The building didn't look haunted.
It was tall, modern, and glass-faced, standing too clean and straight among a row of older buildings that slouched like they'd given up. Ava adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers tense from the long move and longer silence. She had chosen this building for one reason: it felt like a reset button—new city, new place, no memories attached.
The lobby smelled faintly of lemons and paint, a little too polished, like it was trying too hard to seem alive. The lights above didn't flicker, but they buzzed—low, constant, and just under the edge of comfort. Ava paused at the entrance, one foot inside. The air was cool against her face, but still... something about the stillness felt off.
Like the building was holding its breath.
A man in a navy uniform stepped out from behind the reception desk. He wasn't old, but his face carried the kind of tired that didn't come from age. His smile was practiced, his voice polite but automatic.
Man – Ava Mistry? Eighth floor. Welcome.
Ava – Thanks.
She took the envelope he handed her. It was light—just a set of keys and some printed papers inside—but it felt heavier than it should. Like this move was finally real. Like she'd actually gone through with it.
Man – Elevator's straight ahead. Your keys are in the envelope. Wi-Fi password's on the back. Let us know if anything feels... off.
He paused for just a second—barely long enough for most people to catch—but Ava noticed. Her brain was wired for micro-delays, for the subtle ways people slipped when they were hiding something.
Ava – Off?
Man – Just the usual move-in quirks.
He was already turning away by the time he said it. She watched him walk back to the desk, her grip tightening slightly around the envelope.
That was oddly specific for something so vague.
The elevator stood at the end of a quiet corridor, its metal doors reflecting the ceiling lights in dull patches. Ava walked toward it slowly, her footsteps sounding sharper than they should have in the empty hallway. A small screen above the elevator blinked once before settling on G.
She pressed the call button and waited. The hallway behind her remained still—too still. No hum of voices, no distant televisions or clatter from other apartments. Just the low mechanical groan of the elevator making its way down.
The doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Ava stepped inside.
The inside of the elevator was cleaner than she expected—sleek, brushed metal walls and a faint scent of something citrusy and cold, like synthetic lemon. The floor was polished granite, spotless, almost too spotless. Ava stepped toward the panel, letting her fingers hover over the buttons.
Her eyes skimmed the rows automatically.
1, 2, 3... 7, 8, 10.
She stared at the panel, expecting her brain to correct it. But it didn't. There was no 9. Just a small blank space where the button should have been, as if something had been removed—intentionally. The gap wasn't wide, but it was obvious once you noticed it, like a missing tooth in a perfect smile.
Ava tilted her head slightly.
Maybe it was a superstition thing. Some buildings skipped numbers—unlucky floors, bad history. But something about this gap didn't feel superstitious.
It felt deliberate.
And unfinished.
She pressed the button for the eighth floor, hesitating only slightly before her finger made contact. The light behind it blinked on with a soft click. The elevator began to move—smooth, quiet, almost too smooth for a building this old on the outside.
Ava kept her eyes on the panel as the numbers lit up one by one.
2... 3... 4...
The space between 8 and 10 loomed larger now that she knew it was there. She found herself staring at it, waiting for something to blink to life, for a button to reveal itself.
Nothing did.
Her reflection in the steel doors wavered slightly as the elevator climbed, as if the air inside the lift shifted just a few degrees colder.
Ava shook it off.
New buildings were weird. She was just tired.
Still... she didn't take her eyes off that gap.
The elevator doors slid open with a gentle sigh, revealing a long, quiet hallway bathed in soft yellow light. The walls were a pale cream, almost hospital-like, but the carpet was new—dark, clean, and patterned with faint geometric shapes that didn't quite repeat.
Ava stepped out slowly, half-expecting to hear voices or the creak of footsteps behind one of the doors. But the hallway was silent. Not peaceful silent—hollow silent.
She glanced back at the elevator once, just before the doors began to close. That same gap on the panel stared back at her, waiting.
Her apartment was the third door on the left. She walked toward it, her boots sinking slightly into the thick carpet, each step sounding quieter than the last.
The door opened with a clean click, and Ava stepped into a space that smelled faintly of dust, varnish, and something unfamiliar—like cold stone after rain. The apartment was bigger than she remembered from the listing photos: open layout, warm wooden floors, a small balcony that let in the hazy orange light of early evening.
Boxes sat neatly against one wall, labeled in her handwriting. The movers had come and gone. Everything was in its place—too neatly, maybe.
She let the door shut behind her and exhaled slowly.
Quiet. Still. Hers.
Ava dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and walked toward the living room window. The building across the street reflected in the glass. Behind her, the hallway had already disappeared into silence.
Nothing strange. Nothing out of place.
So why did it feel like something had been waiting?
She moved through the apartment slowly, unpacking one box at a time—not in any rush, just enough to make the place feel a little more like hers. Books stacked along the window ledge, coffee mugs lined up in the kitchen, a scarf draped over the back of a chair. The small things that reminded her she belonged somewhere.
She set up her kettle and brewed a quick cup of tea, the familiar warmth grounding her as she sat cross-legged on the couch. Her laptop screen glowed in the dim light, calendar already filled with deadlines and meetings. Tomorrow was her first day at the new office. New job, new role. She should've been more anxious than she was.
But something about this place—this space, this silence—was making her brain soften around the edges.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe she needed a pause.
She rinsed the mug, dimmed the lights, and crawled into bed without checking her phone. The sheets were cool, the air still.
Sleep came slower than she expected. Not restless, just delayed—like her mind needed time to adjust to the stillness. The city outside was muted through the thick windows, reduced to the occasional hum of a distant car, or the whisper of wind slipping between buildings.
Ava lay on her side, watching the soft shadows on the ceiling shift as headlights passed below.
At some point, her eyes closed.
And just before sleep pulled her under, she thought—very faintly, just once—that she heard a ding.
Soft. Metallic. Familiar.
Like the sound of an elevator arriving on a floor no one had called.
.
.
.
EOC***