Index

S. No. Content Page No.

1. Index 1

2. Acknowledgement 2

3. Introduction 3

4. Alternative Ending 4-15

5. Bibliography 16

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 Acknowledgement

I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who supported me in

completing this project.

First and foremost, I thank my English teacher for giving me the opportunity to
explore creative writing and encouraging me to think beyond the original story.
Their guidance and inspiration helped me shape this alternative ending with a
deeper psychological twist.

I also want to thank my family and friends for their support and motivation
throughout this process. Their encouragement gave me the confidence to write
boldly and imaginatively.

Lastly, I would like to thank the online resources that helped me understand
how suspense, fear, and symbolism can enhance storytelling. Their insights
helped me build a chilling and thoughtful ending that I hope leaves a lasting
impact on readers.

Thank you all once again!

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 Introduction

Stories that trap us in small spaces with big fears have a powerful effect on
the imagination. The Elevator is one such tale — a psychological horror that uses
everyday surroundings to reveal the darkest corners of the mind. Elevators are
often symbols of transition, but in this story, they become symbols of terror,
illusion, and the fragile line between reality and fear.

In this alternative ending, the mystery surrounding the strange woman in the
elevator is reimagined. She is not a ghost, not a spirit — but something far more
disturbing: a manifestation of fear itself, created by the mind, yet capable of
affecting reality. The ending slowly builds from eerie whispers and mirrored
reflections to a horrifying realization — that the line between illusion and truth
is not just thin… it’s broken.

This version gives readers a psychological twist with chilling imagery,

atmospheric suspense, and a final shock that leaves them questioning what’s
real… and what their fears might create.

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 The Elevator
It was an old building with an old elevator – a very small elevator, which
could carry only three people. Martin, a thin twelve-year-old, felt nervous
in it from the first day he and his father moved into the apartment. Of
course he was always uncomfortable in elevators, afraid that they would
fall, but this one was especially unpleasant. Perhaps this was because of
the poor lighting and the dirty walls. Perhaps it was because of the door,
which never stayed open long enough, and slammed shut with a loud clanging
noise. Perhaps it was the way the elevator shuddered each time it left a
floor, as if it was exhausted. Maybe it was simply too small. It seemed
crowded even with only two people in it.

The stairs were no better. Martin tried them one day after school. There
were no windows, and the lights were not working. Martin’s footsteps
echoed behind him on the cement, as though there was another person
climbing, getting closer. By the time he reached his home on the
seventeenth floor, he was gasping for breath.

Martin’s father worked at home. He wanted to know why Martin was out of
breath. “Why didn’t you take the elevator?” he asked, frowning at Martin.
You’re not only skinny and weak and bad at sports, his face seemed to say,
but you are also a coward. After that, Martin always took the elevator. He
would have to get used to it, he told himself, just like he got used to being
bullied at school.

But he didn’t get used to it. He was always afraid that it would stop
suddenly and he would be trapped inside it for hours by himself. But it
wasn’t much better when there were other passengers. He didn’t like to be
close to them. He also disliked the way people tried hard not to look at one
another, staring at nothing.

One morning the elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor, and a fat lady
got on. She was wearing an old green coat that ballooned around her. As
she waddled into the elevator, Martin was sure he felt it sink under her
weight. She was so big that her coat brushed against him, and he had to

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squeeze himself into a corner. There was no room for anybody else. The
door closed quickly behind her, and instead of facing it, she turned around
and stared at Martin.

He looked at her for a moment. She had large fleshy cheeks and no chin,
just a huge mass of neck. Her blue eyes were tiny but sharp. They seemed
to be boring into Martin’s face.

Martin looked away, but the woman didn’t turn around. Was she still
looking at him? He glanced at her quickly, then looked away again. She was
still watching him. He wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to turn around
and stare into the corner, but how could he? The elevator creaked down to
twelve, then eleven. The piggy eyes were still looking at him. She had to be
crazy. Why else would she stare at him like this? What was she going to do
next?

She did nothing. She only watched him, breathing loudly, until the elevator
reached the first floor at last. Martin wanted to run past her to get out,
but there was no room. He could only wait as she turned and moved slowly
out into the lobby. Then he ran. He didn’t care what she thought. He ran
nearly all the way to school.

