The hidden thirteenth floor was why the rent was low, though no one said it that way.
The building stopped at Level 13. Years ago, something happened. After that, tenants stopped renewing. Management repainted the corridor, replaced tiles, offered free months. People still left. Eventually, they sealed the floor and called it temporary.
It never reopened.
Unit 1204 sat directly below it. The agent said I was lucky to get it at that price.
Lucky meant I could stretch my savings three more months. I had done the math twice at my kitchen table. If I didn’t complain. If I didn’t move again.
The first night felt ordinary. The fan clicked. Traffic hummed below. I almost believed the stories were exaggerations.
At 3:13 a.m., something heavy dragged across the ceiling.
Slow. Measured.
I sat up. The sound stopped.
Three knocks followed.
Evenly spaced.
In the morning, I told myself it was old pipes.
I didn’t look up at the sealed stairwell door when I left for work.
3:13 A.M.
It returned the next night. And the next.
Always at 3:13 a.m.
Sometimes metallic. Sometimes wet. Once, water ran somewhere above me, steady and deliberate, though the thirteenth floor had no active supply.
I reported it once. The management office reminded me that Level 13 was closed and locked.
Two nights later, I heard the lift open at 3:10 a.m.
The soft chime carried through the shaft.
Footsteps moved somewhere above.
A faint electronic notification sounded, like a delivery confirmation.
Then silence.
Then the dragging resumed.
The following morning, police knocked on doors. A delivery rider had gone missing. Last accepted job: this address. Signal lost near the rooftop level.
They checked the stairwell. One officer tested the chain on the Level 13 door and stood there a second longer than necessary, listening. The padlock held. The corridor held its breath.
They left before noon.
That night, 3:13 came and went without a sound.
I lay awake anyway.
The next night, at 3:13, the dragging returned.
Louder.
Three knocks followed.
I held my breath.
The knocking paused.
Then continued.
The Mark of the Hidden Thirteenth Floor
I went up at 3:08 a.m. a week later.
Not to be brave. Not even to prove anything.
I just needed it to stop.
The chain across the Level 13 door hung slack. The padlock rested open, cold against the metal.
Water dripped somewhere deeper inside.
I stepped through.
The corridor lights were dead. No dust. No debris. Just doors along a narrow stretch of concrete.
1304 stood at the far end.
The dragging came from inside.
My phone dimmed as I raised it. The battery dropped from forty percent to two before the screen went black.
I didn’t knock.
I stood there longer than I should have. Long enough to feel the silence notice me.
The dragging slowed.
I took one step back.
The chain brushed my shoulder.
Back in 1204, I checked my bank app out of habit. Same number as yesterday. Still not enough to leave easily.
The first knock came before I set the phone down.
Closer than before.
What Happened in 1304
The archive listed five tenants sharing 1304 in 1998. Neighbors reported late-night gatherings. Weeks before the deaths, residents said the tap water tasted metallic.
Official cause: gas exposure.
Water damage was recorded in the dining area ceiling.
After that, complaints filled the building records. Noises. Leaks. Doors opening at night.
Tenants left early.
Management renovated. Discounted. Repainted.
Nothing held.
I asked the elderly caretaker about it while he sorted letters downstairs.
“Some places don’t like being empty,” he said, without looking up.
That night, rust-colored water traced thin lines across my ceiling.
The dragging moved directly above 1304.
Higher than the unit.
The rooftop tank.
I lay awake listening to something heavy shifting in water.
At 3:13 a.m., three knocks followed.
Soft.
Waiting.
Inside the Hidden Thirteenth Floor
I climbed again before the clock reached 3:13.
The chain hung loose.
1304’s door stood open.
Light spilled across the corridor floor.
Inside, a dining table sat in the center of the room.
Five figures were seated around it.
Still.
Water dripped from the ceiling onto the table, spreading dark stains across the wood.
One chair faced the doorway.
Empty.
The air was thick and damp, as if the room had been sealed underwater and only recently drained.
Behind me, the door closed.
The dragging stopped.
One of the seated figures tilted its head slightly.
The room was set.
Waiting.
Standing in the doorway felt worse than stepping forward.
The chair was damp.
I sat.
3:13 Again
Weeks later, someone new moved into Unit 1204.
He carried boxes up the stairs and laughed on the phone about the price.
At 3:13 a.m., I dragged something heavy across the floor above him.
Slow. Measured.
Three knocks followed.
Below, I felt him wake.
He held his breath.
I waited.