Have you ever thought about this question?
Have you ever thought about this question—how does an elevator know when it's overloaded?
Don't give me that sensor, weight capacity nonsense. I'm talking about that feeling. That feeling when you're standing alone in an empty elevator, but it starts beeping like crazy. You stare at the mirror in the car, and there's only you. But you just feel like something is breathing down your neck.
My name is Shen Mo. It's an ironic name, because what happened later made me unable to scream even if I wanted to.
Chapter 1: Evening Rush
September 17th, Tuesday. Beijing, East Third Ring Road, Jiaming Center.
This day was no different from the past two hundred workdays. Clock in at 9 AM, stare blankly at the numbers in Excel that never add up, attend a two-hour meeting full of empty talk, eat a tuna rice ball from the convenience store downstairs at noon, and spend the afternoon filling out forms, sending emails, and being scolded by my boss.
I work as a media executive at this advertising agency, which basically means I'm a doormat for the clients. My monthly salary is 7,500 yuan, and after deducting rent, Huabei (Alipay credit), and subway card, I can save around 1,200 to 1,500 yuan each month. That's enough for 18 bowls of beef noodles, or three movies, or a Uniqlo down jacket.
That day I worked overtime until 9:47 PM.
Why do I remember it so clearly? Because when I walked out of the company door, I glanced at my phone subconsciously. The numbers on the screen reminded me of something—the last subway that worked for me left Guomao Station at 10:23 PM, and it would take me home by 11:06 PM. I had more than 30 minutes, enough time.
I was the only one left on the entire floor. The fluorescent tube at the reception desk was broken, flickering every few seconds like someone blinking. I didn't turn off the lights; the cleaning lady would come at 11 PM anyway.
While waiting for the elevator, I scrolled through Weibo. The top trending topic was a traffic star's relationship reveal, and the comment section was a war between two factions. I clicked in and looked for a few seconds, found it boring, and backed out.
The elevator arrived.
Ding.
I looked up, and the elevator doors opened. The lights inside were normal white light, the floor was that gray anti-slip patterned steel plate, and there were mirrors on three sides. This was a scene I knew all too well—I'd taken this elevator at least 300 times over the past two years.
I walked in, pressed the 1st floor button, and continued looking at my phone.
The doors started to close.
Just as the two doors were about to shut completely—
"Beep, beep, beep."
The overload alarm went off.
I froze for a moment and looked up. I was the only one in the car. At my feet was a canvas bag containing a laptop, a charger, a set of keys, and half a pack of tissues. All together, less than five pounds.
The alarm kept beeping. That sound was sharp, like a hospital ECG monitor alarm, but more urgent.
I subconsciously moved a step toward the door. The alarm stopped.
I stepped back. The alarm went off again.
I stood there, a chill running down my spine. Not because I was scared, but because of a vague sense of wrongness. It's like when you clearly remember putting your keys on the shoe cabinet, but they're not there. It's like when you clearly turned off the gas, but when you go back to the kitchen, you smell a faint odor.
I took another step forward, exiting the car.
The alarm went completely silent.
The elevator doors closed.
I stood in the corridor, staring at that silver-gray door for about ten seconds. The floor display above the elevator still showed 22, meaning it hadn't moved. It just sat there, doors closed, waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and pressed the down button again.
The doors opened.
It was still that empty car. The lights were on, the floor was clean, and the three mirrors reflected the pale fluorescent lights in the corridor and half of my profile.
I hesitated for a moment and walked in.
This time I didn't look at my phone. I just stood there, staring at the doors closing.
The doors closed.
Silence.
No alarm.
I let out a breath, cursing myself for being neurotic. Maybe a sensor wire was loose; what kind of messed-up thing wouldn't this office building's property management do? Last month, the toilet was clogged for three days with no one fixing it, and the cleaning lady put an A4 paper at the door that said "This pit doesn't work," handwritten, with pretty ugly handwriting.
The elevator started descending. 22, 21, 20...
When it reached the 18th floor, the elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
No one was outside.
The corridor lights were off, only the green emergency exit sign glowing faintly. I leaned out and looked to the left, then to the right. The entire elevator lobby was empty.
I waited for about five seconds, no one came in.
"Anyone there?" I asked.
No one answered.
I pressed the close button. The doors didn't move.
I pressed it again. Still no movement.
Now I was starting to feel creeped out. Not the kind of jump-scare creepiness you get from horror movies, but a slower, more viscous kind. It's like when your alarm goes off in the morning and you don't want to get up, so you pull the covers tighter, but you know you have to get up eventually—that mix of anxiety and powerlessness.
I held down the open button, waited a few seconds, and released it. The doors still didn't move.
I simply walked out of the car to check if there was a problem with the buttons outside. I stood in the corridor and pressed the down button. The elevator doors closed, then opened again. The lights were on inside, still empty.
I walked back in. This time the doors closed smoothly.
The elevator continued down.
When it reached the first floor, the doors opened. The lobby was brightly lit, the reception girl was looking at her phone, everything was as normal as can be. I walked out of the elevator and looked back.
The elevator doors closed slowly, and there was nothing inside.
I cursed under my breath and pushed through the revolving door into the late September night wind.
Chapter 2: Security Guard Lao Zhou
I thought that was the end of it.
The human brain has a magical protective mechanism called "forget it, don't think about it." When you encounter something you can't figure out, as long as it doesn't cause substantial harm, the brain automatically categorizes it into the "unimportant" folder and throws it into the trash.
I had already forgotten about it by the time I was on the subway. When I got home, I took a shower, watched short videos for twenty minutes, and then fell asleep. The next day I went to work as usual, got scolded as usual, and ate tuna rice balls as usual.
Everything was normal.
Until the third day.
That day I worked overtime again until after nine. At 9:53 PM, I stood in the elevator lobby on the 22nd floor, waiting for the elevator.
Ding.
The doors opened.
I walked in.
"Beep, beep, beep."
The overload alarm went off.
