The elevator in the old office building on 12th Street had always been a bit strange. Not because of its age—though it was certainly older than most—no, it was the way it felt when you stepped inside. The metal doors closed with a soft hiss, and the air grew heavier, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Most people didn’t notice anything unusual at first. They just saw an old but functional lift that connected the ground floor to the 13th. But then there were the stories. Some said that if you stood still for a full minute, you’d hear whispers. Others claimed that the numbers on the panel sometimes changed by themselves. And there was one tale that everyone knew: the elevator never stopped at the 13th floor. Not once. No matter how many times you pressed the button, it would just skip it like it wasn’t even there. Lila had heard all the stories, but she never believed them. She was a student working part-time at the building’s archive, and she needed the elevator to get to her desk on the 12th floor. One rainy afternoon, she found herself alone in the lobby after work, the last person to leave. The lights flickered slightly as she entered the lift, and the doors slid shut with a quiet click. She pressed the 12th floor button. The elevator began to descend, but something was off. The numbers on the panel blinked erratically, and the temperature dropped suddenly. A chill ran down Lila’s spine, though she told herself it was just the air conditioning. Then, the elevator jolted and came to a stop. The light above flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. The doors opened onto a hallway that wasn’t supposed to exist. It was dimly lit, with peeling paint and a faint smell of mildew. Lila hesitated, then stepped out. The corridor stretched endlessly in both directions, and the walls seemed to pulse slightly, as if they were alive. She turned back, expecting to see the elevator door behind her, but it was gone. Panic set in. She tried to run back, but the hallway shifted, twisting into new paths. Every time she reached what looked like the entrance, the walls had changed. She stumbled into a room filled with old filing cabinets, each labeled with names she didn’t recognize. The air was thick with dust and something else—something ancient. Then she heard it. A voice, soft and distant, speaking in a language she couldn’t understand. It wasn’t screaming or shouting—it was a whisper, almost a lullaby. Lila froze, heart pounding. The sound grew louder, and the walls began to tremble. She turned around, and there, standing in the center of the room, was a figure dressed in a tattered suit. Its face was obscured by a shadow, but its eyes glowed faintly. Lila backed away slowly, but the figure didn’t move. Instead, it raised a hand, and the room began to dissolve. The walls melted away, and she found herself back in the elevator, the doors now open. The numbers on the panel read 12 again, and the air was warm once more. She stumbled out, breathless, and ran to the nearest exit. The building was empty, but she could still feel the weight of what had happened. She never went near the elevator again. But sometimes, late at night, she would dream of that hallway, of the figure in the suit, and the whisper that never stopped. No one ever saw the 13th floor. But some say that if you listen closely, you can hear it—just beyond the silence, just beyond the reach of the elevator. And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll never have to find out what's waiting there.