I only took the job cos my rent was due and my student loan had vanished into last term’s noodles. The ad said “Night porter, 11 p.m.–5 a.m., cash in hand,” which in London means either drug lab or haunted. Turns out it was both, kinda.
The building was one of those old Chinatown blocks that smells of duck fat and incense no matter what floor you’re on. My boss, Mr Fong, spoke like he swallowed a fax machine: “Level fourteen off-limits, lift stops at thirteen, use stairs if you brave.” Sure, mate, I thought, free cardio.
First week was boring as toast. I sat at the lobby desk, scrolling TikTok with the sound off, jumping every time the neon takeaway sign buzzed. Then came the typhoon night—rain sideways, wind howling like my ex. Around two the lift dinged. Doors opened on thirteen, but the indicator said fourteen. I figured moisture in the circuits.
Out stepped this girl, maybe twenty, hair longer than my overdraft, wearing a silk qipao the colour of dried blood. And she carried a red paper umbrella, the old-lady kind, even though she’d just come indoors. She smiled, polite, like I was the weird one in jogging bottoms.
“You’re new,” she said, voice soft like rice steam. “Mind if I sit?” I shrugged; the chair opposite was empty since forever. She parked herself, umbrella across her knees, and started folding tiny paper cranes from napkins, each crease perfect. I asked her name. She said, “Wait for the rain to stop.” Cryptic, but fit girls get away with murder.
4:55 a.m., she stands, thanks me, walks back into the lift. Doors shut, indicator jumps to fourteen, then dark. Lift hasn’t worked above thirteen in years, Mr Fong told me later. Whatever, I clocked off, crashed, dreamed of red cranes chasing me through Soho.
Next shift she shows again, same time, same drip. We chat: she asks about my mum, my modules, stuff I never mentioned. I laugh it off, but inside I’m rattling. She knows the scar on my knee story better than I do. When I ask how, she taps the umbrella: “Echoes stay longer than voices.”
By week three I’m googling “ghost girl red umbrella” like a proper nerd. Urban legend pops: twenty years back a tenant’s daughter waited every night in lobby for boyfriend who’d promised to take her to Manchester, umbrella gift from him. One stormy dusk she ran to the street, got clipped by a black cab, died mid-crossing. Since then people see her when it rains indoors, whatever that means.
I’m sweating now, cos the carpets are damp though no pipe burst. My sneakers squish. I bring it up with Mr Fong; he hands me a bag of white rice and a tiny Buddha statue like that’s IT support. “Sprinkle rice, she count, slow her down. Buddha watch CCTV.” He laughs, I don’t.
Mid-shift I dump rice in a circle round the desk. She appears, looks sad, like I stood her up. “Why trap me?” she whispers. Umbrella flips open even though we’re inside; water drips up from it, pooling on ceiling tiles. My phone glitches, shows 14:44 though it’s past three. She steps closer, cranes swirl round her like angry sparrows. “Help me get to fourteen, real fourteen,” she says. “Boyfriend’s letter stuck there, I need answer.”
Man, I’m shaking worse than the washing machine in my flat, but guilt hits: she’s just stuck mail, not Chucky. I grab the stair key, nod. We climb, thirteen flights, each step colder, smell of joss sticks stronger. Door to fourteen’s chained, padlock ancient. She points at the umbrella: “Key’s in here.” I laugh cos that’s impossible, but the handle unscrews, tiny brass key drops, warm like tea.
Lock clicks, door swings into a corridor lit by one red lantern. Wallpaper peels like sunburnt skin. We tiptoe past offices frozen in 1999: pagers, Spice Girls posters, even a Tamagotchi beeping. At the end, a pigeonhole cabinet. She opens box 144, pulls out an envelope yellow as nicotine, hands it to me.
Inside: one train ticket Manchester dated tomorrow, 1999, and note: “Sorry, got visa, going early, meet you there –L.” Dude left, never knew she died. She reads, tears sparkling then vanishing mid-air. “He didn’t ditch, just early,” she sighs. Umbrella crumbles into red petals, blows away though no wind.
Then she looks at me, really looks, like she’s seeing future Netflix password. “You helped, now I help. Stop running from your own rain.” She touches my forehead, ice-hot. Corridor fades to white, I’m back at lobby desk, sunrise slapping my face.
Mr Fong arrives, finds me soaked but smiling. Lift now stops at fourteen, normal as Pret coffee. He eyes the rice, grins: “She gone up?” I nod. He pays double, says building feels lighter, offers day shift but I quit, cos uni suddenly seems doable.
Months later I’m in Manchester, same rain. I open my backpack—there’s one red paper crane, crisp, dry. I laugh, leave it on the train seat. Maybe she finally caught her ride, maybe I caught mine. Either way, I walk off without an umbrella, and weirdly, I stay dry the whole way home.