I looked down at my feet. A pair of size 42 sneakers, two legs, a stomach, a head. A standard pre-middle-aged chubby body, 160 pounds, 5'10". Even with the stuff in my canvas bag, I definitely didn't exceed the elevator's weight limit. This elevator's capacity is 13 people, rated load 1,000 kilograms.
Just me, 160 pounds.
I stepped out. The alarm stopped.
I walked in. The alarm went off.
I stepped out again. This time I didn't try again.
I stared at the elevator doors for about ten seconds, then took out my phone and called the property management. A young security guard answered, probably new.
"Hello, the elevator on the 22nd floor seems to have a sensor problem, it keeps going off for overload."
"Okay sir, I'll note that, we'll have the maintenance guy come check tomorrow."
"Okay."
After hanging up, I walked down the stairs. Twenty-two floors, my legs were shaking by the time I got to the first floor. When I pushed open the fire exit door, I happened to bump into a security guard on patrol. I recognized all the security guards in this building, but I hadn't seen this one much—he was in his fifties, with gray hair, a thin face, high cheekbones, wearing a security uniform that didn't fit well, with sleeves that were too long.
He looked at me, then at the fire exit door behind me.
"Came down the stairs?" he asked.
"Yeah, the elevator's broken."
"Which elevator?"
"The middle one."
He didn't speak, his expression a bit strange. Like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it back.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing," he shook his head, "don't take that elevator in the future."
"Why?"
He was silent for a moment, then lowered his voice and said something that made my spine go cold.
"Someone died in that elevator before. Overworked to death, same time as you, same floor. Since then, the elevator at this time always shows overload."
I stood there, feeling blood drain from my head, turning to ice by the time it reached my feet.
"You... you're serious?"
"I've been working here for eight years," he said. "The guy was from the 15th floor, in finance, worked overtime for three consecutive days, and died in the elevator when he was going downstairs around nine that night. The cleaning lady found him the next morning. The elevator was stopped on the first floor, doors open, and he was lying in the car."
"What does that have to do with me? I'm on the 22nd floor."
The security guard looked at me, a look I still remember. Not a scary look, but a tired, seen-it-all, even somewhat sympathetic look.
"When he died, the elevator showed overload."
The air froze.
"The property checked the surveillance," the security guard continued. "That night at 9:47 PM, he walked into the elevator alone. The doors closed. Then the elevator just stopped there, never moving. The overload alarm beeped all night until the cleaning lady came the next morning and pried the doors open."
My mouth was dry.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Shen Mo."
"Shen Mo," he nodded, "you should take the stairs from now on. Twenty-two floors isn't that high, young man, think of it as exercise."
He turned to leave. After a few steps, he turned back and said, "Oh, and don't tell anyone else. The property doesn't want this mentioned, afraid it will affect rentals."
I stood there, watching his back disappear at the end of the corridor. The fluorescent tube overhead buzzed like countless flies.
Chapter 3: Verification
I don't believe in this stuff.
Who believes in this nowadays? You open your phone, the screen is full of science, rationality, logic. Under ghost videos, it's all "obviously fake," "special effects are too bad," "the UP owner has no shame for views." I also often come across surveillance videos claiming to capture paranormal phenomena, and every time I leave two words in the comments: fake.
But that night when I got home, I turned on all the lights破天荒. The living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, even the never-used energy-saving lamp on the balcony. The whole house was as bright as an operating room.
I sat on the sofa, staring at the water cup on the coffee table. The cup was a company souvenir, a white ceramic cup with the company logo printed on it—a cartoon fox with a big smile. The fox was smiling happily, and as I looked at it, I felt like it was mocking me.
I don't believe in this stuff. But I'm not stupid.
If what the security guard said was true, then there was an explanation for what I encountered—on the night of September 17th at 9:47 PM, I was alone in the elevator, and the overload alarm went off. On the night of September 19th at 9:53 PM, the same thing happened again.
Wait.
I took out my phone and checked the call log from that day. The call I made to the property was at 21:54 on September 19th. That means I walked into the elevator around 21:53.
And that guy who died, it was 9:47.
The times don't match. A six-minute difference.
I thought again, no. On the 17th, I looked at my phone when I walked out of the company, it was 9:47. But it takes me a minute or two to walk to the elevator, so I probably got in the elevator at 9:48 or 9:49.
That still leaves a few minutes difference.
Maybe it's not exact to the minute? Maybe it's the "around nine" time slot? Maybe—
I shook my head, telling myself to stop thinking about it. Sleep.
But I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned in bed, my mind full of that security guard's face. His expression, his tone, the calm, matter-of-fact way he said "always shows overload."
The next day at work, I specifically went to the property office to ask. The person on duty was a young girl, surnamed Lin, wearing glasses, very polite when she spoke.
"Sister Lin, I want to ask, has anyone ever had an accident in the elevator in this building?"
She looked up, her expression changing. Just for a moment, but I caught it. The corner of her mouth turned down, her eyes darted.
"No, why do you ask?"
"Yesterday when I was taking the elevator, the overload alarm went off, but I was the only one in there."
"That's a sensor problem, an old issue. I've already reported it to maintenance, they'll come fix it these days."
"But——"
"Sir," she interrupted me, "this is a Grade A office building, the elevators are maintained monthly, you can rest assured."
Her tone was professional, formulaic, but her eyes were saying: stop asking.
I didn't ask anymore.
But I made a decision. I was going to verify it.
That night, I deliberately worked overtime until 9:30. Instead of taking the elevator, I walked down the stairs to the first floor, then sat in the lobby rest area waiting. I wanted to see if anyone would use that elevator at 9:47.
The lobby was quiet. The receptionist had already left, only the revolving door slowly turning in the night wind. I sat on the sofa, pretending to look at my phone, but actually keeping an eye on the elevator entrance with my peripheral vision.
9:40. No one.
9:45. No one.
9:47.
Ding.
The doors of the middle elevator opened.
The lights inside were on, empty.
The doors opened for about ten seconds, then closed.
No one entered or exited. No overload alarm. Nothing happened.
