Floor Nine

immediately
The elevator shudders, and at once, my
stomach becomes a wad of frayed
wires.

The lights flicker, too, snapshotting me

in and out of total darkness.

It's like Death himself is taking pictures,

storing them in his file on me under the
tab that reads "Right Before."

These thoughts, along with the way the ancient elevator T. rex-screams as it climbs past
floor four, compound the consternation gnawing at my brainstem, teeth scraping. That
lizard portion of my mind that already wants me to start shrieking like a B-horror movie
extra.

I don't scream, though, because given that this is the building I live in, nothing about this
little trip is exactly new.

Normally, I don't take the archaic elevator. I take the stairs. But those were roped off
today because they're being painted or whatever. Because obviously giving the stairs a
fresh coat is more important than, you know, fixing the deathtrap elevator so that it
doesn't eat someone.

In this instance—me. Except for the twenty billion versions of myself reflected in the
elevator's cracked and yellowing mirrored top paneling, I'm alone.
Usually, being alone is my thing. It's preferable to chilling at the kitchen table while my
mom doomscrolls through all the news sites. And way better than being at school,
surrounded by people who treat me like a shadow that's lost its person.

The story is different in here, though, on this beast of an elevator that, like the building
itself, is older than dust. I mean, honestly, Cronus could have once ridden this wreck. Or
at least Alexander the Great.

Right now, I'd be glad to have either one of those guys, or really, anyone in this elevator
with me. Mostly because I know what's coming.

But then, maybe today I'll be lucky.

I sigh and fidget as I wait for the danger I'm fretting over to come and pass, my arms
weighed down by plastic grocery bags filled with as much as I'm able to carry for four
blocks without my arms falling off.

I don't have a car. Neither does Mom now.

Not that either of us wants to drive.
Six…seven…eight…

The elevator gives another grating groan, which rises over the baseline one-note hum of
the grinding motor like a noisy yawn. Combined, the sounds remind me of being in one
of those snap-together haunted house rides that pop up at sketchy carnivals. The kind
that, on occasion, have been known to masticate and spit out an unsuspecting rider or
two.

Ca-clunk!
When the elevator stops at floor nine, I let out a stream of under-my-breath curses.
I can't help it because I knew this would happen. Every time. Every…time!
Setting the bags down, I step forward and press the button for floor ten, my floor. Just one
more floor. Of course, the elevator doesn't budge. It just hangs there screaming a silence
far more disconcerting than its prior moaning and groaning.

I shove my thumb into the worn ten button again and again. In response, the elevator
buzzes at me. The sound lets me know the contraption gets the message; it just doesn't
want to do what I'm telling it.

Should have known better. Should have ducked under the caution tape and taken the
stairs anyway. What's the worst that could have happened? Mom gets a call from the
landlady, and I get told to mind my manners. In other words, business as usual.

"Hate this thing," I seethe between my teeth as I joggle the ten button harder, causing the
buzzer to go haywire.

Ben, I tell myself, relax.

So, the elevator is stuck. It always gets stuck.

Since it was installed in the 1920s, the elevator is a manual. This means that all I have to
do is open the sliding gate and the outer door, get out, and make my way to the stairwell,
which isn't that far away. Then I just have two flights to climb and bam, I'll be home. I've
done it before, and I can do it again.

I shut my eyes, blocking out the sight of that gated door and my reflections, visible in my
periphery. I don't want to see them. My eyes no doubt hold all the fear twisting my
insides, wringing them out like an old rag, sending the dregs of my sanity down the drain
to join the rest of me—wherever I'd left it.

Outside the doors, the ninth floor waits for me. It's been "under renovation" for four years
now, ever since Mom and I moved here after the accident. After Dad passed.
Always, the lights on floor nine are off. It's dark, no matter what time of day it is, and
there's junk all over the place.

In a nutshell, it's creepy as all get out.

"C'mon," I growl, opening my eyes and leaning forward to dig my thumb into the number
ten button yet again.

I don't want this to be my reality.

Buzz-buzz-buzz-buzzzzzz-ding!

I ease up on my assault of the ten button and fish my cell out of my back jeans pocket.
The words displayed on the screen, though, make no sense.