The Stairwell
He climbed twenty floors and ended up on seventeen. Then eighteen. Then seventeen again.
The building on Maple Street had twenty-four floors. Ethan lived on the twentieth, and he'd taken the stairs so many times he could do it on autopilot. That Saturday afternoon, he was on floor nineteen before he realized something was wrong.
He'd left his apartment to buy cigarettes—a ten-minute trip, maybe fifteen if the corner store was crowded. The elevator worked fine when he went down. When he came back, the elevator was dead. No lights. No hum. Just a dark panel and stairs.
The stairwell was divided into two sections. One led to the front entrance. The other led to the back parking lot. Ethan took the front section and started climbing.
Floor 1. Floor 2. Floor 3.
By floor 10, his legs were burning. He stopped on the landing to catch his breath. The concrete walls were covered in that old paint smell, the kind that never fully goes away in old buildings. He could hear the city outside—traffic, voices, a dog barking—but it all felt distant. Muffled.
Floor 11. Floor 12. Floor 13.
He kept counting. Floor 14. Floor 15. Floor 16. Floor 17. Floor 18. Floor 19. Floor 20.
He pushed through the door and found himself on floor 19.
He stared at the faded number painted on the wall. 19. He'd counted twenty floors. He'd come out on nineteen.
Fine. He'd climbed one floor too many. He went back in and climbed one more. Floor 20.
He pushed through the door and found himself on floor 17.
The air changed. That was the first thing he noticed. The stairwell had been cold before—normal building cold—but now it felt damp. Heavy. Like the walls were breathing moisture into the space.
Ethan pulled out his phone. No signal. The bars were gone. He tried 911 but the call wouldn't go through. He tried his mother's number. Nothing.
He went back into the stairwell and started climbing again. Floor 18. Floor 19. Floor 20.
Floor 20.
He pushed through the door and found himself on floor 18.
This time he noticed the window at the end of the hallway. Through it, he could see the parking lot below. But everything was wrong. The cars were there, and the streetlights, and the trees swaying in the wind—but they were all grey. Colorless. Like someone had taken the saturation and turned it to zero. Not fog. Not mist. Just... nothing.
He ran to the elevator and pressed the button. Nothing. He pressed it again. Nothing.
He went to the window and screamed. Below, a woman was getting out of a car. A man was walking his dog. Someone was carrying groceries to another building. Ethan screamed until his throat hurt.
Nobody looked up.
He ran to the nearest door and knocked. Then the next. Then the next. Four apartments on the floor. He knocked on every one, pounding with his fists, shouting for help. No answer. No movement inside. Just silence.
He backed away from the doors and slid down the wall. His hands were shaking. He'd heard stories about this—the stairwell that moved, the floors that shuffled, the people who got stuck between levels and never found their way out. His grandmother had told him about places like this. Places where the rules were different.
He bit his thumb. Hard. Until the skin broke and blood came out. Then he pressed the bloody fingertip to his forehead, holding it there while he whispered the words his grandmother had taught him. The words she'd said to use when the world didn't feel real anymore.
He sat there for what felt like hours. The grey light through the window didn't change. The silence didn't break. But eventually, he got up and went back to the stairs.
Floor 19. Floor 20.
He pushed through the door.
His mother was standing there, holding her electric scooter keys, looking at him like he was insane.
"Where have you been?" she said. "I've been calling you for an hour."
Ethan looked at her. Then he looked past her, at the elevator. The lights were on. The panel was lit up, showing the ascending numbers.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Almost five," she said. "You went to buy cigarettes four hours ago."
Ethan didn't answer. He went into the apartment and sat down at the kitchen table. His mother kept talking—asking if he was okay, if something had happened, if he'd gotten lost in the building—but he couldn't hear her. He was looking at his hands. The cut on his thumb had already started to heal. But the blood had dried into a dark spot, exactly where he'd pressed it to his forehead.
He never bought cigarettes again.
And he never took the stairs after dark.
He'd left his apartment to buy cigarettes—a ten-minute trip, maybe fifteen if the corner store was crowded. The elevator worked fine when he went down. When he came back, the elevator was dead. No lights. No hum. Just a dark panel and stairs.
The stairwell was divided into two sections. One led to the front entrance. The other led to the back parking lot. Ethan took the front section and started climbing.
Floor 1. Floor 2. Floor 3.
By floor 10, his legs were burning. He stopped on the landing to catch his breath. The concrete walls were covered in that old paint smell, the kind that never fully goes away in old buildings. He could hear the city outside—traffic, voices, a dog barking—but it all felt distant. Muffled.
Floor 11. Floor 12. Floor 13.
He kept counting. Floor 14. Floor 15. Floor 16. Floor 17. Floor 18. Floor 19. Floor 20.
He pushed through the door and found himself on floor 19.
He stared at the faded number painted on the wall. 19. He'd counted twenty floors. He'd come out on nineteen.
Fine. He'd climbed one floor too many. He went back in and climbed one more. Floor 20.
He pushed through the door and found himself on floor 17.
The air changed. That was the first thing he noticed. The stairwell had been cold before—normal building cold—but now it felt damp. Heavy. Like the walls were breathing moisture into the space.
Ethan pulled out his phone. No signal. The bars were gone. He tried 911 but the call wouldn't go through. He tried his mother's number. Nothing.
He went back into the stairwell and started climbing again. Floor 18. Floor 19. Floor 20.
Floor 20.
He pushed through the door and found himself on floor 18.
This time he noticed the window at the end of the hallway. Through it, he could see the parking lot below. But everything was wrong. The cars were there, and the streetlights, and the trees swaying in the wind—but they were all grey. Colorless. Like someone had taken the saturation and turned it to zero. Not fog. Not mist. Just... nothing.
He ran to the elevator and pressed the button. Nothing. He pressed it again. Nothing.
He went to the window and screamed. Below, a woman was getting out of a car. A man was walking his dog. Someone was carrying groceries to another building. Ethan screamed until his throat hurt.
Nobody looked up.
He ran to the nearest door and knocked. Then the next. Then the next. Four apartments on the floor. He knocked on every one, pounding with his fists, shouting for help. No answer. No movement inside. Just silence.
He backed away from the doors and slid down the wall. His hands were shaking. He'd heard stories about this—the stairwell that moved, the floors that shuffled, the people who got stuck between levels and never found their way out. His grandmother had told him about places like this. Places where the rules were different.
He bit his thumb. Hard. Until the skin broke and blood came out. Then he pressed the bloody fingertip to his forehead, holding it there while he whispered the words his grandmother had taught him. The words she'd said to use when the world didn't feel real anymore.
He sat there for what felt like hours. The grey light through the window didn't change. The silence didn't break. But eventually, he got up and went back to the stairs.
Floor 19. Floor 20.
He pushed through the door.
His mother was standing there, holding her electric scooter keys, looking at him like he was insane.
"Where have you been?" she said. "I've been calling you for an hour."
Ethan looked at her. Then he looked past her, at the elevator. The lights were on. The panel was lit up, showing the ascending numbers.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Almost five," she said. "You went to buy cigarettes four hours ago."
Ethan didn't answer. He went into the apartment and sat down at the kitchen table. His mother kept talking—asking if he was okay, if something had happened, if he'd gotten lost in the building—but he couldn't hear her. He was looking at his hands. The cut on his thumb had already started to heal. But the blood had dried into a dark spot, exactly where he'd pressed it to his forehead.
He never bought cigarettes again.
And he never took the stairs after dark.