I let out a breath, simultaneously feeling a bit disappointed. Maybe it really was just a sensor problem. Maybe the security guard was scaring me. Maybe——
The elevator doors opened again.
Still empty.
This time the doors opened for about five seconds and closed. Then after more than ten seconds, they opened again. Closed. Opened again.
Like someone repeatedly pressing the open button.
I stared at the repeatedly opening and closing doors, my heart starting to race. Every time the door opened, the light from the car would cast a rectangular spot on the lobby floor. The spot flickered on and off like some kind of signal.
This continued for about two minutes. Then the elevator went quiet. The doors closed, and the floor display changed from 1 to 2, then 3, 4, 5... going all the way up.
It went up by itself.
I sat on the sofa, motionless. My back was against a leather sofa backrest, but I felt like I was leaning against a block of ice.
The elevator reached the 22nd floor and stopped.
Then after about a minute, it started going down. 21, 20, 19... all the way down, to the 1st floor, where it stopped. The doors opened.
Empty.
No overload alarm. It just sat there with the doors open, quietly, like it was waiting for someone.
I didn't move.
The doors closed. The elevator went up again. 22nd floor, stop. Then down. 1st floor, open. Empty.
Cycle repeated.
I watched it go up and down three times, then stood up and walked out of the building.
The wind outside was cold, but my back was covered in sweat.
Chapter 4: Surveillance
The next day I took half a day off, specifically going to the property office.
This time I didn't look for the front desk girl, I went straight to the property manager. Manager Liu was in his early forties, with a receding hairline, and he liked to touch the top of his head when he spoke, as if afraid those few remaining hairs would suddenly fly away.
"Manager Liu, I want to check the elevator surveillance."
He looked up, his expression exactly like Sister Lin's from yesterday—first a愣, then the corner of his mouth turned down.
"Check surveillance? Why?"
"I think there's something wrong with that elevator. Last night around 9:47, it repeatedly opened and closed doors without anyone operating it, and went up and down by itself."
"That's a system failure, the maintenance guy has already checked it."
"What about the overload alarm? It keeps going off when I'm alone."
"The sensor sensitivity was turned up, it's already fixed."
"Manager Liu," I looked him in the eyes, "I heard someone died in that elevator."
The air suddenly went quiet. There were two other staff members in the office organizing files, and they all stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
Manager Liu's face froze. Then he smiled, that standard professional smile he used to handle countless complaints.
"Mr. Shen, who told you that? That's a rumor, this building has never had any safety accidents. If you're worried, I can show you the elevator maintenance records."
"What about the surveillance? Can I see it?"
"Surveillance involves other tenants' privacy, it's not convenient to provide. Unless you have a police certificate."
I knew he was speaking officialese. The elevator surveillance in this kind of office building is watched by the property every day, there's no such thing as privacy. He didn't want me to see it, which meant there was something in the surveillance.
I didn't insist. But I did something else.
I found the cleaning lady in the fire exit, gave her 100 yuan, and asked her if she knew about the person who died in the elevator. Auntie Zhang was from Sichuan, had worked in this building for six years. She hesitated when she took the money, but finally spoke.
"There was such a thing. 2015 or 2016, I can't remember. A young guy, very young, only twenty-seven or eight. Lying in the elevator, I found him."
"You found him?"
"Yeah, that day I came to clean in the morning, the elevator door on the first floor opened, and I saw him lying there. His face was blue, lips purple. I thought he was drunk, called him a few times, no response, touched him, he was already cold."
Her voice was calm, like she was talking about something completely ordinary. What haven't cleaning people seen? Clogged toilets they have to dig out with their hands, blood on the floor they have to wipe with mops, dead people are just one more phone call.
"What happened later?"
"Later 120 came, 110 also came, took him away. Then I heard the property compensated the family a sum of money, and the matter was over. The elevator was repaired for a week, replaced the floor inside, repainted. But..."
"But what?"
"But at that time, around nine or ten o'clock, that elevator is always not right. Often goes up and down by itself, doors open and close, close and open. Sometimes the overload alarm goes off when there's clearly no one."
"Have you seen it?"
"Seen it several times. At first I was scared, then I got used to it. I told the night security guards, they said it might be a system problem. But I know it's not."
"Why?"
She looked at me, something unidentifiable in her eyes. Not fear, but a deeper, more ancient kind of awe.
"Because every time the elevator door opens, there's a smell inside. Not a bad smell, just a... human smell. Like someone just stood there, their body temperature left in the air. You smell it once and you won't forget."
I was silent.
"Young man," she leaned the mop against the wall and straightened up, "did you encounter it too?"
"Yeah."
"Don't take that elevator. Don't take it after nine. No matter which floor you're on, take the stairs. Twenty-two floors, walk a bit, won't kill you."
She picked up the bucket and left. After a few steps, she turned back and said, "Also, if you accidentally get in and the overload alarm goes off, get out. Don't force it. If it beeps, it means someone wants to get in. If you take the spot, they'll be unhappy."
The "someone" she mentioned was in quotation marks.
That afternoon, I sat at my desk for a long time, staring at the computer screen. Colleague Xiao Wang passed by and patted my shoulder.
"Old Shen, what are you thinking about? Broken up?"
"No."
"Then you've been staring at a blank Excel sheet for half an hour."
"I'm thinking about something."
"What?"
"Thinking about taking a different way home."
Xiao Wang gave me a confused look and walked away.
Chapter 5: Pattern
For the next week, I didn't take that elevator again.
Every day after work, no matter how late or tired, I took the stairs. Twenty-two floors, eighteen steps per floor, a total of 396 steps. I counted. The first day, my legs started shaking by the 12th floor. The second day was better, shaking by the 15th floor. By the fifth day, I could walk all the way down without stopping, face not red, heart not racing.
Humans are extremely adaptable creatures. Given time, you can get used to anything.
But I also did one thing—I recorded the condition of that elevator every day.
Every night between 9:40 and 10:00, I would sit in the first floor lobby rest area for twenty minutes, observing the operation of that elevator. I brought a notebook and pen, recording every day.
