The Thirteenth Floor

I landed in Bangkok on the third of June, not for holiday, but for a data migration contract that promised to be as tedious as it was profitable. The company put me, along with two other contractors—Marta and Jules—in a high-rise condominium on Sukhumvit Soi 26. Our unit was on the thirteenth floor, a fact that made Jules, a wiry, superstitious man from Lyon, visibly uneasy. I shrugged it off. I’d dealt with sleepless nights and strange occurrences my whole life; a number on a door meant nothing.

Our shifts were brutal. Marta and Jules worked the day, from nine to six, while I took the night watch, monitoring the servers as they synced data across time zones. I’d come home at dawn, sleep through the scorching afternoon, and wake to the same cycle. The first week was uneventful, save for the occasional bang from a neighboring unit or the distant wail of a police siren cutting through the humid air. But in the third week, the routine began to fray.

I woke one afternoon to a strange silence. The usual hum of the air conditioning had stopped, and the room was bathed in a thick, orange light from the setting sun slanting through the blinds. My mouth was dry, and my limbs felt heavy, as if I’d been drugged. I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and pressed my forehead to the mirror. The coldness was a small mercy. I decided to take a shower, locking the door out of habit.

As I was about to step under the spray, the door rattled. It wasn’t a knock; it was a violent, insistent shaking, as if someone were trying to force their way in. I assumed it was Jules, playing a prank. I yanked the door open, ready to curse him out, but the hallway was empty. Our apartment, a single open-plan studio, was visible in one glance—a small kitchen, a table, two doors to bedrooms, and the entrance. No one was there. The door to the balcony was ajar, and the thin curtain billowed inward, stirred by a breeze that carried the faint scent of jasmine.

I checked the balcony. It was empty, of course. I chalked it up to exhaustion and the building’s faulty plumbing, but a knot tightened in my stomach. That night, as I left for work, I noticed something odd: a small figurine on the kitchen counter—a ceramic cat with cracked glaze—was turned to face the wall. I didn’t remember putting it there, and Marta and Jules were both in Manila for a conference since that morning, leaving me alone.

Work was uneventful, but on the drive back at dawn, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The elevator ride to the thirteenth floor felt longer than usual, and when the doors slid open with a soft ding, the corridor seemed darker, the lights flickering. I keyed into the apartment, and the first thing I saw was that the ceramic cat had been rotated back to face the room, its eyes, two chipped blue dots, staring at me as if they had been waiting. I picked it up, but it was cold to the touch, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

I tried to sleep, but every creak of the building made me bolt upright. I told myself it was my past, my history with sleep paralysis and supposed ghost pranks, that was making me paranoid. But this was different. The physical sensations—the rattling door, the moved object—were too real. I decided to set up my phone to record the living room while I slept, propping it against a stack of books on the nightstand.

The next morning, I checked the video. For the first two hours, nothing. Then, at 3:17 AM, the bathroom door down the hall creaked open. A shadow, indistinguishable from the darkness, slid across the floor, coalescing into the shape of a crouched figure near the kitchen counter. The figure’s head seemed to tilt, as if studying the cat, then, slowly, it turned toward the camera. The face was a void, but I felt an intense pressure in my chest, like a weight pressing down on me. The video then cut to static for a full minute before my phone’s battery died.

I showed the video to Marta and Jules when they returned. Jules turned ashen, crossing himself. Marta, a pragmatic woman from São Paulo, scoffed but admitted the video was unsettling. ‘It’s probably just some kid screwing around,’ she said, but her voice lacked conviction. That night, Jules asked to trade shifts with me, claiming he had a deadline. I agreed, not wanting to be alone.

But when I woke the next afternoon, the apartment was silent. I called out, but no one answered. The bathroom door was ajar, and I could see dark stains on the floor, resembling footprints leading from the shower to the balcony door. I pushed open the balcony door and found the railing splintered, as if something had forced it outward. A chill ran through me, and I knew something terrible had happened.

The police arrived, but they found no signs of a struggle, no evidence of foul play. Jules and Marta were listed as missing, presumed to have fled the country. But I knew better. As I packed my things, I noticed the ceramic cat had been moved again, now facing the balcony door. I felt a cold breath on my neck, and in the reflection of the window, I saw a shadowy figure stand behind me. I turned, but there was nothing there.

I took the elevator down, and as the doors opened at the lobby, I glanced at the induction panel. The button for the thirteenth floor was covered with a piece of tape, the number scribbled out. The security guard looked at me with a knowing frown. ‘You’re leaving?’ he asked. I nodded. He leaned in, lowering his voice, ‘That floor’s had its share of trouble. People come and go, but they never stay long. There’s something in the walls. It doesn’t like to be ignored.’ As I stepped out into the blistering heat, I glanced back, but the building’s glass facade reflected only the sky. I don’t know what followed me, but I know it wasn’t done with me yet. And somewhere, on the thirteenth floor, the ceramic cat watched the room, waiting for its next tenant.