It started with a wrong turn.
That’s how most horror stories begin, isn’t it? But this wasn’t a story. This happened to me. My name is Jake Reynolds, and I’m a security guard at the old Thompson Office Complex in upstate New York. What I experienced there over three nights in October 2022 still haunts my dreams.
Night One: The Extra Door
The Thompson building has twelve floors. I know this because I walk every one of them during my midnight shift. Or at least, it’s supposed to have twelve.
On October 17th, while doing my 2:00 AM rounds, I noticed something impossible: a thirteenth fire exit door at the end of the twelfth floor hallway. The brass plate read “13” in peeling paint. My walkie-talkie crackled with static when I tried to report it.
Against my better judgment, I opened the door.
The hallway beyond looked wrong. The fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects, casting a sickly yellow glow. The carpet was that 1970s office pattern you only see in government buildings. And the smell—like old paper and something sour.
I took exactly three steps in before the door slammed shut behind me.
Night Two: The Thing in the Walls
The next night, I brought a camera. The thirteenth door was still there. This time, I tied a rope to the door handle before entering.
The hallway stretched farther than it should have. After about 200 feet, I heard it—a wet, shuffling sound behind the walls. Then knocking. Three precise raps directly behind me.
My camera caught something before the battery died: a shadow moving against the wall, wrong somehow. Not cast by anything in the room.
When I turned to leave, my rope was gone. The door was still there, but now it was marked “14.”
Night Three: They Know My Name
On the third night, I wasn’t alone.
My replacement guard, Mark, came with me. We both saw the thirteenth door this time. Mark laughed when I told him about the previous nights—until his flashlight died the moment we stepped through.
That’s when we heard the whispering.
It came from all directions at once, just below hearing. But two words came through clearly: “Jake” and “stay.”
The last thing I remember is Mark screaming as something pulled him into a wall. Just… into it. Like the drywall turned to liquid.
Aftermath
They found me the next morning on the twelfth floor, curled in a supply closet. Mark was never found. The police report says he quit that night.
The building manager swears there’s no thirteenth floor. The blueprints prove it. But sometimes, when I’m alone in the building, I still hear the buzzing of those yellow lights… and something knocking.
Three knocks.
Always three.
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