9:45: Elevator normal, someone using it.
9:47: No one using it, elevator automatically runs to 22nd floor, stays for about a minute, returns to 1st floor, opens door, closes door, goes up again.
9:52: Repeats the above behavior.
9:58: Repeats.
After 10:05, returns to normal.
Every day. Exactly the same.
I also checked the company's clock-in records. In the past three months, I clocked out around 9:47 PM eleven times. Of those, the number of times I took that elevator was—eleven.
Every time, the overload alarm went off.
But I had never noticed before. Because before, I was always looking at my phone when I got in the elevator, and when the alarm went off, I would step out and wait for the next one. I never paid attention to it because it was so ordinary. Elevator malfunctions, how normal is that?
But now I know it's not a malfunction.
I also checked one more thing—what was the name of the guy who died on the 15th floor.
This took some effort. The property wouldn't say, Auntie Zhang didn't know, so I had to search online. After searching for a long time, I found a message in an old thread on a local forum. The thread was posted in 2016, titled "Seems like something happened at Jiaming Center," with only a few sentences: "Heard someone died suddenly in the elevator at Jiaming Center last night, only in their twenties, so tragic. Seems like he was in private equity, worked overtime for several days in a row."
In the replies, someone mentioned a name: Chen Hao.
No more information. No photos, no detailed reports, nothing. A living person, dead, reduced to just a name and a thread. Like a stone thrown into a lake, causing a ripple, then sinking to the bottom.
But I felt that Chen Hao hadn't sunk to the bottom yet.
He was still in that elevator.
Every night at 9:47, he appeared on time. He walked into the elevator, pressed the 1st floor button. The elevator started descending. Then—then he died. Cardiac arrest, or cerebral hemorrhage, or something else. He collapsed in the car, the elevator stopped on the first floor, doors open, overload alarm beeping all night.
Since then, he's been stuck at that time. Every night at 9:47, he repeats the same action—walking into the elevator, pressing the button, waiting to descend. But he never reaches the first floor. Because for him, that process is never completed. He's always in the middle of descending, always a few seconds short.
And if someone takes the elevator at that time, they'll collide with him.
The overload alarm isn't a malfunction. It's him inside.
He's already inside, the car space already occupied by him. When you walk in, it's overloaded.
When I thought of this, a chill ran down my back. Not because I was afraid of ghosts, but because I suddenly realized something—I worked overtime until 9:47 every day, walked into that elevator every day, triggered the overload alarm every day. That means I encountered him every day.
He was standing right next to me.
When I got in the elevator, he might be standing in the corner. He might be standing right behind me, close to my neck. He might be looking down at the phone in my hand, at those boring trending topics and gossip on the screen.
I shuddered.
Chapter 6: The Smell of Cigarette Smoke in the Elevator
After that, I took the stairs every day. No matter how late, no matter how tired, 396 steps, not a single one missed.
But things didn't end there.
About two weeks later, one night, the company had a team building dinner at a restaurant next to the lobby. I drank two bottles of beer, my head a little dizzy. We broke up around 9:30, and my colleagues left in groups. Some took the elevator, some took taxis, some rode shared bikes.
I stood alone in the lobby, looking at the three elevators.
The middle one, Chen Hao's elevator, had its doors closed. The floor display showed 22.
9:47 was approaching.
I originally planned to take the stairs, but today I had alcohol, my legs were a bit weak. Twenty-two floors, 396 steps, I definitely couldn't climb them in my current state. I hesitated for a moment, deciding to wait for the other two elevators.
The left elevator was on the 8th floor, descending. The right elevator was on the 15th floor, also descending.
I stood next to the middle elevator, trying not to look at it.
9:45.
The left elevator arrived at the 1st floor, the doors opened, and two men in suits came out. I walked in and pressed the 22nd floor.
Just as the doors were closing, the middle elevator's doors opened.
I didn't turn to look, but I could feel it. That feeling was subtle, like someone standing behind you for a long time—you don't see them, but your skin can feel the temperature change, your ears can catch the slight difference in air flow.
I subconsciously shrank into the corner of the left elevator.
The doors closed. The elevator started ascending.
Everything was normal.
When we reached the 22nd floor, I walked out of the elevator and looked back at the elevator lobby at the end of the corridor. All three elevator doors were closed, and the floor display for the middle one still showed 22.
I pushed open the company's glass door, ready to grab my things and leave.
Just then, I smelled a scent.
Cigarette smoke.
A faint cigarette smoke smell, like someone just finished smoking and the ash fell on their clothes, bringing it in. Not smoking now, but residual.
But the problem was, the company is smoke-free. The entire 22nd floor is smoke-free. And at this time, I was the only one on the entire floor.
I stood at the door, slowly turning my head to the left.
At the end of the corridor, next to the fire exit door, there was a small recess. That's the hidden compartment for the fire hydrant. In front of the compartment stood a person.
No.
Not a person. A silhouette. A semi-transparent human silhouette, like the kind you see on a thermal imager—red, orange, yellow blocks pieced together into a human shape. But the colors were very faint, almost invisible.
He stood there, facing me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt like it was blocked by something. Not fear, but a more primal, instinctive reaction. Like when you're swimming in the deep sea and suddenly see a huge dark shadow swimming under your feet—your body reacts before your brain. Muscles stiffen, blood drains, breath stops.
He stood there for a few seconds. Then he turned around, pushed open the fire exit door, and walked in.
The door closed.
I stood there, motionless, for about five minutes. Then I slowly, step by step, walked to the fire exit door and pressed my ear against it.
No sound.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The stairwell was pitch black. The voice-activated light didn't come on. I stomped hard, and the light came on. The pale light illuminated the empty stairs, stretching up into the darkness and down into the darkness.
No one.
But I smelled that cigarette smoke. A bit stronger than before, like someone had just walked through here.
I closed the door, went back to my desk, grabbed my bag, and then—I took the left elevator down.
I never took the stairs again.
Chapter 7: 15th Floor
In the days that followed, I deliberately avoided the entire 9:47 time slot.
