The Eighth Floor

It was supposed to be a quick trip. Just an elevator ride from the ground floor to the tenth—no big deal. But something about that night was off. Maybe it was the flickering streetlight outside, or the eerie silence that hung in the air of the lobby. I tried to shake the feeling as I stepped into the elevator, watching the old doors creak shut.

There was no one else in the building. It was well past midnight, and I had stayed late at the office again, working on some overdue reports. I pressed the button for the tenth floor and leaned back, rubbing my eyes.

The elevator hummed to life, rising steadily. But then it stopped—abruptly—on the eighth floor. The lights inside the elevator flickered, and my stomach tightened. I hadn’t pressed the button for the eighth floor.

The doors slid open with a mechanical groan, revealing a long, dimly lit hallway. At first, I saw nothing unusual—just the usual dingy carpeting and yellowish walls. But something felt wrong. The air was cold, far colder than it should have been for an office building. A faint smell of rot drifted toward me, like old, wet wood or something far worse.

I reached out to press the "close door" button, but my finger froze halfway there. In the corner of the hallway, barely visible in the dim light, something was moving. At first, I thought it was a shadow, maybe a trick of the flickering bulbs. But no—it was definitely moving.

A figure stepped into view. It was hunched, its long limbs dangling awkwardly as if they didn't belong to it. Its head lolled to one side, and its eyes—god, its eyes—were wide open, staring right at me with an intensity that made my blood turn to ice. There was something disturbingly human about its face, but the longer I looked, the less human it seemed. Its skin was stretched too tightly over its bones, and its mouth hung open, revealing a row of jagged, yellow teeth.

The elevator doors were still open, but I couldn’t move. My feet felt glued to the floor. The figure took a step toward me, its movements slow and deliberate, like it was savoring the moment. I finally found the strength to press the button, but nothing happened. The elevator stayed still, the doors wide open, inviting that thing in.

It took another step.

I mashed the buttons, all of them, desperate for the doors to close. But the elevator refused to move. The figure was getting closer now, just a few feet away. I could hear its breathing—raspy, labored, like something struggling to stay alive.

Just as it reached the threshold, the doors slammed shut with a violent clang. The elevator jerked to life, speeding up as if it, too, was trying to escape. I collapsed against the wall, heart pounding, and watched as the floor numbers ticked upward—nine, ten—until the doors finally opened again.

I staggered out, trembling, and ran for the stairs. I didn’t care how many flights there were between me and the ground floor; I wasn’t getting back in that elevator. I burst out of the stairwell and into the lobby, gasping for air, my mind racing.

I rushed to the front desk, but the security guard wasn’t there. In his place was a note, hastily scrawled on a piece of paper:

"Whatever you do, don’t stop on the eighth floor."

I haven’t gone back to that building since. But sometimes, late at night when I’m lying in bed, I can still hear the raspy breathing. And I wonder if that thing is still waiting, standing there on the eighth floor, waiting for someone else to take the wrong ride.