The elevator at Lianhua Residences arrived with a soft chime that echoed through the narrow lobby, and for a moment, the building felt awake.
I had just moved into Block C, a renovated high-rise wedged between old food courts and aging shophouses. The walls were newly painted, but the quiet beneath them felt older. One section of the elevator panel had been replaced with darker steel. It was smoother than the other buttons, as if touched often and then reconsidered.
As I stepped inside, my neighbour’s warning returned without invitation:
Never press your floor button twice.
I had smiled when she said it.
The doors closed. The panel waited.
The Rule She Told Me Too Late
I met my neighbour on my second evening while waiting for the lift with an armful of unopened boxes. She wore house slippers despite the dust along the unfinished corridor.
When the elevator doors opened, she didn’t step in. Her eyes moved to the panel, then to me.
“You’re new,” she said.
I nodded.
She leaned closer. “When you’re inside, press your floor only once.”
I laughed softly. “What happens if I don’t?”
Her expression didn’t change.
“Don’t,” she repeated. “It’s not a rule they post.”
The doors began to close. She kept watching them, as if timing something.
“Someone else moved in before us,” she added. “Unit fourteen. Stayed less than a week.”
Inside the elevator, she folded her hands and pressed nothing.
Only later did I realize she never said what happened—only what not to do.
The Elevator Rules Everyone Pretends Not to Know
No one at Lianhua Residences spoke about rules openly. Nothing was written down. Habits passed in pauses and glances while waiting for the elevator.
If a floor button was pressed twice—out of impatience or habit—the cabin would hesitate. Not long. Just enough for the hum to thin.
Then it would move.
The directory listed thirty floors. The display should have stopped at ground level.
It didn’t always.
Beneath Floor 1 was a blank space—no label, no light. The metal there was smoother than anywhere else. Warmer, too, as if fingers hovered longer before pulling away.
After hearing the rule, I noticed something else: whenever someone pressed twice, the elevator gave a faint internal click before deciding where to go.
As if confirming.
I stopped pressing buttons casually.
What Appears Beyond the Missing Floor
It happened past midnight.
Half-asleep, I pressed Floor 18. The button didn’t light.
I frowned and pressed again.
The elevator clicked.
Not the usual relay sound. Something softer. Deliberate.
The display blinked, then emptied. A single dash replaced the numbers.
The hum faded. The cabin felt heavier, as if someone had stepped in behind me without opening the doors.
Slowly, the doors parted.
Outside was a corridor I had never seen. The lights buzzed but didn’t fully hold. The tiles were darker than they should have been. The air smelled damp, like something sealed too long.
I didn’t move.
Far down the corridor, another elevator chimed.
The doors remained open.
Waiting.
After several seconds, they slid shut on their own. The cabin shuddered and resumed its climb. When it reached Floor 18, the button beneath my finger was still warm.
I didn’t sleep.
The Elevator Cameras That Refuse to Remember
The next morning, I went to the management office and described what happened, leaving out anything that sounded unreasonable.
The manager nodded once and asked about my access card.
That evening, the security guard was less careful. He glanced at the ceiling camera before leaning closer.
“The elevator CCTV glitches during that stop,” he said quietly. “Every time.”
According to him, the footage skipped about forty seconds. No corridor. No open doors. Just static before the numbers resumed.
“There was one case,” he added. “Before most people moved in.”
The resident said the doors stayed open longer than they should have. Long enough to step out.
When the elevator returned, the recording continued as if nothing had interrupted it.
Officially, there was no missing floor.
Still, the elevator paused sometimes—as if checking whether someone had asked twice.
Those Who Step Inside the Elevator Don’t Come Back the Same
Eventually, someone stepped out.
Mrs. Tan from Floor 12 pressed her button twice without thinking. The elevator stopped. The doors opened.
She walked into the corridor.
She returned the next morning.
After that, she stopped greeting people. Her replies came a second too late, as if she were listening to someone standing just behind you.
Once, I passed her in the lobby.
“It’s quieter when you don’t press twice,” she said.
I hadn’t spoken.
Her lights stayed off most nights.
A delivery rider vanished one evening. His bike was found upright in the lobby, still locked. The elevator logs recorded an extra stop—one not tied to any listed floor.
After that, residents waited for the next lift.
Conversations ended early.
Silence settled into the building like dust.
Why the Elevator Still Opens Its Doors
Now, when I stand inside the elevator, I don’t look at the blank space beneath Floor 1.
I press once.
The cabin hums, steady and obedient.
But sometimes the display pauses—just for a breath—before moving.
As if considering whether I meant it.
Tonight, my finger hovers longer than it should.
I press once.
The elevator descends.
Editor’s Note
Some buildings renovate. Others adapt.
Shared spaces carry what individual lives cannot. In places where strangers pass without speaking, rules form quietly—not because they’re announced, but because survival demands them.
Not every door should stay sealed. Some remain, waiting, for those who choose to ask twice.