If I worked overtime until 9:30, I packed up and left. If I hadn't finished, I took it home. If my boss insisted I finish at the company, I dragged it out until after 10:00 before leaving.
In short, between 9:40 and 10:00, I would never be in any elevator at Jiaming Center, nor in the stairwell.
This went on for about a month, and everything was calm. No more strange things, no more cigarette smoke smell, no more semi-transparent human silhouettes. I started to feel like it was over. Maybe Chen Hao just needed a "being seen" opportunity, maybe he was just lonely at that time, maybe——
I was too naive.
One night at the end of October, Beijing started to cool down. The wind was strong that day, and I worked overtime at the company until 9:00, ready to leave. But just as I was shutting down my computer, my boss @ed me in the WeChat group, asking me to revise a proposal. I sighed, reopened my computer, and by the time I finished, it was 9:35.
I quickly packed my things and walked to the elevator lobby.
The left elevator was on the 1st floor, the right elevator was on the 19th floor. I pressed the down button, waiting for the elevator.
9:38. The left elevator came up. The doors opened, no one inside. I walked in and pressed the 1st floor.
Just as the doors were closing halfway, my phone rang. It was my boss calling.
"Shen Mo, don't send that proposal yet, I need to look at it again, it might need more changes."
"Okay, okay, no problem."
After hanging up, the elevator was already descending. 21, 20, 19...
When it reached the 19th floor, the elevator stopped.
The doors opened. No one.
I waited five seconds, pressed the close button. The doors didn't move.
I pressed it again. No movement.
My heart skipped a beat.
I checked the time—9:41.
No. It's not 9:47 yet. It's not Chen Hao. It should be some other malfunction.
I held down the open button, waited a few seconds, and released it. The doors still didn't move.
I walked out of the car and stood in the 19th floor elevator lobby. The 19th floor was an accounting firm, already empty at this time. The corridor lights were off, only the green emergency exit sign glowing.
I pressed the down button. The elevator doors closed, then opened again.
I walked back in. The doors closed.
The elevator continued descending. 18, 17, 16...
When it reached the 15th floor, the elevator stopped again.
The doors opened.
This time, someone was standing outside.
No, not someone. That silhouette. The semi-transparent, thermal imager-like human silhouette. He stood in the corridor, facing the elevator. I couldn't see his face, but in the head area of the silhouette, there were two brighter, more concentrated lights. Like eyes.
He stood there, motionless.
I stared at him, feeling my heart being squeezed. Not beating fast, but not beating at all. Like an engine filled with sand, unable to turn.
He took a step.
A step toward the elevator.
I subconsciously pressed the close button. The doors didn't move.
He took another step. About two meters from the elevator door.
I frantically pressed the close button, once, twice, ten times, twenty times. The doors didn't budge.
He walked to the elevator door. He stood there, looking at me. Those two bright spots were fixed on my face.
Then he extended his hand.
I couldn't see the shape of the hand, but I could see the action—he extended his right hand, toward the inside of the car, as if reaching for something.
He was reaching for me.
I felt a coldness surge up from the soles of my feet, traveling up my spine all the way to the top of my head. My hair stood up one by one, like static electricity.
Just then, the elevator doors closed.
Without warning, they closed.
The elevator started descending. 14, 13, 12... all the way down, no stops.
When it reached the 1st floor, the doors opened. The lobby was brightly lit, the reception girl was still playing with her phone, the revolving door was turning, everything was normal.
I stumbled out of the elevator, my legs weak. I looked back, and the elevator doors were closing. As the gap narrowed, I saw something that shouldn't exist in the mirror inside the car.
Behind me in the mirror, stood a person.
Not a silhouette. A real person. A young man, wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, no tie. His face was blue, lips purple, eyes open but pupils dilated.
He stood behind me, head down, looking at the back of my head.
The doors closed.
I stood there, trembling all over. The reception girl looked up at me.
"Sir, are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You look really pale, do you need an ambulance?"
"No."
I walked out of the revolving door, stood in the wind, and took big gulps of air. It was late October in Beijing, around 10 PM, temperature around five or six degrees. But I was covered in sweat, my underwear soaked, sticking to my back, cold and clammy.
I took out my phone, wanting to call someone, but didn't know who to call. Call 110? What would I say? That I saw a ghost in the elevator? Call a friend? What would they think? Call family? My mom would worry all night.
I stood there, flipping through my contacts, and finally called Lao Zhou.
Lao Zhou was the security guard who told me the truth. After that day, I specifically asked his name, Zhou Defu, 56 years old, from Xinyang, Henan, worked as a security guard in Beijing for 20 years.
The phone rang three times and was answered.
"Hello?"
"Uncle Zhou, it's me, Shen Mo from the 22nd floor."
"Oh, Xiao Shen, what's wrong?"
"I... I saw him again in the elevator just now."
There was a silence on the other end.
"Did you take that elevator?"
"Yeah, I worked overtime tonight, forgot the time, took it around nine. When it reached the 15th floor, he came in."
"What did he look like?"
"Young guy, blue suit, white shirt, blue face."
The other end was silent again. This time the silence was longer.
"That's him," Lao Zhou's voice changed, becoming low and deep, "Chen Hao. I've heard people describe him, that's exactly what he looks like."
"He reached for me."
"Did he touch you?"
"No. The doors closed."
"Thank goodness," Lao Zhou let out a long breath, "Xiao Shen, I have something to tell you. Don't be afraid."
"...What?"
"Last month, there was a girl on the 15th floor, also worked overtime until after nine, took that elevator. Then she quit. Before she left, she talked to me a bit, said she also saw someone in the elevator, reaching for her. But she wasn't as lucky as you, that person touched her shoulder."
"Then what?"
"Then she had the same dream for a week straight. In the dream, she stood in a dark place, surrounded by mirrors, like an elevator car. But someone was always standing behind her, whispering in her ear. She couldn't remember what was said, but every time she woke up, the pillow was wet, not with sweat, but with tears. She didn't know why she was crying."
My hand started shaking.
