The Elevator | A Horror Story

-7-

"The images must mean something," I say after a while. "Where might we see those things?"

"The mall?" he offers.

The mall . . .

That would make sense; my outfit, the lipstick, the images.

"So something could have happened to us in the mall?" I agree.

We talk for a bit.

Speculate.

Are we just stuck in the mall elevator? That doesn't seem so bad?

But then why do we have the number eight burnt into our flesh?

And why do I have blood on my head?

And how could we still be moving downwards?

Soon talk about our situation becomes too depressing and we try to talk about ourselves. But Chad can't remember much from before the elevator either – and after a while we fall into silence.

My throat feels dry and sore. I'm thirsty. I shiver, the still air is cooler than before, and I rub my arms to try and keep warm. When I breathe a cloud of breath is visible before my face.

I push my head against the elevator doors and look upwards.

The ceiling. There's a kind of hatch in the ceiling.

I fumble back for the speaker button.

"Chad?" I say. "The tiles in the ceiling. They look like they might dislodge. I think I might be able to push them up. Maybe I can get out."

There's a pause.

"They're like that here too," he says. "Do you think our elevators are joined? Maybe we could reach each other."

I feel a spurt of hope.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I'll see you up there."

With a deep breath I push myself up off the floor – putting myself face to face with the infinite mirrors.

I try not to look too deeply into them.

Creeping around the edge of the frame is a thin, metal handrail where the mirrors join with the lower elevator wall. I manage to scramble up onto it – my tiptoes balancing on the ledge and my body pressed close against the reflective glass.

Please don't let the reflections change. Please don't let them change.

Then I stretch as high as I can.

The tips of my fingers brush against the ceiling before I lose my balance and fall off onto the floor.

I try again.

My fingers touch the ceiling again and as I push upwards I feel the large tile dislodge slightly.

My heart soars.

Is this the way to freedom?

Carefully balancing I nudge it further upwards, and with a feeling of overwhelming jubilation, I manage to slide it completely to the side leaving a large square hole in the top of my prison cell.

With all my strength, and the muscles in my arms screaming with the effort, I pull myself up and out of the elevator.