The tenth floor

It was only when she reached the top of the hill and the buildings loomed before her that Emma found herself hesitating. The four-hour train journey had given her plenty of time to think, but her mind had been stubbornly quiet the whole time; the anxiety she'd expected to feel about moving somewhere new had been absent all the way from London. Now her stomach seemed to be full of tiny snakes, twisting and writhing constantly. Reality sets in, I guess, she thought to herself.
She tightened her grip on the handle of her old suitcase and forced her legs to move again, onwards up the hill towards the collection of high-rises she would now call home. As she drew nearer, she faltered again. It hadn't looked quite so cold and soulless when she'd glimpsed it from the train - or half as ancient. Cracks ran over the beige outer walls like river lines on a map; the faded white paint was flaking off of the ground floor window ledges and one of the glass panels in the door of the closest building had been replaced by cardboard.
"Don't worry about that", a voice called out, making her jump, "it was just the kids messing about. Someone'll be here to fix it tomorrow".
Emma turned, looking for the source of the voice. An older-looking man, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, emerged from the shadows to her left, a half-burned cigarette hanging between his weathered fingers. He seemed tired, somehow; his clothes were shabby and worn, and the grey hair on the top of his head had started to grow thin.
"I'm Mark", he went on, smiling warmly. "I live on the second floor".
"Emma". She shook the hand held out to her and returned the smile. "I'm moving into 6A".
"Nice. Wait a bit and I'll show you the way, if you like".
"Thanks".
Mark tossed the remains of his cigarette to the floor, stubbed it out under his shoe and then opened the main door to let Emma inside. She found herself in a small, dirty-looking hallway with mouldy green walls and a black lino floor that had clearly seen better days. The only heat came from a single radiator rattling in the corner, and the only light from a single bulb that flickered dimly in the middle of the ceiling. A couple of flies buzzed round it half-heartedly.
"Go careful in the lift", Mark warned as they made their way towards the battered silver doors on the far side of the hallway. "Kids were messing around with the buttons once and now some of them don't always work. Someone's idea of a joke", he added, with a rueful smile.
"Right". Emma nodded, silently irritated that the button for floor six seemed to be one of the damaged ones. Great start, she mused bitterly.
"I know - it's not ideal". Mark seemed to read her thoughts. "You'll get used to it eventually though".
"I'm sure I will", Emma murmured, trying to think of a positive to the situation. "It could be worse, I guess - I could live on floor ten".
She expected Mark to smile in agreement at the very least, but as soon as she said floor ten, his long, age-lined face darkened and his jovial manner vanished.
"Better not to think about that one", he said in a half-whisper. "No-one's lived up there since the storm; been empty for about eight years now. No-one but the kids up there anymore".
Before Emma could ask him what he meant, the lift shuddered to a halt on the second floor and the doors creaked open to let him out. He scuttled off with a hurried "nice to have met you", and disappeared into one of the flats.
Strange man, Emma thought.
Shrugging off the words as an old man's peculiar ramblings, she pushed the button for floor six and tried to relax as the lift carried her onwards and upwards towards her new home.

Flat 6A was as cold and damp as the rest of the building, black mould growing in every corner and paint peeling from every surface. There was even something small and green sprouting in the corner of the kitchen, Emma noticed; her stomach heaved and she abandoned the idea of cooking that night. Exhausted by the journey, she dumped her suitcase in the lounge and dug out her washbag and pyjamas, and made straight for the bathroom, only to find that the shower, too, was home to some small, green plant, this one twisting its way out of the plughole. Forget it, she decided, I'll wash in the sink in the morning.
She didn't bother to look around the bedroom, just undressed quickly and collapsed into bed, wrapping the duvet tightly around herself to block out the thoughts of what else might be lurking in the shadows. Despite her anxieties, tiredness soon became overwhelming and she fell into a deep sleep.
Just after midnight, she woke again, jerked out of a blurry dream by a noise from the landing. Probably the kids Mark was on about, she thought; she listened for a few seconds and could just make out the sound of footsteps - small, too small to be an adult.