He thought about her all day. Did she live in the building? He had never
seen her before, and the building was not very big. Maybe she was visiting
somebody? But 7.30 in the morning was too early for visiting.

Martin felt nervous when he got back to the building after school. But why
should he be afraid of an old lady? He felt ashamed of himself. He pressed
the button and stepped into the elevator, hoping that it would not stop, but
it stopped on the third floor. Martin watched the door slide open, revealing
a green coat, a piggish face and blue eyes which were already staring at
him as if she knew he would be there.

It wasn’t possible. It was like a nightmare. But there she was. “Going up!”
said Martin, his voice little more than a squeak. She nodded, and stepped
on. The door slammed. He watched her pudgy hand move towards the
buttons. She pressed, not fourteen, but eighteen, the top floor. The
elevator trembled and began to go up. The fat lady watched him.

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This morning she got on at the fourteenth floor, so why did she get on at
the third floor today and go up to eighteen? The elevator seemed to be
moving more slowly than usual. Martin wanted to press seven, so that he
could get out and walk up the stairs, but he couldn’t reach the buttons
without touching her, and he didn’t want to do that.

When the elevator stopped on his floor, she hardly moved out of his way.
He had to squeeze past her, rubbing against her horrible scratchy coat. He
was afraid the door would close before he could get out. She turned and
watched him as the door slammed shut. “Now she knows I live on
seventeen,” he thought.

“Have you ever noticed a strange lady in the elevator?” he asked his
father that evening.

“Can’t say I have,” he replied, not looking away from the television.

Martin knew he was probably making a mistake, but he had to tell somebody
about the woman, “She was in the elevator with me twice today. She just
kept staring at me. She never stopped looking at me for a minute.

” “What are you so worried about now?” his father said, turning impatiently
away from the television. “What am I going to do with you, Martin?
Honestly, now you’re afraid of some poor old lady.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re afraid,” said his father. When are you going to grow up and act
like a man? Are you going to be timid all your life?” Martin didn’t want to
cry in front of his father, so he waited until he got to his room. His father
probably knew he was crying anyway. He slept very little.

In the morning, when the elevator door opened, the fat lady was waiting
for him. Martin stood there, unable to move, then backed away. As she
saw him, her expression changed. She smiled as the door slammed.

Martin started running down the stairs. The stairs were dark and he fell.
His father was silent on the way to hospital, disappointed and angry with
him for being a coward and a fool. Martin had broken his leg and needed to
walk on crutches. He could not use the stairs now. Was that why the fat
lady had smiled? Did she know what would happen?

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At least his father was with him in the elevator on the way back from the
hospital. There was no room for the fat lady to get in, and if she did, his
father would see her and maybe he would understand. When he got home,
he could stay in the apartment for a few days. The doctor said that he
had to rest as much as possible. Martin felt quite safe from the fat lady
now.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” his father reached out and pressed number nine.
“What are you doing?” asked Martin, trying not to sound afraid.

“I promised to visit Mrs. Ullman,” said his father, looking at his watch as
he stepped out of the elevator.

“Let me go with you. I want to visit her too!” Martin pleaded, struggling to
move on his crutches.

But the door was already closing. “Afraid to be in the elevator alone?”
said his father. “Grow up, Martin”. The door slammed shut.l

Martin hobbled to the buttons and pressed nine, but it didn’t do any good.
The elevator stopped at ten, where the fat lady was waiting for him. She
moved in quickly, and he was too slow to get past her in time to get out.
The door closed and the elevator began to move.

“Hello, Martin,” she said, and laughed, and pushed the Stop button.

The elevator doors shut with a slow, reluctant hiss. Martin stood rigid in
the corner, his eyes fixed on the figure beside him — the same hunched
woman in the heavy brown coat. She hadn’t spoken. She never did. But
every time, she stood too close. Too quiet. And he could feel her watching.

He pressed the button for the 17th floor with a trembling finger, barely
daring to glance at her reflection in the metallic doors. He could see only a
silhouette — but somehow, her shape didn’t look human. Was her back
bending more than before? Were her fingers longer? Or was it his
imagination again?

The elevator jerked as it began its slow ascent. A faint wheezing breath
echoed beside him.

Martin’s heart thudded.

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He tried to stay calm. He told himself — as always — that she was just
another tenant. Just an old woman. But then he remembered what the
security guard told his dad two weeks ago:

"There's no old woman on the tenth floor."

