The Fifth Floor

Margaret had lived in the Langford Arms since the year the cherry trees along the boulevard first bloomed. The old building, with its creaking elevator and peeling wallpaper, had always felt more like a sanctuary than a residence. But now, in the dead of night, it had become something else.

It began a month ago, after the new tenants moved into 5B. Margaret, on her way to the laundry room, caught a glimpse of a small black shape darting behind the boiler. She dismissed it as a mouse, but then her husband, Arthur, mentioned seeing the same flicker in the hallway. They laughed it off, but Margaret couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadow moved with a strange purpose.

Then the nights grew unsettling. The couple, who had shared the apartment for forty years, began to feel pressure on the mattress—a faint, rhythmic kneading, as if an invisible feline were settling in beside them. Arthur, a staunch rationalist, claimed it was just the building settling, but Margaret knew better. She remembered her grandmother’s tales of spirit animals tethered to places, and the Langford Arms had a history of tenants who never quite left.

Last Tuesday, the pattern changed. Margaret woke at 3:30 a.m., her heart hammering. She felt something land on the foot of the bed, light as air, and then a rapid scampering up the length of the mattress. The unseen creature circled her head before leaping to the floor. A few heartbeats later, it launched itself back onto the bed in a frenzy. Margaret felt the distinct sensation of claws raking her arms, sharp teeth sinking into her hands. She cried out, but Arthur slept through it all. The pain was searing, then vanished as suddenly as it began. She flicked on the lamp, expecting to see wounds, but her skin was unmarked.

Now, as she sat at the kitchen table at dawn, sipping cold tea, Margaret knew she could not face another night. She had to understand. The next day, she visited Mrs. Kowalski in 3A, the oldest resident, who had lived there since the building was converted in the 1960s. ‘You’ve felt it too,’ Margaret said. Mrs. Kowalski’s eyes widened. ‘The cat,’ she whispered. ‘People say it’s a ghost of old Mr. Higgins’ cat, but I know better. It’s not a cat. It’s a watcher. It used to just observe, but lately, something’s changed.’

Margaret pressed for details, but Mrs. Kowalski clammed up, muttering about the ‘fifth floor.’ The Langford Arms only had four floors. Intrigued and frightened, Margaret decided to investigate. She found old building plans in the basement, yellowed and brittle. They indicated an additional floor, built above the fourth, but later sealed off. The elevator buttons only went to 4, but the shaft continued upward.

That evening, Margaret took the service stairs to the fourth-floor landing. There, she discovered a narrow door she had never noticed, papered over with crumbling floral wallpaper. With a trembling hand, she pushed it open, revealing a steep staircase. The air was cold and smelled of dust and something faintly metallic. She climbed, her flashlight beam trembling. The stairs ended at a locked door, painted black. On the door, a small brass plate read: ‘Higgins, 1902.’

Margaret retrieved the master key from the superintendent’s office, a ring of tarnished brass. She inserted it into the lock, and with a click, the door swung open. The room beyond was a studio apartment frozen in time. Dust sheets covered furniture, but on a velvet settee sat a taxidermied cat, its eyes replaced with buttons. A journal lay open on a desk, and Margaret’s breath caught as she read the spidery handwriting: ‘The creature that Bertram brought home is not a cat. It feeds on attention, but it grows. It must never be allowed to have a corporeal form. I have bound it to this room, but if it ever tastes fury…’

The entry ended mid-sentence. Margaret looked around and saw a pentagram etched into the floorboards, with small bone fragments at each point. She then noticed a child’s toy, a small wooden mouse, partially chewed. As she stood there, the temperature plummeted, and she felt the familiar pressure on her ankles. She looked down to see a solid black cat, its eyes burning like embers, staring up at her. It was not the friendly ghost of a pet. This was the bound creature, now freed.

Margaret backed away, but the cat lunged at her face, claws extended. She screamed and tried to bat it away, but her hands passed through it, and yet she felt the searing pain of its bites. It was as if it were drawing strength from her fear. ‘No!’ she shouted, and in a moment of clarity, she remembered the journal. The bound creature could not exist without attention. She closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe, and began to hum a tune her grandmother used to sing, a calming lullaby. The attack softened, and she opened her eyes to see the cat dissolve into a wisp of smoke that spiraled into the pentagram. But the journal had closed, and a new line had appeared: ‘I will return when you sleep.’

Margaret fled, locking the door behind her, but she knew it was only a matter of time. That night, she and Arthur checked into a hotel. Yet at 3:30 a.m., she woke to the sound of tiny paws on the mattress, and a voice in her ear, rasping: ‘You cannot run from the cat.’ She has not slept since. The Langford Arms has been condemned, but Margaret cannot leave. She is trapped between the world of the living and the hungry shadow on the fifth floor. And every night, the cat returns, waiting for her to close her eyes.