Congratulations, you’ve been hired as the overnight elevator operator at Gallowmere Tower, one of the city’s oldest high-rises, built in 1912.
Your duty: run the antique lift from midnight until sunrise.
It’s an easy job, or so they say — just push buttons, carry guests, and make sure the elevator never gets stuck between floors.
But before your shift begins, the supervisor hands you a small black notebook.
Inside, you find three rules written in red ink.
Rules:
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Skip floor 7 — it doesn’t exist.
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If someone boards with no reflection, take them down.
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If the elevator stops between floors, don’t breathe.
You laugh it off at first. But as the brass doors close behind you and the hum of the motor begins, you realize Gallowmere Tower is not as empty as it seems.
🕛 Midnight: The First Ride
The elevator is old — the kind with metal accordion gates and a brass control panel that hums faintly when you touch it.
The building itself feels asleep, except for the soft tick of pipes behind the walls. At 12:03 AM, your first passenger steps in: a man in a gray suit holding a briefcase.
“Floor 9,” he says.
You nod and press the button. The numbers climb.
1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7.
But you never pressed 7.
The motor jerks. The lights flicker.
The panel hums louder — as if something beneath the car just woke up.
You slam the “8” button. The car shudders and rises again. The man in gray doesn’t look up. When the doors open on 9, he steps out without a word.
As he walks away, you see it in the polished floor’s reflection — he has no reflection at all.
🕐 1:00 AM — The Call from Nowhere
You’re alone again. The tower hums like a living thing. The elevator cables creak and settle. Then, the speaker crackles — a voice from the intercom.
“Operator,” it whispers, “floor seven needs service.”
You freeze. Floor 7… doesn’t exist.
The voice repeats, more impatient this time:
“Operator… someone’s waiting.”
You press the receiver’s mute button and check the panel.
The light beside 7 blinks red.
For a moment, curiosity tempts you. Maybe it’s a prank. Maybe the system is miswired.
But then the notebook’s rules flash in your mind: Skip floor 7.
You flip the main breaker instead, plunging the car into silence. The red light goes out.
The voice doesn’t return.
🕑 2:30 AM — The Woman in the Mirror
The next ride feels normal — a woman in a black coat, her face half-hidden by a scarf.
“Floor 4,” she murmurs.
You nod and pull the lever. The elevator rattles upward. The woman stands perfectly still, staring at her reflection in the glass panel on the opposite wall.
Then you notice it — the reflection isn’t moving.
You glance again. She blinks. The reflection doesn’t. It’s still staring directly at you.
When the doors open on 4, the real woman steps out. Her reflection remains. It smiles.
The glass cracks.
You pull the lever and send the elevator down before it can shatter completely.
🕒 3:03 AM — Between Floors
It happens suddenly.
The elevator lurches to a stop between floors, mid-drop.
The emergency light flickers red. The air feels thick. The brass walls groan like lungs inhaling.
You remember Rule #3:
“If the elevator stops between floors, don’t breathe.”
You hold your breath.
Seconds crawl by. The air vibrates — faint whispers rise through the vents.
“Breathe…”
“Breathe with us…”
Your chest burns, lungs screaming. Something presses against the metal doors from the other side — slow, dragging, wet fingers tracing your outline.
You last eight seconds before the elevator jerks back to life and ascends.
When the doors open, you gasp and fall forward — straight into the lobby.
The guard’s booth is empty. The clocks all read 3:03 AM.
🕓 4:00 AM — The Visitor from Below
You take the next passenger automatically, too tired to think. A young boy in an old-fashioned uniform — cap, vest, and small suitcase.
“Going down,” he says politely.
You press “B1” for the basement.
He hums a nursery rhyme the entire way. You can’t place it, but it sounds wrong. Like it’s playing backward.
When the doors open, you see nothing — just a concrete shaft filled with black water.
You turn to tell the boy the basement’s flooded.
He’s gone.
Only his suitcase remains, dripping wet.
Inside, you find your black notebook — the one from your supervisor — except now the ink isn’t red. It’s fresh blood.
🕕 6:00 AM — The Morning Shift
The sunlight creeps through the lobby glass, turning the marble floor gold. You sign the logbook and hang up your uniform coat.
The new operator walks in — young, smiling, clueless.
“Any advice for the night shift?” he asks.
You hesitate, then hand him the notebook.
He opens it, frowning.
Only one new line has been added overnight:
Rule 4:
If you survive till morning, never come back.
🔚 Conclusion — The Weight of the Tower
Every job has its dangers.
At Gallowmere Tower, yours just happens to involve ghosts, echoes, and floors that shouldn’t exist.
They say the tower was built over an old asylum, that the elevator shaft runs deeper than the basement itself. Maybe that’s why it breathes. Maybe that’s where floor seven hides.
Whatever the truth, one thing is certain — some elevators don’t take you where you want to go.
They take you where you belong.
And if you ever find yourself running the lift at Gallowmere Tower…
Keep your eyes on the numbers.
Hold your breath between floors.
And whatever happens—never press seven.
Night Shift Job Horror: Surviving Abandoned Buildings with Rules