"She said the dream got longer every night, one more minute each day. On the seventh day, she stood there for seven full minutes in the dream, and that person's mouth was already贴着 her ear. She felt like if she had one more dream, that person would finish saying that sentence. Once that sentence was finished, she would never wake up again."
"So she quit?"
"Yes. She went back to her hometown, never to come back to Beijing. When she left, she'd lost twenty pounds, her eye sockets were black."
"Uncle Zhou," my voice was hoarse, "what should I do?"
"Didn't I tell you? Don't take that elevator. Don't take it after nine. Why didn't you listen?"
"I forgot the time today..."
"Forgot? How can you forget something like this?" Lao Zhou's tone became stern, "Xiao Shen, I'll make this clear to you. This isn't a joke. You think Chen Hao is a ghost? He's a dead person. Dead people are different from living people. Dead people have no concept of time, no concept of space, he doesn't know he's dead. He repeats the same thing every day, like a video tape that starts playing every night at 9:47. But you're different. You're alive. If you walk into that video tape, you'll become part of it."
"What do you mean?"
"It means if you walk into that elevator at 9:47, you'll become part of his repetition. You'll be stuck at that time with him, taking the elevator over and over, never reaching the first floor."
I was silent.
"Now listen to me," Lao Zhou said, "First, never take that elevator again. Second, don't take the stairs after nine. Don't walk in the stairwell above the 15th floor at night. Third——"
He paused.
"Third, if he appears again, don't look at his eyes. His eyes are reflected from the two mirrors in the elevator, if you look at them, you'll be sucked in."
"I looked at them just now..."
"How long did you look?"
"A few seconds."
Lao Zhou sighed.
"Xiao Shen, listen carefully. Go home tonight, take a hot shower, change all your clothes, put them in the washing machine. Sleep with the lights on. If you dream about the elevator, don't go in. No matter who calls you in the elevator, don't go in."
"Okay."
"Also," his voice dropped even lower, "if he calls your name, don't answer."
"How would he know my name?"
"He knows everything. He's been in that elevator for eight years. Eight years, do you know how many people he's watched come and go, watched them make phone calls, send WeChat messages, scroll through moments in the elevator? How wouldn't he know your name?"
I hung up the phone, standing in the wind, feeling the entire Beijing city become unreal. Those lit-up office buildings, those speeding cars, those people walking with their heads down, all felt like a thin shell, with something hidden underneath, ready to burst out at any moment.
I took a taxi home. The taxi's radio was playing an old song, and the driver was humming along. I leaned against the seat, closed my eyes, but as soon as I closed them, I saw that blue-faced young man standing behind me, head down, pupils dilated.
Chapter 8: The Man in the Mirror
When I got home, I did as Lao Zhou said, took a hot shower, put all my clothes in the washing machine, then slept with the bedroom light on.
I thought I would have insomnia, but I didn't. I was too tired, both body and mind exhausted, and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I dreamed.
In the dream, I stood in an elevator. Mirrors on all four sides. The floor was gray anti-slip patterned steel plate, the lights were white fluorescent lights.
The elevator was descending. The floor numbers on the display were changing, but very slowly, like stuck. 22, 21, 20... each floor took a long time to pass.
I looked at my phone, the time on it was 9:47.
My heart tightened, I wanted to press the open button, but just as my finger touched the button, the elevator stopped.
15th floor.
The doors opened.
The corridor was dark. But something was moving. I could hear footsteps, very light footsteps, like leather shoes on marble floor.
The footsteps got closer.
I frantically pressed the close button, but the doors wouldn't close. Every time they closed halfway, they bounced open again.
The footsteps reached the door.
I looked up—in the mirror, behind me, stood a person.
Blue suit, white shirt, no tie. Blue face, purple lips.
He stood behind me, about half a meter away. His right hand raised, reaching toward my shoulder.
I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move. Not because I was held down, but because the commands from my brain couldn't reach my legs. Like when you dream you want to run but can't, you want to shout but can't.
His fingers touched my shoulder.
Cold.
Not ice-cold, but a temperatureless cold. Like touching something that doesn't exist—your hand passes through it, but your nerves tell you you touched something.
His mouth moved.
He was speaking. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I could see his lips moving. One word at a time, very slowly.
The first sentence I heard clearly. He said——
"Why haven't you left yet?"
I猛地 opened my eyes.
The bedroom light was on, the ceiling was white, the curtains were billowing in the wind. The phone on the nightstand showed 3:15 AM.
I lay in bed, gasping for breath. The spot on my shoulder still felt cold. I reached out to touch it, the skin was warm, but that coldness seemed to have seep in, under the skin, in the muscles, on the bones.
I sat up and drank a glass of water. The water was cold, but after drinking it, my stomach churned. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.
What came out was all water. No food residue, because dinner was at six, already digested. But that water was murky, like dishwater, grayish-white.
I knelt by the toilet, watching that grayish-white water slowly drain away, and suddenly thought of a word—ashes.
No. Not ashes. Something else.
I remembered. Auntie Zhang's words: "There's a smell inside, like someone just stood there, their body temperature left in the air."
My body temperature. The thing he left in my body temperature, I vomited it out.
That night I didn't sleep again. I sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, until dawn. The sky outside turned from black to deep blue, to light blue, to gray-white. The sun came out, but when the sunlight shone into the room, I felt it couldn't warm anything.
Chapter 9: Looking for Chen Hao
The next day I took a day off.
I sent a WeChat message to my boss, saying I wasn't feeling well and needed to go to the hospital. The boss replied with an "OK" gesture, no further questions. In this industry, your not coming to work is the best news, because if you don't come, you won't make mistakes, and if you don't make mistakes, I don't have to clean up after you.
I didn't go to the hospital. I went to the Chaoyang District Library.
I wanted to find information about Chen Hao.
I knew I wouldn't find much online, eight-year-old news, not a big story, long since buried in the ocean of information. But the library has microfilm of old newspapers, old magazines and periodicals. If Chen Hao was in finance, maybe there was a report in industry publications.
