The Sixth Floor Landing

I have always been hypersensitive to the unnatural. A sudden chill in a warm room, the nagging sensation of unseen eyes, the inexplicable prickle at the back of my neck—these things have haunted me since childhood. But nothing prepared me for what happened during my first year at Meridian Institute of Technology.

My dorm, Ashworth Hall, was a brutalist concrete tower, its six floors looming over the campus like a gray tombstone. I lived in a cramped room on the fourth floor with three other freshmen. We were a mismatched quartet: me, a quiet computer science nerd; Marcus, a boisterous mechanical engineer; Priya, a meticulous civil engineering student; and Tom, a laid-back electrical engineering major. The building was divided into three wings, imaginatively named A, B, and C. We were in C.

One Tuesday, a nasty flu bug hit me hard. I spent the morning in a feverish haze, my head pounding, my skin clammy. By afternoon, I knew I needed medical attention. I called the resident advisor, a stern woman named Mrs. Hargrove, who summoned an ambulance. She helped me down the stairs, my legs shaky, supporting me with an arm around my waist.

As we exited the main entrance, the cold evening air hit me, and I took a deep breath. The ambulance was waiting, its red lights painting the concrete in a bloody hue. I was about to climb in when something caught my eye—a figure on the roof of the A wing. It was a girl, her silhouette stark against the overcast sky. She stood at the very edge, her hair whipping in the wind. A strange, unnatural stillness surrounded her, as if the world had paused.

‘Mrs. Hargrove,’ I whispered, pointing. ‘Look.’

She turned, and at that exact moment, the girl stepped off. There was no hesitation, no stumble. She just fell, her arms outstretched like a crucifix, her dress fluttering. The impact was a sickening thud, muffled by the grass but loud enough to echo in my skull. I stood frozen, my illness forgotten. Mrs. Hargrove gasped, then sprinted toward the body. I followed, my legs moving on their own.

She was alive, but barely. Her legs were twisted at unnatural angles, bones protruding through skin. Blood pooled around her, dark and viscous, soaking into the soil. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and unseeing, but they blinked. I heard a gurgling sound from her throat. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The paramedics rushed over, pushing us aside, but I caught a glimpse of her hand, which was clutching something—a small, silver locket. It glinted in the dim light.

The ambulance took her away, and Mrs. Hargrove made me sit on the curb, trying to calm me down. The news spread like wildfire across campus. Within hours, students gathered at the spot, whispering, taking photos. I stayed in the infirmary, but I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her falling.

The next day, I learned her name: Elena. She was a sophomore in the architecture department, known for her quiet demeanor and her love of sketching the campus buildings. Her friends came to the hospital, and I found myself there, sitting in the waiting room, unable to leave. I didn’t know her, but something pulled me. I overheard one of her friends, a girl with red hair, telling a nurse, ‘She was fine. She was happy. She wouldn’t do this.’ But she did.

Days passed. Elena survived, but she would never walk again. The doctors said it was a miracle she was alive. But every time I walked past the A wing, I felt a cold draft, no matter the season. I started avoiding that part of campus, but the feeling of being watched grew stronger. I would wake up at night, convinced someone was standing at the foot of my bed, but there was no one.

One evening, about a week after the incident, I was studying alone in the lounge on the ground floor of C wing. It was past midnight, and the room was lit by a single flickering fluorescent light. I heard a sound—a soft thumping, like footsteps on the floor above. But the floor above was the fifth, and I knew the sixth was locked. The thumping grew louder, then stopped. I heard a woman’s voice, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. It was eerily melodic, but it sent chills down my spine.

I ignored it, thinking it was a prank. But then I felt a breath on the back of my neck, ice-cold despite the warm room. I spun around, but there was nothing. The humming stopped. The silence was deafening. I gathered my books and rushed to my room, locking the door.

That night, I dreamed of Elena. She was standing on the roof again, but this time she turned to look at me. Her face was mangled, her legs bent backward, but her eyes were clear. She mouthed something, but I couldn’t hear her. She pointed at the locket, then at me. I woke up drenched in sweat.

The next morning, I decided to investigate. I asked around about Elena, and one of her friends, the red-haired girl, told me that Elena had lost her locket a few weeks before. It was from her grandmother, and she was devastated. She had searched everywhere, but couldn’t find it. The friend also mentioned that Elena had been acting strangely, talking about ‘seeing things’ and ‘hearing whispers’. She thought Elena was just stressed.

I remembered Elena clutching the locket in the ambulance. I went to the hospital to see her, but she was sedated, in a coma. I spoke to her guardian, a tired-looking woman, who told me that Elena had been in and out of consciousness, muttering about ‘the sixth floor’ and ‘they’re waiting’. I felt a chill.

The sixth floor of the A wing was abandoned. It had been sealed off years ago due to structural issues, or so they said. But I had heard rumors of strange happenings there—doors slamming, lights flickering, the sound of sobbing. I decided to go there with Marcus, who was skeptical but curious.

We waited until midnight and used the stairwell to reach the fifth floor. A chain-link fence blocked the stairs to the sixth, but the padlock was old and rusted. Marcus picked it with a hairpin, and we slipped through. The air was colder here, thick with dust and the smell of decay. The hallway was dimly lit by emergency lights, casting long shadows. We found an office that had been turned into a makeshift shrine: old photos, candles, and a small notebook. The notebook contained drawings of the building, with a mysterious symbol scrawled in the margins. And there, on a table, was a silver locket—Elena’s locket.

I picked it up, and as I did, the lights flickered and went out. I heard the humming again, louder. A door slammed somewhere. Marcus grabbed my arm, and we heard footsteps approaching. We ran, but the hallway seemed endless. We burst through a door and found ourselves on the roof—the same spot where Elena had jumped. The night sky was clear, stars cold and distant. Below, the campus was a maze of lights.

Then Marcus screamed. He pointed to the edge. I looked, and there was Elena’s ghost, her body broken, but her eyes burning with hate. She spoke, her voice a raspy whisper: ‘You found my locket. Now you must take my place.’ She reached out, and I felt a force pushing me toward the edge. The locket grew hot in my hand, burning my skin. I tried to drop it, but it was stuck.

I fought, but the force was overwhelming. I was an inch from the edge when Marcus grabbed me and pulled me back. The ghost screamed, a sound that pierced my ears, and then vanished. We stumbled back to the stairs, my heart pounding. I looked at my hand— the locket was gone. I had a red burn mark in the shape of a circle.

We told no one, but the next day, I learned that Elena had died in the hospital at the exact time we were on the roof. Her nurses said she had a peaceful smile on her face.

Now, I still feel the cold spots. I still feel watched. But sometimes, at the edge of my vision, I see a girl with broken legs standing on the roof of Ashworth Hall. She is always pointing at me. And I know that one day, she will come for what I took. Until then, I keep my silver locket hidden, even though I don’t know how it returned to me. I fear the day it burns me again.