted to revisit that haunted floor. The lore was spilling forth; the Thirteenth Floor was developing its own mythology as a challenge amongst brave souls eager to unveil what everyone else feared. Eleanor, now curious, felt the urge to conquer her fear; she descended the stairs from her flat to the Waverley once more.

She pressed the button. But this time, the lift whirred downward without pause, as if it had chosen to abandon its usual sluggishness. The flickering lights did not relent, suspicion pooling in her gut as familiarity gnawed at her excited senses.

Only terror greeted her this time. She stepped out onto the thirteenth floor where the black cat appeared instantly, staring with unsettling calm, ears flattened against its head. Crouching low under the flickering lights, it merely watched her, its tail swishing back and forth.

The door creaked open again. The darkness poured forth, but voices among the shadows this time were clearer. “Join us,” they called, softer yet distorted, layers upon layers falling into one another like frail tapestries unraveling, pulling her towards the void.

But Eleanor was transfixed by the black cat. A sickening realisation gripped her; the small creature was taunting her, leading her toward the proliferating shadows. Despite her will, her feet moved involuntarily towards the open door, her heart racing wildly.

When the door slammed hard behind her and the world beyond collapsed about her, she fought to escape even as the cat hissed. In her struggle, she felt memories of her former life dissolving. She saw flickers of laughter, moments of joy, but they were tinted grey, dimming.

And in a heartbeat, the lift descended, trundling back to the lobby with an empty air, leaving behind whispers of existence that would soon be dragged into stories told by the curious—the continued evolution of the Waverley’s dark legend, a tale made flesh in the minds of the brave and foolish who believed that stepping beyond the threshold would bring glory instead of doom.

And so it began again, the myth of the Thirteenth Floor, eager to claim anew.