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Neela moved into the Zircon Heights complex for its promised peace. The high-rise stood on the edge of a dying city forest, advertised as nature-adjacent but minutes from downtown. Her one-bedroom on the 17th floor had a view of the thickets and a perfectly silent ambiance—until the third night.
It began as soft steps directly above her—a set of slow, shuffling footfalls pacing the ceiling late at night. She assumed the flat upstairs, 1801, had new tenants. But each day, when she passed the corridor, 1801’s door remained sealed with papery plastic, dust gathering at the threshold.
She asked the guard casually during one evening stroll.
“That flat isn’t sold yet,” he replied. “You’re the first resident on the 17th.”
“But I hear movement up there—every night.”
He shrugged. “Ma’am, it must be pipe noise or echo. Or maybe sounds from the 19th?”
Neela wanted to dismiss it. Her days were long—coding remotely for a Kazakhstan-based fintech startup. Her sleep-light brain often turned printer clicks into gunshots. But the sounds didn’t behave like plumbing. They had intent.
The next time they came—2:37 a.m., sharp, like clockwork—there was walking. Long, slow pacing. Then concrete grinding. Then whispers. One voice, then two, then three. Not arguing. Not laughing. Just murmuring steadily until 2:47 a.m., then dead silence.
She tried recording them. Nothing unusual picked up. Her room mic caught ambient buzz, but not the distinct human hush she heard. Creeped out, she knocked on her own ceiling at 2:38 a.m. once, with a broom. The footsteps paused. Then resumed, louder.
She filed a complaint with the building manager, who sent a technician to inspect the ceiling tiles. No water leaks. No entry to the flat above. The technician even showed her the sealed fire door to 1801—padlocked, with red ‘X’ chalk marks.
But the sounds didn’t stop. They escalated.
Neela awoke one morning with dirt under her fingernails and concrete dust on her pillow. She stared in disbelief until it honestly struck her that it didn’t belong to her. She hadn’t slept on that side of the bed.
The next few nights, she set alarms and stayed up. At 2:37 a.m., the lights subtly dimmed. Her apartment lights. Then she heard not just footsteps—but dragging. As if someone hauled rebar across the floor above.
She yelled upward, her voice pathetic against the ceiling:
“Who the hell are you?!”
There was no response. But at 2:41 a.m., something sharp laughed in her ear.
Not from a speaker. From inside the room.
She quit sleeping. The whispers followed her into daytime, now echoing faintly from electrical sockets. She unplugged everything. Her laptop camera flickered on, even when shut.
Finally, she cornered the lift operator—an old man named Rafiq who rarely spoke.
“At night,” she said urgently, “the flat above mine—it’s occupied.”
He looked down at the control panel, then whispered back, “This complex replaced parts of the old asylum. They never cleared everything—just built over it. Some blueprints had an extra unit. But no such flat exists. That floor has one missing.”
Neela didn’t believe him. Until she took a closer look at the elevator panel.
Between 17th and 19th, there was… nothing. No button for 18.
But when she came back from work that Saturday, the elevator stopped. The doors opened.
“18th Floor,” the electronics said.
She hadn’t pressed anything.
The hallway stretched before her—dim, unfinished, dust-covered. A dozen doors. No numbers.
And at the far end, one door was wide open. Light spilled from its gap.
Against her instincts, she stepped out. She walked slowly toward the lit apartment. The door, taller than standard, had something painted on it from the inside—strange spirals in soot.
She peeked in.
Empty cement room. But the walls were scorched with finger-like marks—as if someone had clawed upward. A pile of hair and wireless keyboard fragments sat neatly in one corner.
Then she heard movement inside the walls. Not mice. Not raccoons. Something the size of a person, skittering upward.
She stepped back, heart gone berserk.
The door slammed behind her. She turned. The hallway had vanished. Black drywall enclosed all exits.
Suddenly, the ceiling cracked above her. A square panel gave way, and something dropped out—a person-shaped thing with skin like crushed paper and eyes blindfolded shut, whispering flat code endlessly:
“while (awake) {
forget(time);
repeat(floor);
}”
Neela screamed, but the sound curved inward, swallowed by the thing’s open chest cavity.
Then silence.
Next morning, Flat 1703 was empty. No signs of habitation. The manager told anyone who asked that ‘Ms Neela’ had moved the night before.
When a new tenant was shown the apartment two weeks later, her suitcase was still there. Unzipped, with everything folded inside.
The ceiling fans spun backward on their own.
And at 2:37 a.m., laughter echoed from the floor above.
A floor that does not—on record—exist.
