Chapter 2: Behind That Door

It was 3:12 a.m.

Lin Mo stood in front of the elevator, his eyes locked on the softly glowing number etched into the panel—13. That single digit pulsed faintly in the dark, not unlike a heartbeat, as if beckoning him forward.

He had lived in this old apartment building for four years now. A quiet, well-ordered life. Stable job. Predictable routine. Never—not once—had he seen any mention or trace of a thirteenth floor.

The property management records he’d read showed the twelfth floor as the top. He’d seen the blueprint himself, a clean architectural diagram with no room for doubt. Twelve floors. No more.

But now, here it was.

Thirteen.

Lin Mo held his breath. Slowly, almost involuntarily, his finger reached toward the unfamiliar button. Just before touching it, he paused.

Behind him, the corridor stretched empty and still. The silence was unnaturally dense, like velvet curtains muffling sound and light—hiding something just beyond the veil. The air was so heavy, it felt like it could smother him.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed.

No ringtone. Just a brief vibration.

The screen lit up with a new notification.

Incoming Message – 13F

He stared at the screen in disbelief. No ringing. No contact request. Just a message, plain and direct:

You’ve come up. There’s no going back.

His throat tightened. A cold film of sweat began to form along his brow.

He opened his contact list.

The mysterious entry was still there: 13F.

This time, the profile picture had changed.

It was a door—ajar. From the narrow gap in the frame, a single eye stared out. Unblinking. Watching. Waiting.

“This is insane...” he muttered, jaw clenched.

And yet, something compelled him. Before he could talk himself out of it, his finger pressed down on the “13” button.

Click.

The elevator doors slid shut.

With a groan, the cabin began to rise.

Ding.

The screen blinked.

13

The doors opened.

Lin Mo blinked, stunned by what he saw.

This was not his familiar twelfth-floor landing—the gray cement walls, the stairwell access, the potted plants left by kind old Mrs. Xu.

No. This was something else entirely.

Before him stretched a narrow, dim corridor, cloaked in shadow. At the far end stood a partially open door, emitting a flickering yellow glow—warm, but sickly. Candlelight? No... something less alive.

And from within the door came a sound.

Drip... drip... drip...

The same chilling rhythm he’d heard on the phone.

Lin Mo stepped out of the elevator. His footsteps were muffled by the wet floor beneath him—slick, as if something had spilled. His shoes squeaked softly as he moved, the only sound breaking the tension.

He approached the door slowly.

Taped to it was an old, yellowed paper notice, its ink faded but still legible.

Non-residents strictly prohibited.

That light from within danced like bait. It tugged at the edges of his thoughts, igniting some primal curiosity. Or was it dread?

“Hello?” he called out quietly.

No reply.

Just the sound of water.

Drip... drip... drip...

He pushed open the door.

Inside was a room—one that defied logic.

The walls were covered in mirrors. Floor to ceiling, every surface reflected his image from a hundred different angles. Some were cracked. Some fogged. Others shattered and reassembled with mismatched shards, creating grotesque distortions of his reflection.

In the center of the room stood an old-fashioned bathtub. Cast iron, clawfooted, rust bleeding down its legs. The tub was filled to the brim with still, dark water.

Too still. Too dark. Like a mirror made of tar.

Beside the tub sat a single red sneaker. Untied. One lace dangled over the edge, dipping into the water.

Lin Mo’s pupils contracted.

That shoe.

The one he saw last night. The one in the hall. The one in the photograph.

He instinctively turned to flee.

But the door behind him was gone.

In its place—an aging, blotchy wall, its wallpaper peeling like dry skin.

“You won’t find the exit,” said a voice.

Lin Mo froze.

It didn’t come from the room. Not really. It came from within. From behind his ears, or deep inside his skull. Neither masculine nor feminine. Hollow. Echoing.

He spun around.

The mirror behind him no longer reflected him normally.

His face was warped—stretched at strange angles, eyes sunken, mouth curled into a sly, mocking smirk.

He wasn’t smiling.

But his reflection was.

Panicked, he sprinted toward the corridor, retracing his steps.

But the hallway changed as he ran.

The floor beneath his feet softened, like flesh. The walls—once blank—now displayed thousands of tiny, blinking eyes. All open. All watching.

They followed his movements.

Some bled.

He stumbled to a stop, breathing hard. He wasn’t in a building anymore. He was somewhere else. Some dream-space. A hallucination. A constructed nightmare.

A trap.

Then came a sound from behind him.

A low, watery thunk.

He turned.

Ripples disturbed the surface of the bathtub.

A figure was rising from within.

A woman.

She emerged slowly, her wet hair clinging to her face like seaweed. Her skin was ghostly pale, almost translucent. Water streamed from her hollow eyes, her mouth slightly open but void of breath.

She stared at Lin Mo.

Expressionless.

Soulless.

Lin Mo stumbled backward, crashing into a leaning mirror. It cracked loudly under his weight. As he scrambled to his feet, his eyes caught a small object in the corner of the room.

A doll.

Torn and stained. Its face ripped open. Its belly crudely stitched shut with rusted buttons in place of proper thread.

The woman in the tub spoke.

Her voice was weightless and melodic. But sharp. Piercing. Direct.

“You... which number are you?”

Lin Mo swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

She began crawling toward him.

“You came first. You pressed the button. 13. Isn’t that right?”

“No—no, this isn’t real,” he stammered. “This is a dream. It has to be.”

The woman paused, her head tilting to one side.

Then she smiled and whispered, “If it’s just a dream... why don’t you open your phone and check?”

His hands trembled as he fumbled for his device.

The screen was still on.

His contact list still open.

13F was still there.

But now the profile photo was gone—replaced by a video preview.

He tapped it.

It was surveillance footage.

Of him.

From behind, third-person. Crystal clear.

It showed him exiting his apartment. Standing by the elevator. Pressing the 13 button. The doors closing. The ride up.

Exactly as it happened.

But there were no cameras in the hallway.

He lived alone.

The final frame of the video showed a hand—pale and gnarled—reaching out from the mirror and grabbing his shoulder.

Lin Mo dropped the phone.

“You’re not done,” the voice whispered again, this time from the bathtub.

“You haven’t reached the end.”

Desperate, Lin Mo scanned the room. There. A crack in the far wall—narrow, but real. He didn’t hesitate. He charged straight for it.

The world collapsed into darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, it was morning.

Soft light spilled through his window.

He was back in bed.

Alive.

Awake?

His sheets were damp with cold sweat. The familiar outlines of his room surrounded him. Everything was where it should be.

His phone lay quietly beside his pillow.

No new messages.

No mysterious contacts.

No 13F.

He exhaled, deeply, shakily. Got up. Walked to the bathroom.

He turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, breathing in relief.

He looked up at the mirror.

Then he froze.

Taped to the glass, in the same crooked handwriting as before, was a note.

Just three words:

Welcome back.