A Korean ritual claims that pressing floors in a specific sequence in a 10+ story building can transport you to another world. Its eerie connection to the Elisa Lam case sent it viral worldwide.
The rules are precise. Find a building with at least ten floors. Enter the elevator alone. Then press the buttons in this exact sequence.
Fourth floor. Second floor. Sixth floor. Second floor. Tenth floor. Fifth floor.
At the fifth floor, a young woman will step in. Do not speak to her. Do not look at her. Press the button for the first floor. If the elevator ascends to the tenth floor instead of descending—you have succeeded.
When the doors open on ten, you will no longer be in this world.
This is the Elevator Game. Born on Korean internet forums and spread across the globe, it is a step-by-step manual for reaching the other side.
The exact origin is unclear, but the game began circulating on Korean online message boards in the late 2000s. Some trace its thematic roots to Japanese internet legends like Kisaragi Station, a mythical train stop in another dimension.
In Korea, it spread as the "엘리베이터 게임," and first-person accounts of attempts flooded the forums. "When I stepped out on ten, the sky was red." "There was no one outside. No one at all." Whether true or fabricated, the eerie specificity of these reports pulled in thousands of curious—and terrified—readers.
By 2011, English translations appeared on Creepypasta sites and Reddit communities like /r/nosleep and /r/creepy, where "I tried the Elevator Game" posts became a genre unto themselves.
In February 2013, the body of Canadian student Elisa Lam was found in a rooftop water tank at the Cecil Hotel in Los Angeles.
What made the case a global sensation was the hotel's elevator surveillance footage. Elisa was seen entering the elevator alone, pressing multiple floor buttons, and making strange gestures toward the hallway as if speaking to someone invisible. The doors opened and closed erratically.
When the footage hit YouTube, the connection to the Elevator Game was drawn instantly. "Was Elisa playing the Elevator Game?" "Did she reach the other side?" The speculation raced across social media at lightning speed.
The coroner ruled her death an accidental drowning, complicated by bipolar disorder. But the rational explanation did nothing to diminish the legend. If anything, it strengthened it. The Elevator Game now had a face—and a tragedy.
The most chilling element of the game is the woman who allegedly boards at the fifth floor.
The rules are emphatic. Do not speak to her. Do not answer if she asks your name. Do not turn around. The moment you make eye contact, you will never return to this world.
Who—or what—this woman is, no version of the legend explains. A ghost. A resident of the other world. A hallucination conjured by the player's own fear. The ambiguity is precisely what makes her terrifying. She is a void in the shape of a person, and the game's only rule is to pretend she isn't there.
The Elevator Game represents a new form of supernatural ritual, native to the internet age. Where the Ouija board spread through parlor rooms and Kokkuri-san through Japanese classrooms, this game spreads through screens and forums, leaping borders in a matter of hours.
Its power lies in its specificity. The numbered sequence of floors, the strict prohibitions, the promise of return if the steps are followed in reverse—it all reads like a protocol, not a fairy tale. And protocols can be tested.
That testability is the game's true genius and its true danger. It doesn't ask you to believe. It asks you to try.
Somewhere tonight, someone is stepping into an elevator alone. Their finger hovers over the button for the fourth floor. The doors close.
The game has begun.
