The 13th Floor Meeting

The building directory says twelve floors.

It’s printed in brushed steel in the lobby. I’ve traced it with my finger while waiting for elevators more times than I can count. Floors 1 through 12. No skipped numbers. No maintenance levels. No penthouse.

Twelve.

I work late because the deadlines don’t care what time it is, and because the building is quieter after midnight. No small talk. No meetings. Just the hum of servers and the soft glow of monitors.

The first time the elevator stopped on 13, I assumed I was more tired than I thought.

It was 1:47 a.m. I was going down to the lobby to grab something from my car. The elevator doors closed, the numbers lit up in descending order—12, 11, 10—

Then 13 flashed.

The car slowed.

My stomach dropped in that specific way you get when something almost makes sense.

I laughed, quietly, to myself. Old elevators glitch. Displays fail. Everyone knows that.

The doors didn’t open.

The number flickered, then vanished. The elevator continued down like nothing happened.

I told myself I imagined it.

The second time, the doors opened.

It was almost 2 a.m. again. Same elevator. Same quiet building. The car stopped with a gentle chime I’d never heard before.

The display read 13.

The doors slid apart.

Inside was a conference room.

Not a hallway. Not mechanical space. A full conference room, dimly lit by buzzing fluorescent panels that flickered like they were struggling to stay awake. Long table. Cheap rolling chairs. Pitchers of water that looked like they’d been sitting there for years.

And people.

Shadowed figures sat around the table, motionless. Their outlines were wrong—too thin in places, too broad in others. Suits that didn’t quite fit the shapes wearing them. Heads tilted slightly, like they’d been waiting a long time.

The air smelled stale. Paper. Cold coffee.

I stood frozen in the elevator.

One of them moved.

Slowly, deliberately, a figure at the far end of the table turned its head toward me. I couldn’t see a face—just a darker patch where one should be.

“You’re late,” it said.

The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

The doors closed.

The elevator dropped.

I spent the rest of the night in the bathroom, lights on, door locked, convincing myself I’d fallen asleep at my desk and dreamed the whole thing.

I didn’t tell anyone.

A week later, it happened again.

This time, I didn’t laugh.

This time, the elevator stopped harder, like it had reached its destination. The doors opened wider than usual, and I could see more of the room.

More chairs were filled.

Some of the figures looked familiar. Not in a recognizable way—more like the feeling you get when someone reminds you of a name you can’t place. One leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced.

“You missed the last meeting,” it said.

I shook my head. “I don’t—this isn’t—there is no—”

“Please,” another voice interrupted, irritated. “We’re already behind schedule.”

I noticed then that there were empty chairs.

One of them was pulled back, like someone had just stood up.

A name card sat in front of it.

Mine.

The doors closed again before I could move.

After that, things started changing.

Calendar invites appeared on my work account with no sender listed. Just a time—2:00 a.m.—and a location field that said 13F – Conference.

If I declined them, they came back marked mandatory.

If I ignored them, my computer slowed. Files vanished. Emails I knew I’d sent showed up as drafts.

At 1:59 a.m. every night, the building went quieter than it should have.

No HVAC. No distant traffic.

Just waiting.

Tonight, the elevator stopped on 13 again.

I didn’t fight it.

The doors opened.

The room was fuller now. Every chair occupied except one.

They all turned toward me in unison.

The same figure at the end of the table gestured to the empty seat.

“You finally made it,” it said. “We were worried you’d keep pretending you don’t work here.”

I stepped out of the elevator.

The doors stayed open behind me.

I checked over my shoulder once.

The display inside the car still read 13.

The doors began to close.

And for the first time since I started working late nights, I realized something far worse than the meeting itself:

No one had ever told me what floor my desk was actually on.