The Eleventh Floor

My building has ten floors. I've counted them from the street often enough — ten neat rows of windows, eleven if you count the lobby. The elevator panel has buttons for L through 10. I've pressed every one of them. So when the doors opened on 11 last Tuesday, I did what you do: I assumed I was tired. It was 11:47 p.m. I'd been working late, eyes gritty, shoes squeaking on the lobby tile. I pressed 8. The car hummed up, and hummed past 8. And 9. And 10. It stopped with that soft exhale elevators do, and the panel glowed: 11. The doors opened onto a hallway. That's the thing I keep coming back to. It wasn't dark or dusty or abandoned-looking. It was just a hallway — same beige carpet, same brass sconces. Except the sconces were all lit, every single one, and nobody lights every sconce. The air smelled like old birthday candles. A woman was standing three doors down in a housecoat, holding an empty laundry basket. She looked at me the way you look at someone who's wandered into the wrong church pew. "You don't live here," she said. Not unkindly. "I — the elevator —" "You pressed the wrong night," she said, and smiled the way my mother used to, like I'd spilled something. "It only stops here after eleven. Go back down. And don't get off next time." The doors were already closing. I put my hand out — I woke up on the eighth floor. The elevator was parked at 8, doors open, my shoulder against the jamb like I'd been sleeping standing up. 12:03 a.m. Here's the part I can't fold into a dream: I checked the building plans the next day. The super keeps them pinned in the maintenance room, and he owed me a favor. Our building — our ten-floor building — was permitted for eleven. The eleventh was never built. Some money problem in 1974. They capped it at the roof and sealed the drawings. The panel only goes to 10. I take the stairs now. All eight flights. My calves are incredible and my sleep is ruined, because here's what I can't stop thinking: the woman in the housecoat knew my face. She said it like she'd been waiting to say it for years — like I'd finally, finally pressed the wrong night. If your elevator ever stops somewhere it shouldn't — tell me. Did you get off? Sleep tight. Take the stairs. This story is: FICTION.