No one else had ever seen her. Not the neighbors. Not even his father.
Yet Martin saw her every single day — always when he was alone in the
elevator.

Floor 9.
Floor 10.

She didn’t move.

He swallowed. “Which floor are you going to?” he asked, voice dry and thin.

The woman turned slowly. Her neck cracked. Her face emerged from the
shadows — white, sagging skin, lips colorless, eyes like wet pebbles sunk
deep in sockets. She smiled.

“Going with you,” she rasped.

Martin gasped and stumbled back. The doors slid open on 10 — but she
didn’t leave. The elevator continued upward. He punched the “Open Door”
button in panic. Nothing happened.

Floor 13.

“There is no 13th floor,” he whispered.

And yet the light blinked.

Ding.

The elevator stopped.

The doors slid open. Beyond them — nothing. Just blackness. No hallway.
No walls. Just a dark, endless void.

The woman stepped forward.

“No!” Martin shouted.

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But she didn’t move. She simply stared, then turned her face to him… and
slowly, terrifyingly, melted back into the shadows. Her form grew
transparent, then flickered, like a broken projection.

And then — she was gone.

Martin screamed.

He slammed the “Close Door” button, then “G,” “17,” “1” — every button.
The elevator buzzed angrily, then resumed its normal ascent.
Floor 14.
Floor 15.
No trace of her.

When the doors opened at 17, Martin sprinted out, heart pounding like a
war drum. His father found him slumped outside their apartment door an
hour later, pale and shaking.

“She was there again,” Martin whispered. “But this time… she disappeared.”

His father sighed. “Martin, we’ve been over this. There’s no one in that
elevator but you.”

But Martin knew what he’d seen.

And worse — he knew it was getting worse.

The next day, Martin refused to take the elevator.

He took the stairs instead — all seventeen floors. His father thought it
was strange but didn’t argue. Martin claimed he wanted to "get stronger,"
but the truth was far more fragile. He didn’t trust what he saw anymore.

The woman had vanished… but the fear hadn’t.

And then the whispers started.

Not loud. Not clear. Just faint voices. When the wind blew through the
stairwell cracks, it carried sounds that made no sense — soft, raspy
murmurs, as if someone were reciting words backwards.

He caught fragments:

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"He's watching…"
"Not real… but still alive…"
"She waits where the fear begins…"

Martin covered his ears. He rushed to school, trying to block it all out. But
that night, as he lay in bed, something scraped against his door.

A long, dragging sound.

His heart froze. He tiptoed to the peephole… and saw nothing. But there —
just faintly — was the echo of the elevator bell.
Ding.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Three days passed. Then one morning, the power went out.

The apartment complex was unusually quiet. No buzzing lights. No TV

sounds. No humming elevators.

Martin stood frozen outside his apartment, the silence so thick it felt like
breathing in fog.

Then — from the far end of the hallway — came a sound.

Step…
Step…
Step…

He turned.

There she was.

Not in the elevator.

Not in a dream.
Not an illusion.

She was walking toward him.

Her coat was darker this time, dragging behind her like wet paper. Her
neck twitched, bones cracking with every step. Her face — pale, sunken,
eyes like glass — was twisted in that same grotesque smile.

But now, her lips were moving.

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He couldn’t hear the words. But she was speaking.

And she wasn’t blinking.

Martin screamed.

He ran — down the stairwell, skipping steps, nearly falling. He didn’t care.
He sprinted out of the building, past confused neighbors, into the street.
He didn’t stop until he reached the far side of the block.

He turned around.

The woman was gone.

Martin’s father took him to a therapist. But no matter how many tests
they ran, no one could explain what he was experiencing.

“You’re projecting fear,” the doctor said. “Your mind has created something
to embody it.”

But Martin knew better.

The elevator was just the beginning.

That night, he did something he swore he’d never do again.

He took the elevator.

He had to know. Had to face it.

He stepped in. The air inside was cold — much colder than it should have
been. The buttons flickered. He pressed 17.

The doors closed.

The elevator began to rise.

He was alone.

Or so he thought.

Floor 10.

The lights flickered violently.

And then, in the reflection on the metal door — she was behind him.

But when he turned… she wasn’t there.

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Only the air. Still and dead.

He faced the doors again. Her reflection stared back at him, standing so
close behind that he could almost feel her breath on his neck.

