I Moved into the Thirteenth Floor That Didn’t Exist

The last place my younger brother, Daniel Smith, was seen before he disappeared was Hawthorne Lane Apartments, Building 4.

I reported him missing, checked the surveillance footage, and questioned the landlord.

I did everything I could.

Yet the building seemed strangely cut off from the rest of the city.

The surveillance camera at the entrance was broken.

So was the elevator camera.

Three lights in the corridors had gone out.

Even the property management records had been altered. Daniel’s move-out date was changed to “voluntary departure.”

The police questioned the neighbors several times, but they all gave the same answers.

“He was a quiet young man.”

“I never heard any arguing.”

“He left dragging his suitcase.”

But Daniel would never disappear without saying goodbye.

He called me once before he vanished. The call lasted only seven seconds.

I couldn’t hear his voice on the other end.

There was only the elevator chime.

Ding.

The thirteenth floor had arrived.

The elevator panel in Building 4 didn’t have a 13 at all.

The building had fourteen floors, but the panel skipped from 12 to 14.

The landlord said the number 13 was considered unlucky in old buildings, which was why it disappeared when the elevator was repaired.

I rented Apartment 1204 under the alias Lena Taylor.

It was the room Daniel had lived in before.

On the day I signed the lease, the landlord simply crossed out the date on the old contract and wrote in a new one.

William Jones, the property manager, stood beside him and kept staring at me.

He was in his fifties and wore a blue uniform washed until it gleamed. His name badge had no photograph.

I pointed to Daniel’s signature on the old page.

“Did Daniel Smith still owe the property management any fees?”

William shook his head.

“We don’t have anyone by that name here.”

Daniel’s name was clearly written on the old page.

William lowered his eyes to it and smiled.

The smile spread slowly, as if someone were pulling at his face from beneath the skin.

“Young lady, you must have seen it wrong.”

When I looked down again, the signature had dissolved into nothing but a watery smear.

The landlord urged me to take the keys.

I didn’t argue.

Three neighbors squeezed into the elevator when I went upstairs.

Ginny Moore from the second floor carried a bag of leafy greens.

Alex Miller from the seventh floor wore earphones, and his face was pale, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Sam Parker from the tenth floor wore sharply pressed suit pants and held a thermos in one hand.

None of them spoke.

The elevator was so quiet on the way from the first floor to the twelfth that I could hear nothing but the cables pulling it upward.

When we reached the twelfth floor, the elevator didn’t stop.

It continued rising.

A red number appeared in the blank space between 12 and 14 on the panel.

13.

Ginny’s bag of vegetables slipped from her hand and hit the floor.

Alex grabbed my wrist, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t make a sound.”

The red light above the elevator doors came on.

The doors opened.

There was no corridor outside.

There was only a narrow hallway.

The floor was covered in damp red tiles, and old door plaques hung along both walls.

I saw Daniel there.

He was kneeling outside a door with his head lowered, the plaque around his neck swaying gently.

My throat tightened, and I almost called out his name.

A cold hand reached from behind and clamped over my mouth.

William stood inside the elevator and held out a sheet of paper.

A single line was printed across it.

“Temporary Resident Report Form—Hawthorne Lane Apartments, Building 4.”