Maya hated elevators.
She especially hated this one, the rickety metal box that groaned its way up the steel and glass spine of Black ridge Tower.
She pressed the button for 14, just like always. But today, the elevator jolted and stopped at 13.
There was no 13.
The doors opened anyway.
A dim hallway. A buzzing light. Wallpaper peeling like skin. She stepped out, her heart pounding.
The doors shut behind her.
No button. No call panel.
Silence.
Then, a whisper from down the hall: "Maya..."
She spun around.
A door creaked open. Inside was a room filled with old TVs, all playing security footage of her.
Sleeping. Eating. Talking on the phone. In her apartment. In her office.
Someone had been watching her for years.
On one screen, she saw herself standing in the exact hallway she was in now. But behind that version of herself, a figure slowly approached.
She turned around.
Nothing.
She turned back to the screen.
The figure was closer.
She ran. She pounded on doors. She screamed. But everything was wrong. It was looping. It was shifting.
Then a voice over the intercom said,
“Thank you for participating in Test 13. Your data has been recorded.”
The elevator dinged.
She stepped inside, shaking.
The button marked 14 flickered, then changed to WELCOME BACK.
She never spoke of it again.
But every night since, her TV turns on at 3:13 a.m.
And shows her sleeping.
By S. Sai Sri Udtkarsh