His vision blurred. He was shaking. Every instinct screamed to run, but he
was trapped — not physically, but mentally.

His fear was painting reality.

Or was it…?

The elevator stopped. The doors opened.

Floor 17.

Bright. Empty.

He stepped out slowly.

There was no one there.

But from the corner of his eye… he saw her again.

In the mirror hanging in the hallway.

Standing right behind him.

Martin didn’t tell anyone what he saw in the mirror.

What could he even say? That a dead-eyed woman in a brown coat had
followed him from the elevator — into every reflection?

She was behind him in the kitchen window.

In the TV screen when it was off.
In the puddle on the street.
Never in real space. Only in reflections.

She never moved.

She only stared.

His father noticed his change — more withdrawn, pale, silent. But Martin
couldn’t explain it. His thoughts were slipping. His mind felt like cracked
glass, letting shadows leak through.

On a rainy evening, Martin stood in front of the elevator again.

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It had become ritual. A test of bravery. He would stare into the elevator’s
metal doors — into that faint reflection — and see her standing behind him.
Always silent. Always still. And every time, he turned around, expecting to
see her there for real.

But there was never anyone.

This time, though, something changed.

He saw her in the reflection — as usual — but she wasn’t just standing
anymore.

She was smiling wider. Too wide. Her mouth was stretching unnaturally,
curling up toward her ears like slits in her skin.

Then — her reflection lifted a hand.

Martin gasped and spun around.

Nothing.

His breathing quickened. He looked back.

Now the elevator showed only his reflection. Alone.

He felt a drop of relief.

Until the doors opened.

And she was inside.

She tilted her head. Her eyes gleamed with something worse than malice —
recognition.

As if she’d been waiting for him to finally open the door.

He backed away.

The doors closed.

That night, he woke up gasping. The power was out again. Only moonlight
filtered in through the window.

He sat up.

In the reflection of his glass closet door — she was sitting on the end of
his bed.

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He froze.

But he didn’t turn around this time.

He stared. Focused. And slowly… her image began to blur, like static on a
screen. He stood up, trembling, and looked at the bed behind him.

No one.

He snapped his gaze back to the reflection.

Now it was his own face sitting on the bed — not hers.

But it wasn’t mimicking his movements.

It was smiling.

Martin screamed.

Over the next few days, he stopped speaking. He taped black paper over
mirrors. Stopped looking into shiny surfaces. Refused to walk past water or
glass.

The doctor said he was having a psychotic break. But deep down, Martin
knew: this wasn’t madness.

It was fear given form.

And that form had learned to crawl out of its prison.

On a cold Saturday, he stood in the building lobby, staring at the elevator

again.

The doors opened on their own.

Empty.

He hesitated.

Then stepped in.

Floor 1 to 17. A final ride.

He wanted to prove it was all in his head.

The lights flickered. The air grew cold.

He kept his eyes shut.

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But in the silence, he heard something… unexpected.

A child’s laugh.

High-pitched. Echoing inside the metal box.

He opened his eyes.

The reflection in the door wasn’t his.

It was her face, fused with his body. Half-old, half-young. A distorted
version of himself, grinning through sagging skin.

And then… the reflection moved closer to the metal.

Too close.

As if trying to push through.

The steel bent inward slightly. Like it was softening under pressure.

He stepped back, shaking his head.

“No… no, you’re not real…”

The elevator lights blew out.

Darkness.

Then — a whisper in his ear:

“But you believed. That made me real.”

When the lights flickered back on… he was gone.

The elevator was empty.

But every now and then, tenants say the elevator stops on the 13th floor
— even though the building has no 13th floor.

And in the metal reflection, if you dare to look long enough…

You might see a boy with wide eyes, staring out.

Mouth open in a silent scream.

And behind him — an old woman in a coat…

smiling.

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 Bibliography

1. Wikipedia – For background reference and inspiration related to short

horror stories and psychological thrillers.
https://www.wikipedia.org

2. Google Images – For viewing photos and visual references related to

elevators, horror themes, and eerie settings.
https://www.google.com

3. Your School Textbook & Notes – For understanding basic storytelling

structure and elements of fiction writing.

4. Personal Creativity – The plot, characters, and horror twist in the

alternative ending are original and created using imagination and
inspiration from psychological horror literature.

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