By Rob Perez
Columnist

Someone is trying to convince me the floor I’m staying on is not the floor I’m staying on. But I can count. Pretty high, in fact. And I know the floor beneath me is 12. Which means my floor is 13. Except that’s not what they call it. They call it something else. Something exotic. Something no one saw coming.

They call it…14.

They can call it anything they want. They can call it the Penthouse. They can call it the Executive Floor. They can call it Wala Bing Bong. But if it’s the floor after 12, it’s still 13.

So I did more digging than I like to do as a journalist. And I found out that 13 became unlucky about 2,000 years ago. Christians wanted more suppers, but no. This supper would be the last. Why? They had a reservation for 12. But you know how many showed? 13.

Around the same time or thereabouts—I didn’t do that much digging—Norse mythology was having a dinner party. The host was expecting 12. You’ll never guess how many showed. Fine. You guessed. 13.

Instead of concluding their problems were Judas. Or Loki. These institutions decided the problem was the number. They don’t lament the bad guy at the table. They’re sweating the head count. If only there were twelve.

And 2,000 years later, someone is still trying to protect me from 13. Except they’re doing it with branding. Because you know who else can count? My daughter. She’s 8. She asked, “Why does it go from 12 to 14?”

And I hesitated. Because if I’m going to tell her why the elevator in most buildings go from 12 to 14, I want to be right.

Or funny.

So I did some digging. What terrible thing happened on the 13th floor? Did someone lose their luggage? Bungle room service? Was the wifi spotty? Was there a mass murder of the entire floor? Because I looked. Briefly. And I didn’t find anything. You know historical archives? Well, I don’t either. And I’m not going to know them. Fortunately, what I lack in research, I possess in logic. And logic I have in spades. And I’m not afraid to apply it.

Twice, if necessary.

There’s a 13th floor in this building and I know because I was staying on it. I’ve made it home in one piece. Did I really make it home because they called it 14? Color me skeptical.

But maybe they’re not trying to fool me. Maybe there’s an entity, a spirit, some energy out there responsible for 13. And everyone who makes buildings agrees there’s no need for a floor that is 13.

This terrible thing goes building to building. It can devour your soul. But only on 13. Alas, it cannot count. It checks the elevator. 10. 11. 12. 14.

Grrrr. There is no here here.

Other cultures have their own numbers they won’t put on buildings. Parts of Asia fear four. Italy fears 17. Different numbers. Same idea: a number so evil it must be avoided… even if an eight-year-old might ask why.

Look. I know a thing or two about the haunted. I’ve stayed at the Stanley Hotel. The one in Colorado that Stephen King wrote about. The one Kubrick made a movie about. Very bad things happen there. Many on the second floor.

So did the hotel get rid of the second floor? Did all hotels get rid of the second floor? Did architects everywhere agree that buildings would henceforth go from one to three?

No. This is America. When we find something genuinely scary, we don’t hide it. We monetize it. Room 217 is scary. So guest wait for it. They book trips around it.

In fact, every room at the Stanley has a television. It gets all the channels you’d expect. Plus one. A channel that plays The Shining 24 hours a day. I’m a little scared to write about it.

But 13? A couple of bad dinner parties 2,000 years ago and get that number off the elevator.