In the apartment complex where I now live, there’s a story about a girl who lived in one of the buildings. She lived on the 7th floor and used to go home late, because she was working on her thesis and her school was a bit far from her place. The story goes that every time she would take the elevator, it would stall on the 4th floor. The slide doors wouldn’t open or anything, but there’d be this feeling of pressure on the elevator, as if someone would step in and join her.
Do you know the feeling of having someone stand next to you and stare at you, even though you couldn’t see them? Apparently, this would happen to her each time. In fact, it got so bad that one particular night, she asked her mother if she could wait for her in the lobby and accompany her upstairs. Her mom, of course, agreed.
The girl arrived home later than usual that night, say around, 3am. Thankfully, her mother was at the lobby, waiting for her like she promised. They entered the elevator together, and when the elevator paused on the 4th floor, the girl looked to her mother and said, “See what I mean? It always happens!”
The older woman, in an effort to comfort her daughter, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and leaned in, right before whispering, “Do I really look like your mother?”
The next day, they found the slumped form of the girl in the elevator, alone. She was dead. There were no marks on her body, and on her face was a look of pure horror.