I still remember that night like it happened yesterday. It was Diwali week — lights everywhere, sweets at every desk, laughter echoing through the office. I was working as a backend data executive at Vardaan Tech Park in Mumbai. Our company had just finished celebrating a big milestone — three million subscribers for one of our client platforms — and we were all in high spirits.
But my night shift on the 13th floor changed everything.
Now, here’s the strange part — the building officially had 20 floors, but the elevator buttons skipped from 12 to 14. The 13th floor wasn’t listed anywhere. Only the backend night shift team had access to it through a locked service staircase. I always thought it was just some superstition or design trick. Until I was assigned there.
That night, it was just me and Rajesh, my colleague. Around 2:15 a.m., while I was trying to keep my eyes open through the endless lines of data, the office printer suddenly came alive — spitting out a completely blank page. Rajesh laughed, saying maybe the ghosts were sending their resumes. We brushed it off. But deep down, something about that silence after the printer stopped… felt wrong.
The air was colder on that floor. The hum of the servers felt heavier.
Later that week, I asked the security guard about the 13th floor. He hesitated before saying, “It’s only reachable by stairs from the 12th. Don’t go there alone.” That should’ve been my warning. But curiosity, as always, got the better of me.
One night, I heard a faint sound — like typing — coming from Meeting Room 3. That room was supposed to be permanently locked after some “incident” years ago. Through the frosted glass, I could see a flicker of light. When I went closer, it was gone.
The next day, I asked the janitor about it. He told me that a few years back, an employee named Sharad used to work there. One night, someone in that same room died of a sudden heart attack during overtime. Since then, strange things kept happening — systems booting up on their own, lights flickering, printers printing blank pages. The room was sealed after that.
Still, Rajesh and I decided to investigate. We left a camera recording overnight, pointed directly at Meeting Room 3.
At around 3 a.m., we saw movement on the feed. A faint shadow passed across the glass. Then — a message appeared on my monitor:
“Why didn’t you open the door?”
Rajesh froze. My heart stopped. When we rushed to the room, everything was still — only our reflection staring back from the glass.
The next morning, we checked the footage. Every file from that night was gone. No backups. No traces. Only one thing remained — the same line typed on the screen, waiting for us.
Later, I managed to track down Sharad, the former employee. When I met him, he looked terrified — pale, broken. He said he once saw himself on the CCTV feed, sitting inside Meeting Room 3, while he was actually at his desk on another floor. The next night, he made the mistake of opening the door. He never spoke about what he saw inside.
After that, Rajesh and I stopped working nights together. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone — or something — still watched from behind those glass doors.
A week later, I emailed HR about the incidents. As soon as I hit send, my screen went black. Then a single message appeared in red text:
“You can’t leave Ship 13.”
When I woke up the next morning, my laptop was still on. The message was still there. The footage? Completely erased.
I quit my job that very day and left Mumbai. But no matter where I go, I still wake up every night — 3:10 a.m. sharp — gasping for air, as if someone is standing just behind me, waiting for me to turn around.
And every now and then… I still dream of that door.
The one I never opened.