I spent the entire morning flipping through all relevant publications from the second half of 2016. Finally, I found a report in an internal publication called "Beijing Financial Circle" titled "Tragedy! A Young Analyst's Sudden Death."
The report was short, about 500 words. It said Chen Hao, male, 28, from Nanchang, Jiangxi, graduated from Tsinghua's finance department, worked as an analyst at a private equity fund. On the night of September 17, 2016, at 9:47 PM, he died suddenly in the elevator of his company building on his way home. The cause of death was acute myocardial infarction. At the end of the report, there was an interview with his colleague: "Chen Hao worked very hard, often staying late. He had been working for three consecutive days without much sleep before the incident. He was a really nice person, always greeting everyone with a smile. No one expected..."
I closed the magazine and sat in the library chair, dazed.
Twenty-eight years old. Tsinghua graduate. From Nanchang, Jiangxi. Three consecutive days of overtime. Acute myocardial infarction.
A living person, just gone. No last words, no goodbyes, not even realizing he was dying. He walked into the elevator, pressed the button, and his heart stopped. He didn't even have time to feel pain.
And then?
Then he was trapped in that elevator. Eight years. Repeating the same action every day, walking into the elevator, pressing the button, waiting to descend. Never reaching the first floor. Always a few seconds short.
Suddenly, I didn't find him scary anymore. I felt sorry for him.
A twenty-eight-year-old young man, leaving his hometown to come to Beijing, working hard to stand his ground in this city. His parents might still be waiting for him to send money back to Jiangxi, his friends might still be waiting for him to have dinner together on the weekend, his boss might still be waiting for him to continue revising the proposal the next day.
Then he died. In the elevator. Alone.
No one knows what he was thinking in his last moment. Maybe he thought of his mom's cooking, maybe he thought of the university campus, maybe he thought of nothing, because he was too tired, his mind was just blank.
I closed the magazine and walked out of the library. The sun was shining outside, early November in Beijing, clear sky, ginkgo leaves turning yellow. A few children were chasing pigeons in the square, laughing loudly.
I stood on the steps and made a decision.
I want to help him.
Chapter 10: The Last Elevator
I don't know how to help a dead person. I'm not a Taoist priest, not a monk, not a feng shui master. I'm just an ordinary office worker, earning 7,500 yuan a month, living in a partitioned room in Tiantongyuan, squeezing the subway to work every day.
But there's one thing I can do—I can let him know that he's dead.
Lao Zhou said that Chen Hao doesn't know he's dead. He repeats the same thing every day, like a looped video tape. He needs someone to tell him, stop, you've arrived, you don't need to take the elevator anymore.
But who will tell him?
I thought about it for a long time. It's not that no one knows he exists—property management knows, security guards know, cleaning staff know, the girl on the 15th floor who quit knows. But everyone chose to avoid it. Take the stairs, take other elevators, avoid 9:47. No one ever thought to tell him.
Because they're afraid.
I'm afraid too. I'm terrified. That night on the 15th floor, when he reached for me, I felt like my soul was almost pulled out of my body. That fear wasn't psychological, it was physiological. It's your body telling you that something is crossing the boundary between life and death, and you're on the boundary line.
But I still decided to do it.
Not because I'm brave, but because I think, if I were Chen Hao, I would also hope someone would tell me.
I told Lao Zhou about my idea. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
"You're crazy," he said.
"Maybe," I said.
"You'll die," he said.
"No, I won't. I just want to tell him he's dead, he can leave."
"How do you know he'll listen to you? How do you know he doesn't want to pull you down as a replacement?"
"Uncle Zhou, have you seen him hurt anyone?"
Lao Zhou was silent.
"When the overload alarm goes off, he lets people out. He never forces anyone to stay in the elevator. He's just repeating his actions, not trying to hurt anyone."
"What about that girl on the 15th floor? She almost——"
"She said he just touched her shoulder. He didn't strangle her, didn't hit her, didn't hurt her. He just touched her."
"Then she had nightmares for a week."
"That's because she was scared. He didn't cause it."
Lao Zhou was silent again. After a long time, he sighed.
"When are you going?"
"Tonight."
"9:47?"
"Yes."
"I'll go with you."
"Uncle Zhou——"
"Don't say anything. I'll wait for you on the first floor. If you don't come down by 9:50, I'll come up to find you."
I hung up the phone, a warm feeling welling up in my heart. In this city, the number of people willing to face a ghost with you is much fewer than those willing to buy you a meal.
That night, I stayed at the company until 9:30. I wasn't working, just sitting at my desk in a daze. I was thinking about what to say, how to say it. I was thinking about how Chen Hao would react. I was thinking about whether I would die.
At 9:35, I stood up and walked to the elevator lobby.
All three elevators were on the 1st floor. I pressed the down button, and the left elevator came up. I walked in, but didn't press 1st floor. I pressed 15th floor.
The elevator stopped at the 15th floor. The door opened. The corridor was dark, only the green emergency exit sign glowing faintly.
I stepped out of the car and stood in the 15th floor elevator lobby. Then I pressed the down button.
I was waiting for Chen Hao.
9:40. 9:45. 9:46.
I stood there, my palms sweating. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it would jump out of my chest. I took a deep breath, another, another.
9:47.
Ding.
The door of the middle elevator opened.
The lights inside were on, empty. But I could feel it—he was there. That change in air flow, that slight difference in temperature, that indescribable feeling of "someone being there."
I walked in.
The overload alarm didn't go off.
I stood in the car, facing the three mirrors. There was only me in the mirrors, but I could feel him standing behind me. Right at the back of my head, about a fist's distance away.
I spoke. My voice was shaking, but I tried to make it sound calm.
"Chen Hao."
No response.
"Chen Hao, I know you're here."
Still no response. But that "presence" became stronger. Like someone pressing their face against the back of my head, I could feel their breath—even though he no longer breathed.
"My name is Shen Mo. I work on the 22nd floor. I work overtime late every day. Like you, I'm tired, I want to go home, I want to sleep well."
