FRIGHT LEVEL

The apartment building stood at the end of a narrow street where the fog never fully disappeared. Even during summer, the air around it carried the damp breath of rain-soaked concrete and old wiring. People simply called it “The Building.”At the center of the lobby rested the elevator.Old brass doors. Burgundy walls. Dim amber lights that buzzed softly overhead. It looked older than the building itself, like something that had been there long before the apartments were built around it.Most residents avoided using it after 1:13 AM.Nobody agreed on why.Some claimed the elevator occasionally stopped at floors that did not exist. Others insisted it opened onto places inside the building that nobody could ever find again afterward. Long hallways. Empty rooms. Stairwells that seemed unfamiliar despite somehow feeling deeply recognizable.The stories rarely matched.What people did agree on was the feeling.That something became subtly wrong once the doors closed. A slight tremor beneath your feet. Lights dimming just enough to notice. The strange sensation that the elevator was moving farther than the building should allow.And sometimes, when the doors opened again, the silence on the other side felt less like emptiness……and more like something quietly waiting for you to step out first.