They always say things look better in the morning...Emma might've been more inclined to believe that if the morning hadn't greeted her with more strange noises. The footsteps had stopped - for now - but from somewhere upstairs came a dull, repetitive trickling sound, like marbles being bounced across a carpet. It started at about five o'clock and continued, relentless, until the grey light of an overcast dawn crept into the room a few hours later.
Give me strength, she thought, not much of a welcome. Part of her thought about going downstairs and asking Mark about it, but after the way he'd gone so quiet when she'd mentioned the tenth floor, she felt more inclined to steer clear of him for a while. You heard about these strange people, nice enough when you first met them, and then...a shudder ran through her flesh. She was better off sorting this one out herself.
She dug out a clean shirt and picked up yesterday's jeans from the floor, quickly dragged a brush through her tangled hair and shoved her bare feet into her trainers. Socks could wait; so could breakfast. Once she knew what the sound was - and where it was coming from - she could work out the best way to cope with it.
Her head still swimming after her disturbed night, she decided against the rickety lift and made her way up the shabby staircase instead, stepping uneasily over dead flies and shards of broken glass. With every step she listened intently; eventually she realised the sound wasn't coming from floor seven, but from higher up. Where, though? she thought as she paused for breath. Floor eight...or higher?
No-one but the kids up there anymore.
She remembered Mark saying that the tenth floor had been empty for eight years; maybe that was where the kids went to play, or just to hang out - there wasn't really anywhere else they could go. The sounds she'd heard were probably harmless in that case, but she knew she'd be happier if she could find out for certain. If nothing else, knowing exactly what the noises were gave her half a chance of getting a decent night's sleep this time.
She turned back to the staircase and marched on upwards, past floors eight and nine until she reached the highest storey, where she could feel the building swaying in the wind. Another shiver ran through her - had it been this cold all the way up the stairs? She didn't remember having goosebumps on her arms when she'd left her flat...
"Morning!"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time; she jumped and turned around, expecting to see someone behind her, only to realise as the echo died away that the sound had in fact come from the open doorway at the head of the stairs. The door didn't look like it'd been forced open or tampered with, which struck her as odd. Why would someone have opened the door if the flats weren't lived in anymore?
One of the kids must've stolen the key, she reasoned, trying to stay calm...then came that same noise that she'd heard from her bedroom, the dull bounce of marbles on carpet. Whatever the tenth floor was or wasn't, it was definitely the source of the noise. Emma took a deep breath and marched through the open door.
She felt the rush of the wind like a slap to the face. For a moment she could only stand, frozen to the spot, wondering if she'd walked into a wall of ice, it was that cold. The chill went right through her shirt and skin, biting her to the bone; she would've shivered a third time but she wasn't sure she still could. The air seemed to have paralysed her.
When she finally found the strength to move again, she crept forward into a flat identical in size and layout to her own, but in a far worse state of neglect and disrepair. The walls were black with a thick layer of mould; the carpet had withered and in places was starting to disintegrate. In every corner, huge green bundles of leaves sprouted from the skirting boards. Dead and dying flies lay scattered beneath them in massive, festering clumps.
Her skin prickling, Emma edged round the next corner into what she knew would be the lounge, and found herself staring up at the overcast sky. Where there should've been a faded, off-white ceiling speckled with dirt, there was nothing - just a wash of cold air and mile after mile of low grey cloud.
“Morning!” It was the same voice again – the same shrill cry, the same giggle behind the word. Emma followed the sound to the corner of the room and felt her scream die in her throat.
No-one’s lived on the tenth floor since the storm, she could hear Mark saying again, no-one but the kids… She shook her head and pinched herself desperately, begging her mind to snap out of this nightmare and wake up back in reality—
Every time she dug her own nails into her skin it hurt.
I’m not dreaming, she was forced to admit, those children really are there.
They looked up at her without malice or unpleasantness, nothing but curiosity on their charred and pockmarked faces; one of them reached towards her with a hand more bone than flesh, looking for all the world as though he was about to introduce himself…but their eyes… Emma couldn’t tear her own gaze away. Transfixed and terrified, she stared into those empty, scorched sockets, as frozen as a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights, no longer capable of wondering whether it was possible or not that she was really seeing this.
Only one thought remained clear to her: run.
She turned on her heel and sprinted for the door, only to find the child who’d reached towards her blocking her way. He was about nine or ten, she managed to notice, the youngest in the room by a mile; he looked hurt now, upset that she’d try to leave.
“I…I’m sorry”, she said awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t coming to interrupt; I didn’t mean to upset anyone…I just have to go—”
Slowly, rhythmically, the boy shook his head.
“I have to go”, Emma repeated. “I…I’ve got work to do; I—”
The cold hit her again, so hard this time that it knocked her off her feet. Her vision turned to a blur as she slammed into the floor; for a moment she had no awareness at all of anything around her. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, saw that the way in front of her was clear again and made a break for the door—
Where she’d expected to find the staircase, she found only a wall of thick grey cloud, so dark at its heart that it was almost black. As she teetered unsteadily on the edge, she realised with a sudden horror that she was staring into a thundercloud. Somewhere far below her, an ominous rumble began to build and swell.
 
Mark saw the lightning from his kitchen window; as the flash illuminated the overcast sky, he sighed and shook his head. I warned her, he thought sadly, I told her to forget about it. Emma wasn’t the first who’d ignored him and he doubted she’d be the last. So many of them got curious sooner or later.
It was the sound, he always reasoned – that dull, trickling sound that kept them all awake at night. He knew that was just the kids, just the way they moved, not even worth the climb to the tenth floor. To a stranger, though, it was unknown, annoying – they always had to go and find out, try and put a stop to it. All just for the sake of a few minutes’ peace. Mark sighed again and went back into the lounge.
One day, someone would take his advice. One day, someone would understand that the kids were happy enough if you left them alone; it was only when they saw you that the trouble started. They always thought you were coming to join them. When you tried to leave again, it broke their little hearts.
So they make sure you don’t leave. Mark allowed himself half a smile. The storm had changed their faces, but they were still the same kids who’d smashed the window and broken the buttons in the lift eight years ago. They just had to find other ways to amuse themselves, now that they couldn’t get down from the tenth floor. Tricks had to take on a different form; they’d had to get more creative.
If anyone ever did understand, they’d quite likely ask Mark why he didn’t leave – why he or indeed anybody in their right mind would choose to live eight storeys below kids like that. And he’d tell them truthfully that he didn’t know; there was no reason at all that he had to stay. The kids would let him leave any time he wanted to, he was sure of it.
But they were still just kids. And kids always needed someone to watch over them.
All he had to do was keep people away from the tenth floor.