My reflection in the mirror started to blur. Not because the mirror was dirty, but because my eyes were blurry. Tears were streaming down uncontrollably.
"You're dead, Chen Hao. September 17, 2016, 9:47 PM. You had a cardiac arrest in this elevator, acute myocardial infarction. You've been dead for eight years."
The lights in the elevator flickered once.
"You don't know, do you? You think you're still working overtime, still working, still trying hard. You think you're just too tired, that you'll be fine after a rest. But no. You're dead. You don't need to take the elevator anymore. You can leave."
The lights flickered again, more violently, like a power surge.
Then the overload alarm went off.
Beep beep beep beep beep—very fast, very sharp, louder than ever before. The entire car was shaking, the images in the mirrors started to distort, my face contorted, stretched, compressed, like in a kaleidoscope.
I felt him.
He moved.
He moved from behind me to in front of me. Right in the mirror, next to my own reflection, his image gradually emerged. Blue suit, white shirt, no tie. Young face, but blue in color, purple lips. Eyes open, pupils dilated.
He looked at me.
I looked at him too.
Lao Zhou said not to look at his eyes. But I did. Because I think, if you're going to talk to someone, you should look them in the eyes.
There was no malice in his eyes. No resentment. No anger. Only—confusion.
Like someone who has been walking in the dark for a long time, suddenly seeing a beam of light. He wasn't sure if it was light, wasn't sure if he should walk towards it, wasn't sure what he would see if he did.
His mouth moved.
This time I heard it clearly. Not the muffled, underwater sound from the dream, but a real, clear, normal human voice.
"I... I'm dead?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Eight years ago. 2016."
He looked down at his hands. They were semi-transparent, you could see the mirror behind them.
"No wonder," he said, "no wonder every time I press 1st floor, I can't get there."
"You do get there. Every time. You just don't know it. The elevator reaches the first floor, the door opens. But you... you don't walk out. You fall in the car."
He was silent for a long time.
The lights in the elevator stopped flickering. The overload alarm also stopped. Everything became quiet, so quiet you could hear your own heartbeat.
"I remember now," he suddenly said, "that day I was so tired. Really tired. I hadn't slept well for three days. I was revising a model, worked until after nine, couldn't take it anymore, wanted to go home. I walked into the elevator, pressed 1st floor. Then... then I felt a sharp pain in my chest, like something was pressing on it. I squatted down, trying to catch my breath. Then I don't remember anything."
He looked up at me.
"Thank you for telling me."
"You're welcome."
"What's your name?"
"Shen Mo."
"Shen Mo," he nodded, "you're a good person."
His image started to fade. From the edges, like a watercolor painting caught in the rain, the colors slowly spread and dissipated.
"Are you leaving?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Where to?"
"I don't know. But it should be better than here."
He looked at me one last time. In that look, there was no fear, no sadness, only something very quiet, very relieved. Like someone who can finally rest, closing their eyes.
"Oh," he said, "there's a mistake in your proposal. The Director Zhang on the 22nd floor doesn't like the word 'collaboration,' he prefers 'linkage.' If you change it to linkage, he won't scold you anymore."
I was stunned for a moment, then smiled.
"Okay. I'll remember."
He smiled. It was the first time he smiled. Chen Hao, when he smiled, looked just like the photo in the magazine—sunny, good-looking.
Then he disappeared.
Only my reflection was left in the mirrors.
The elevator door opened. The warm yellow light from the first-floor lobby poured in, illuminating the car floor. The reception girl was playing with her phone, the revolving door was turning, the night wind was blowing outside.
I walked out of the elevator and saw Lao Zhou standing in the lobby, looking at me nervously.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"What about him?"
"He's gone."
"Gone?"
"Yes. Gone."
Lao Zhou looked at me, something indescribable in his eyes. Maybe surprise, maybe admiration, maybe something else. He patted my shoulder, said nothing, and turned to leave.
I stood in the lobby, looking at the night outside the revolving door. Early November in Beijing, the wind was already cold, but the sky was clear, with a few stars visible.
I took out my phone and checked the time.
9:59 PM.
That night, I took the last subway home. It was already past 11 PM when I got to Tiantongyuan. When I exited the station, the wind was strong, I pulled my coat zipper all the way up and walked home with my neck hunched.
I passed a convenience store on the way, bought a bottle of hot soy milk. The cashier smiled and said, "Hello, that's 3.5 yuan."
I paid, stood at the store entrance drinking the soy milk. It was hot, just the right sweetness, and after drinking it, my whole stomach felt warm.
I looked up at the sky. Beijing's sky has severe light pollution, you can't see many stars. But tonight, for some reason, I felt a patch of sky above my head was particularly bright.
Maybe it was the reflection of the streetlights. Maybe not.
Epilogue
Later, I never encountered Chen Hao again.
That elevator also returned to normal. No more unexplained overload alarms, no more automatic up-and-down issues. The maintenance guy came to check it, said everything was normal, no problem with the sensors, no problem with the control system.
The property girl breathed a sigh of relief, said it was finally fixed.
I didn't tell her that it wasn't fixed.
I still work overtime after nine, but now I occasionally take that elevator. Every time I go in, I subconsciously look at the corner of the car. There's nothing there. Only gray anti-slip patterned steel plate, and occasionally a crumpled piece of paper that someone stepped on.
But I always feel that the air there is a little warmer than elsewhere.
Like someone just stood there.
I changed "collaboration" to "linkage" in my proposal. Director Zhang really didn't scold me anymore.
One night, I worked overtime until after nine again. When I walked into the elevator, my phone screen lit up. It was a WeChat message from my boss.
"Shen Mo, revise the proposal for tomorrow."
I looked at the message, then at the empty car.
"You people," I muttered, "are you never tired?"
The elevator didn't answer me.
It just descended quietly, opened the door quietly, and sent me to the first floor quietly.
I walked out of the revolving door, the night wind blowing in my face. Beijing's wind is dry, cold, with the smell of car exhaust and street barbecue.
I took a deep breath.
It's good to be alive.