They Don’t Talk About the 6th Floor

Hofu House was old, the kind of building that had learned to breathe. At night, the walls exhaled; the lights buzzed as though they were thinking. It was a tired, pre-colonial building in Nairobi, half-forgotten, half-possessed, and everyone who worked there had a story about the sixth floor.

Ama never believed them. She worked the late shift, scrubbing floors, collecting trash, moving from office to office with her small caddy of soap and bleach. The city outside pulsed with traffic and sirens, but up there, only the thrum of the elevator filled the silence. It was always the elevator, the way its lights flickered, how it sometimes stopped between floors, how people swore they heard footsteps even when they were alone.

She used to laugh at that. Until she started riding it alone.

The first time she saw him, it was past midnight. The building had emptied, the corridors still, and when she stepped into the elevator, she noticed a shadow standing at the corner. A man. Tall, slim, dreadlocks falling into his face, and he hadn’t pressed a button.

She thought he might be security. “Good evening,” she said.

He didn’t answer. His head tilted, as if listening to something deeper than her voice. She pressed “6.” The doors shut, the whirr deepened, and when they opened again, he was gone. The air was colder.

Ama told herself she was tired. People saw things when their minds grew soft with exhaustion. She went back to work, but every night after that, the elevator felt more… aware.

Sometimes, it opened on floors she hadn’t pressed. Sometimes, the doors stayed shut for too long, trapping her in stale air. Once, when the lights blinked off for a second, she swore she heard breathing behind her, soft, amused, like someone trying not to laugh.

One night, she turned around. He was there again.

“Do you live here?” she asked, heart beating in her throat.

His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. “I’ve always been here.” His voice was low, like a whisper pulled from the bottom of a well.

Her thumb hit the “G” button repeatedly. The elevator moved, slow and uncertain. When it stopped, she bolted out before the doors could finish opening. Behind her, faint laughter slipped into the air.

After that, she started using the stairs, even when her legs trembled. But somehow, she always found herself back before the metal doors. It was as if the building was guiding her there.

That evening, she told herself she wouldn’t be afraid. She stepped in, stood tall. “I know you’re here,” she said into the silence.

The reflection on the metal wall wavered. A figure appeared behind her, closer this time. His face was pale, eyes black as night, skin glistening like wet charcoal.

“Why do you come back?” he murmured.

Ama’s pulse pounded in her ears. “Because this is where I work.”

He leaned forward until she could almost feel his breath on her neck. “Then we work together.”

She turned sharply. “Don’t touch me.”

He laughed, soft and almost kind. “I don’t know where I end and you begin.”

The elevator dinged, sixth floor. She stumbled out, breath catching, her hands were trembling.

That was the night she packed her things. She told the manager she was quitting, left her keys on the desk, and took the stairs all the way down. As she reached the lobby, she looked back one last time.

The elevator doors were open, waiting. Inside, she saw herself reflected in the metal, and behind her reflection, the faint shape of dreadlocks, smiling, hand raised in a small wave.

The doors closed.

Later, the night guard swore he saw the elevator rise again. The light stopped at the sixth floor, opened, and closed. No one came out.

Now, when new cleaners arrive, they talk about the elevator that whirrs even when unplugged. They say sometimes you’ll smell bleach and soap long after the building closes, as if someone’s still working.

And sometimes, if you’re foolish enough to ride it past midnight, you might catch a glimpse of a woman’s reflection in the glass, looking terrified, with a man’s smile shining right over her shoulder.