Chapter 3: The Floor That Shouldn't Exist

Chapter 3: The Floor That Shouldn't Exist

The memory of the man vanishing into the staircase was seared onto the back of Willow’s eyelids. For a week, she treated the Blackwood less like a home and more like a minefield. She took the stairs, never lingering, her head on a constant swivel. She ignored the persistent, gentle tap, tap, tap at her window each midnight, pulling her pillow over her head and praying for morning. She left her phone on silent whenever she had to leave her apartment, tucking it deep into her bag as if it were a live grenade. Robby’s rules had become her gospel.

But the building had a way of wearing you down. On a sweltering Tuesday afternoon, after hauling three bags of groceries up four flights of stairs, she stood sweating in the lobby, staring at the elevator. It was daytime. Robby’s rule was specific: “Don’t take the elevator down after sundown.” Going up during the day had to be safe. It had to be. Her legs ached and her arms trembled from the weight of her bags. Logic, or what passed for it in this place, warred with a primal fear. Exhaustion won.

The brass cage arrived with a sigh of ancient mechanics. Just as she stepped inside, a sharp voice called out, “Hold the door!”

A harried-looking woman in expensive yoga pants hurried in, dragging a sullen-faced boy of about seven by the wrist. He clutched a brightly colored toy robot. Willow offered a tight, neighborly smile that wasn't returned. The woman jabbed the button for the 8th floor, her attention already on her phone.

“Mommy, can I press it?” the boy whined.

“No, Leo. Don't touch anything.”

Willow pressed the button for floor 4. The doors slid shut, encasing them in the dim, wood-paneled box. The elevator began its groaning ascent. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Then Leo, with the lightning-fast malice of a bored child, broke free from his mother’s grip. Before either of them could react, he slammed his small fist against the control panel, his palm smacking across the entire top row of buttons.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The buttons for floors 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12 all lit up with a malevolent glow.

“Leo!” his mother shrieked, grabbing him. “What did I just say?”

But it was too late. A cold, heavy dread settled in Willow’s stomach. They were trapped. Not in a stuck elevator, but in a mandatory tour.

The elevator shuddered to a halt at floor 5. The doors opened onto a hallway that was a slightly more derelict version of her own—the same floral wallpaper, but here it was peeling in long, curling strips, revealing the slick, black substance underneath. A smell like old, wet paper filled the car. The doors mercifully closed.

Floor 6 was worse. The lights in the hall flickered erratically, casting shadows that twitched and danced. A single, child-sized tricycle sat in the middle of the corridor, its front wheel spinning slowly, squeaking with each rotation. Squeak… squeak… squeak…

Floor 7 smelled of mildew and rot. Dark, branching patterns of black mold crept from the ceiling, looking like skeletal hands reaching down. Leo had started to whimper, pressing himself against his mother’s leg. The woman stared out, her face pale, her earlier annoyance replaced by a dawning horror.

At floor 9, the air grew thick and heavy. The hallway beyond the doors looked… wrong. Distorted. The walls seemed to subtly curve inwards, and a grandfather clock at the far end had its numbers melted together, its hands drooping like wilted flowers. A faint, discordant music box melody drifted in.

By floor 11, Willow’s knuckles were white from gripping her grocery bags. The hallway was plunged into near-total darkness, but she could see shapes—piles of what looked like old furniture, all draped in white sheets, resembling a slumbering graveyard of household goods. From the gloom, a soft, dry whispering could be heard, like sand scraping against stone.

Robby’s voice echoed in her head. Don’t linger. He meant the stairs, but it felt like it applied here, too. Don’t get off. Don’t ever, ever get off.

The elevator passed 12, the last lit button, but it didn’t stop at 13 or 14, the supposed top floor. It kept going. A low, grinding sound vibrated through the floor as the car ascended into uncharted territory. Willow stared at the floor indicator above the door. The brass plate for '14' flickered, sputtered, and then a number she had never seen before clicked into place.

There was no 15th floor. The building directory in the lobby stopped at 14. This floor didn’t exist.

With a final, protesting shudder, the elevator stopped. The silence that followed was absolute and terrifying. Leo was crying openly now, his face buried in his mother’s side.

The doors slid open.

The stench hit them first—a thick, coppery smell of old blood mixed with the damp, earthy odor of a freshly dug grave. The hallway of the 15th floor was a ruin. The wallpaper was gone, revealing walls coated in a living, pulsating black mold. Wires hung from the ceiling like dead vines. The only light came from the elevator itself, cutting a weak rectangle into the oppressive darkness.

At the far end of the hall, shrouded in shadow, stood a figure.

It was tall, impossibly tall, its silhouette scraping the ceiling. As it took a step forward into the light, Willow’s breath caught in her throat. It looked like a nightmarish parody of a child’s plaything, something born from a fever dream. It wore a filthy, navy-blue jumpsuit, and its face was a cracked porcelain mask of a smiling clown, the paint chipped and peeling. But its eyes, visible through the mask’s sockets, were not painted on. They were chillingly human—small, dark, and gleaming with a terrifying, cold intelligence.

It was Leo’s toy robot made flesh and horror. The creature’s head tilted, the motion jerky and unnatural, the painted grin seeming to widen. Then it moved its arm, and Willow saw what it was holding. A massive wood-splitting axe, the blade dark and stained with something that was definitely not rust. It dragged the axe head along the floor, the metallic scrape echoing in the dead silence.

Scrrraaaape.

The Grinning Jester, or whatever it was, saw them. Its human eyes locked onto Willow’s. It raised its head and let out a sound that was not a laugh, but a high-pitched, warbling giggle that scraped at her sanity.

Then it charged.

It moved with an unnatural, loping gait, its long legs eating up the distance of the hallway with terrifying speed. The axe was held high.

“CLOSE THE DOOR!” the mother screamed, fumbling blindly at the buttons.

Willow was already there, her own terror a shot of pure adrenaline. She slammed her palm against the ‘door close’ button, again and again. Come on, come on, come on!

The heavy brass doors began to slide shut with agonizing slowness. The Jester was a blur of motion, its high-pitched giggle growing louder, closer. The scraping of its axe was a deafening shriek. It was twenty feet away. Ten.

Just as the gap narrowed to a sliver, the horrifying, grinning mask filled the space. The axe swung sideways, a blur of dark metal aimed right for the opening.