The Thirteenth Floor Chant

In the autumn of 2011, I was in Denver for a software conference. I was staying at the venerable Brown Palace Hotel, a grand old dame with a reputation for elegance and, as I would soon learn, something far less savory. My brother, a graduate student at the University of Colorado, lived nearby, and my visit coincided with his engagement party. After a long day of seminars, I met him and his fiancée, along with a few of their friends, for dinner at a cozy Italian place downtown. I was careful to have only one glass of Chianti, knowing the next night would be a raucous affair.

Back at the hotel, I took the elevator to my room on the seventh floor. The elevator was an antique, with brass buttons and a mirrored interior, and as it ascended, the lights flickered momentarily. I shrugged it off, thinking nothing of it. Once in my room, I settled into the plush bed and fell into a deep sleep.

In my dream, I was trapped in a grand, wood-paneled elevator, the kind I’d just ridden, but it was larger and the buttons were all blank. The car shuddered and stopped between floors. Panic clawed at my chest. I pressed the emergency intercom button, and a burst of static erupted, followed by a cacophony of voices, screaming and wailing, layered over each other in a discordant symphony of terror. The voices seemed to be chanting something, but I couldn’t make out the words. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, and then I woke with a jolt.

My heart was pounding. The screams were still ringing in my ears, but I realized they weren’t from my dream—they were real, coming from the hallway outside my door. I sat up, listening. There was a frantic scuffle, a thud, and then a high-pitched shriek that was abruptly cut off. Silence. The hair on my arms stood up. I grabbed my phone, checking the time—2:47 AM. I was tempted to hide under the covers, but a morbid curiosity compelled me to the door. I peered through the peephole.

The hallway was dimly lit by sconces, casting long shadows. At the far end, near the service stairs, I saw a flicker of movement. A figure in a long coat was dragging something heavy—a body, I realized with horror—into the stairwell. The figure paused, looked back, and for a split second, I saw a face: gaunt, with eyes that seemed to absorb the light. Then it was gone.

Trembling, I called the front desk. The night manager answered, her voice cool and unnerved. I told her I’d heard screaming and seen someone in the hallway. She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Sir, there is no one on your floor. All guests are accounted for. Please stay in your room.’ The line went dead.

I should have listened, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The dream, the screams, the figure—it all felt connected. I decided to investigate. I slipped on my shoes and cracked open the door. The hallway was empty, the air still. The only sound was the hum of the old HVAC system. I walked to the stairwell door, my heart in my throat. I pushed it open. Inside, the stairs descended into darkness. The air smelled of dust and something else—a metallic tang, like blood.

I heard a faint sound from below: a low, rhythmic chant, rising and falling. It was the same eerie cadence from my dream. My feet moved on their own accord, drawn downward. I descended one flight, two, the chant growing louder. By the time I reached the basement level, the chanting was unmistakable. It was a chorus of voices, all speaking in unison, but with a disjointed, unnatural quality, as if each voice was slightly off-sync.

The basement was a maze of pipes and boilers. A single naked bulb swung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow light. In the center of the room, a circle of people stood, all wearing identical gray robes. They were chanting, their faces upturned, eyes closed. In the middle of the circle lay a figure—a woman, unconscious or dead, I couldn’t tell. As I watched, one of the robed figures stepped forward, holding a long, curved blade.

A floorboard creaked beneath my weight. The chant stopped. In unison, the figures turned their heads toward me, their eyes snapping open. They were milky white, no pupils. One of them pointed a gnarled finger at me and hissed, ‘The thirteenth floor knows.’

The lights went out. I bolted, scrambling up the stairs in the dark, my hands scraping against the concrete. I burst into the lobby, gasping, and collided with the night manager.

‘Sir, are you alright?’ she asked, her face betraying no surprise.

‘There’s something down there,’ I panted. ‘They killed someone.’

She regarded me with a pitying smile. ‘There is no basement here, sir. The Brown Palace has no thirteenth floor. You’ve had a nightmare.’

I looked around the lobby, and everything seemed normal—the marble floors gleaming, the desk clerk typing. But when I looked down at my hands, I saw dirt and a dark stain on my sleeve. I rolled up my cuff to reveal a small cut, still bleeding.

‘This is real,’ I whispered.

She shook her head. ‘Go to your room, sir. Check-out is at noon.’

I returned to my room, my mind reeling. I couldn’t sleep. The next morning, I tried to report the incident to the police, but they dismissed it as a prank. My brother’s engagement party went off without a hitch, but I couldn’t shake the image of those robed figures and their chant.

On my last night in Denver, I couldn’t resist. I took the stairs down, determined to find the basement. But the stairs ended at the first floor, and where the basement door should have been, there was only a wall with a faded sign that read: ‘No beyond this point.’

As I turned to go back, I heard it again—faint, rising from the ventilation grate: the chant. And then, a single voice, clear and close, whispered directly behind my ear: ‘You are part of us now.’

I ran out of the hotel, never looking back. I still hear the chant sometimes, in the hum of an elevator or the distant murmur of a crowd. And I know that somewhere, in the dust of that forgotten floor, a circle is waiting for me to return.