The Unlit Panel

I never believed in the superstitions that made builders skip the thirteenth floor. To me, it was just a quirk of architecture, a concession to fear. But after what happened in that hotel on the coast of Cornwall, I understand why some doors are better left unnumbered.

My family and I had rented a room in an old Victorian hotel that had been converted into a modern resort. It was a sprawling place, with a glass elevator that offered a dizzying view of the Atlantic. Our room was on the twenty-sixth floor, and to get there, you had to swipe a keycard in the elevator, which would then light up the corresponding floor button.

It was late evening, and I was returning from a stroll along the beach. The lobby was quiet, the staff polite but distant. I stepped into the elevator, swiped my card, and pressed the button for 26. The panel lit up with a soft glow, and the doors slid shut.

As the elevator began its ascent, I glanced at the floor indicator. Numbers ticked by, all in sequential order. But then, just as we passed the eleventh floor, something caught my eye. At the very bottom of the panel, below the 2, there was a blank space where a button should have been. But instead of emptiness, a ghostly ’13’ was flickering, as if trying to solidify from static.

I blinked, and it was gone. The elevator continued to climb, and I noticed we were already on the sixteenth floor. I looked down at the panel again, and my heart skipped a beat. The row where the 13 should have been was simply not there. It was as if the panel had been misprinted, skipping from 12 to 14, with no space in between.

I told myself it was a trick of the light, a faulty indicator. But when I got to our room, I couldn’t shake the image of that phantom number. My mum was in the small kitchenette, making tea. I asked her, ‘Why don’t hotels have a thirteenth floor?’ She shrugged, ‘It’s unlucky. People refuse to stay on it.’

But I had seen something, and I needed to understand. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The hotel was quiet, but I heard a faint hum coming from somewhere below, a sound like machinery running. I decided to take the stairs and find the maintenance floor, hoping to discover the truth.

The stairwell was dim, lit by emergency bulbs that cast a sickly yellow glow. I descended from the twenty-sixth floor, counting each landing. When I reached the twelfth floor, the stairs continued down, but there was no door for thirteen. I looked at the wall, and there was a seam, a faint outline of a door that had been plastered over.

I pushed against it, and the plaster gave way, revealing a narrow corridor that smelled of dust and salt. The floor was covered in a thin layer of grime, and the air was cold and stale. I followed the corridor, which curved until I came to a heavy iron door. On it was a brass plaque, tarnished almost beyond recognition, but I could make out the number ’13’.

I shouldn’t have opened it. But curiosity had its grip on me. The door swung inward with a groan, revealing a dark room, a small space that was clearly sealed off from the rest of the hotel. In the center stood a single chair, and on the wall, a series of faded photographs. They were pictures of a family, smiling, on a beach. I recognized the beach, the same one we had been to earlier that day.

Then I heard a sound behind me, the soft click of a closing door. I turned, and the iron door was shut. I rushed to it, but there was no handle on the inside. I was trapped. Panic rose in my throat as I pounded on the door, but it was solid, soundless.

I looked around desperately and noticed a small ventilation grate at the top of the wall. I climbed onto the chair and pushed, and the grate came loose, revealing a narrow shaft. I squeezed through, not knowing where it led.

The shaft twisted and turned, and after what felt like an eternity, I emerged into a dimly lit corridor that I didn’t recognize. The walls were painted with peeling blue paint, and there were doors numbered 14, 15, 16… But one door was marked with a number I had never seen: 13.

It was the same door I had entered, but now it was on the other side. I turned around and saw the elevator at the end of the hall. I walked toward it, and as I did, I realized that this corridor was identical to the one on our floor, but it wasn’t. The numbers were shifted by one. Our room was 2608, but here it was 2607, and the room next to it was 2609, but this was 2608.

I spun around, and there was a door marked 2608, but it was ajar. I pushed it open, and inside was a room exactly like ours, but empty, abandoned. The furniture was draped in white sheets, and the wallpaper was stained. There was a photograph on the mantelpiece, a family I had never seen before, but they looked familiar.

Then I heard a voice, a whisper, coming from the elevator. It was my mother’s voice, calling my name. But it wasn’t coming from the corridor; it was coming from the room. I turned, and there she was, in the doorway, wearing a dress I had never seen, with a vacant expression.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked, but her voice was flat, mechanical. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. She stepped forward, and I saw that her shadow did not match her movements, lagging behind as if it were a separate entity. I stepped back, and the elevator doors opened behind me. Without thinking, I jumped in and pressed the button for the lobby.

The doors closed, and I looked at the indicator. It read 13. The elevator was going down, but the numbers were moving up, 14, 15, 16… Eventually, the doors opened onto the lobby, which was empty, but the clock on the wall showed 3:33 AM, even though it had been just past midnight when I left.

I ran to the front desk, but there was no one there. I called out, but the only response was my own voice echoing back. I turned to leave, but the elevator was right there, its doors open, and inside stood my family, all of them, staring at me with those same hollow eyes.

I woke up in my bed, drenched in sweat. The sun was streaming through the curtains, and I could hear my family talking in the kitchen. I thought it had been a nightmare. But when I stepped out, my mother smiled and said, ‘You slept in late. We were about to leave for the beach.’

I looked down at my hands, and on my wrist, there was a small mark, like a bruise in the shape of a number. And then I noticed the hotel room number on the door: 2608. But I know, deep down, that I never truly left. That somewhere, in a sealed corridor, there is still a room with a flickering number, and it’s waiting for me to return.

Sometimes, when I’m in any elevator, I catch a glimpse of the panel, and for a split second, I see that phantom 13, pulsing, beckoning. And every time, I press the button for my floor, hoping that this time, the doors will open onto a world where the thirteenth floor exists, and where I can finally find my way back.

But that hotel, with its unlit panel, taught me that some numbers are better left unspoken, and some floors are better left undiscovered. The fear of the number thirteen isn’t just superstition; it’s a warning, and I should have heeded it.

That was the last time I ever stayed in a high-rise hotel. And yet, I still feel the elevator’s hum, the phantom ride, and the unlit panel that taunts me from beneath the surface of the ordinary. It’s a reminder that we are never truly safe, that the world holds more than we can see, and that some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.