Abigail had never liked business trips, especially when they meant spending several nights away from home. She worked as a marketing coordinator for a mid-sized design firm, and while the job had its perks, traveling alone wasn’t one of them. Her company had booked her a room at the Orin Hotel, a tall, narrow building wedged between two modern glass towers downtown. According to her manager, the hotel was known for its great architecture and comforting hospitality. Abigail, however, suspected the truth: it was one of the cheapest options available.
When the taxi pulled up to the entrance, she stepped out with her overnight bag and laptop case. The façade was impressive in a faded sort of way—tall arched windows, intricate stone carvings, and a weathered brass sign that glinted faintly in the evening light. The revolving door turned sluggishly as she entered. The lobby smelled faintly of old carpet shampoo and furniture polish. A tall man at the front desk greeted her with a polite but almost too-long smile.
“Welcome to the Orin, Miss Walsh. Room 1320. Thirteenth floor,”
He said, sliding a tarnished brass key toward her. No keycards here. She thanked him and moved toward the elevator bank. Two lifts stood side by side, their chrome doors scratched and dented. She pressed the up button and stepped inside when one arrived with a faint ding.
The interior was dimly lit, with an old panel of numbered buttons that rattled faintly when pressed. She hit “13” and leaned against the wall, staring at her reflection in the slightly warped mirror that covered the back. The elevator creaked upward. The numbers glowed one by one: 9… 10… 11. Then it jolted violently.
Her hand shot to the rail. The lights flickered once, twice then went out entirely. The elevator shuddered to a stop. In the sudden, suffocating blackness, Abigail’s breathing sounded far too loud. She reached out in the dark, found the EMERGENCY button, and pressed it. Nothing. She held it down—still nothing. A faint, metallic groan echoed from somewhere above, like the cable stretching.
She pulled out her phone. No signal. The screen cast a weak bluish glow on her fingers. The walls of the elevator seemed to press closer. Minutes passed. Or maybe it was longer time didn’t feel normal in that tiny box.
Just when her panic started to swell, the elevator jerked again and began to move, slower this time. The faint hum of machinery returned, though it felt strained, labored. When the doors finally slid open, the floor indicator read 13.
She stepped out with shaky legs, but almost immediately stopped. The hallway was pitch dark. The usual warm hotel lighting was gone, replaced by a cold, flat absence.
“Hello?”
She called out, her voice sounding too loud in the silence. No answer. Abigail walked forward cautiously, the carpet muffling her steps. She noticed the air felt heavier here, damp in a way that didn’t belong in a climate-controlled building. Somewhere behind her, a soft click echoed like a latch being released. Her pulse quickened. She turned, scanning the darkness, but saw nothing except the faintly illuminated doorway of the elevator, still open.
Then, close enough to feel the faint warmth of breath against her ear, a voice whispered:
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
She spun around so fast her shoulder hit the wall. At the far end of the hallway, barely visible in the gloom, was a silhouette. It was her height, her shape. For a second, she thought it was her own reflection—until it moved. It stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and the dim light caught enough of its features for her to realize with a cold rush that it looked like her. Same hair, same clothes—but the eyes were hollow pits, and the skin… wrong. Too pale. Too smooth.
Abigail’s voice stuck in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but the figure tilted its head at an unnatural angle, almost curious, and a faint smile spread across its face. Then it moved. Not walked—moved. The shape blurred, like it was sliding across the floor without taking steps, the distance between them closing in a heartbeat.
Before Abigail could react, something huge and black burst from the shadow behind it—an arm, impossibly long and jointed in ways that didn’t make sense, ending in a massive hand that glowed faintly from within like dying embers. It grabbed her by the face. The heat was blistering, burning through her skin. Her scream came out muffled. Her last sight was of the doppelgänger’s empty eyes watching her with quiet satisfaction as the thing pulled her backwards—through the wall at the end of the hall. The elevator doors slid shut.
Two Days Later housekeeping had reported room 1320 as unoccupied for two days, despite the key never being returned. A night manager finally went up to check. The elevator to the 13th floor opened without incident. But when the doors parted, the hallway lights were bright, the air fresh. No sign of dampness or decay. The key was still in the lock of 1320. Inside, the bed was made, Abigail’s suitcase neatly placed against the wall. Her phone sat on the desk. The call log showed no outgoing calls after she checked in. The last open app was the camera—still recording a video.
In the grainy footage, the inside of an elevator filled the frame. Abigail’s face was reflected in the mirror behind her. Only… in the reflection, her mouth was moving when she wasn’t speaking.The screen went black.
