Hellevator

Hellevator

The Lift to Hell!

The Sweet Candy Company building has a dark history. Exactly what that history is, I shall not say. But in a haunted building such as this one, the sort of horrendous evil that occurred on the premises is more than enough to shock and dismay the imagination. For an event to be so traumatic as to linger on at the location of its occurrence for over a century, it must have involved cruelty and bloodshed of the foulest sort.

Do not scoff, dear reader. For the tale I have to tell is more true than not. Those of a sensitive nature or vibrant imagination are urged to place this story aside. It is not this author's intention to provoke the sleepless nights or frightening nightmares that may arise from reading this piece.

Can you imagine yourself, late at night, working alone in your prairie dog den of a cube, when the lights go out? Yes, that may not be so bad. The Sweet Candy Company building is nearly a century old. Some structural failures are to be anticipated.

Picture yourself, dear reader, working at your computer device late when all your fellow employees have left for the day. Suddenly, you are plunged into darkness as the overhead lights go out, leaving only the glow of the computer screen to see by.

Your pulse increases ever so slightly, but the rational part of your mind supplies many a reason for the lights going out. Calmly, you collect your things and head for the door. Here is where rationality fails; as you approach the magnetically sealed glass double doors, they fly wide open. You were approaching; watching. No visible personage opened those doors. Yet they gape widely before you now, disturbingly inviting you through.

You can't stay here all night, in this dark place of strange hums and eerie creaking noises, you must go through those doors to get home. With no one about to see your childlike panic, you bolt through the doors. As you scamper for the stairs, spurning the elevator for all the adrenaline rushing through you, you hear the doors behind you slam shut.

You feel yourself to be an unwanted and expelled presence. The stairs offer no comfort to your troubled spirit, for they too are darkened and foreboding. With the echo of the slammed door ringing in your ears you dash down the stairs, caution thrown to the wind. A broken leg or a tumble down a flight of stairs is nothing compared to the fear that drives you on.

The electric night that greats you as you pass through the final exit is a welcome and blessed relief. The horseless carriages that drive by on the city street are as welcome a sight as a dear old friend. The white pavement of the sidewalk beneath your feet could be no more inviting if it were a field of wildflowers on a warm sunny day. All is normal, all is well.

The next day brings a fresh perspective and new energy. The events of the night before are dismissed as temporary hysteria. In the lighted halls and with coworkers all about on their various errands, you wonder how you could ever have given in to such fantastical notions, to have surrendered to such childlike panic.

Indeed, although it is All Hallows Eve, you have already decided that this evening would be an excellent time to stay late and finish that project. At lunch you purchase an extra sandwich, which will serve as your dinner later that evening.

You press the elevator button to take you to the Home Level, where the break room and the ice boxes are located, and where you will store your dinner. A curious thought crosses your mind; for the first time ever it seems odd to you that the Home Level button is labeled "HL". All this time working in this building, and you have never paid attention to that label, even though you have traveled many a time to the Home Level.

The day passes swiftly; hard work makes time fly. Coworkers depart, some urge you to go home for the day and partake in the rituals celebrating All Hallows Eve. You shrug them off, this project has a hard deadline, and you intend to meet that deadline. Soon, as the evening before, you are the sole occupant of the building.

Yet this time, the lights stay on. You have nearly an arrogant attitude when you consider the evening before, and the extreme reaction you had to the most mundane events. You vow that you will never again surrender reason to panic. Finally, at a stopping point in the project, you decide to answer the rumble in your stomach. It is time for dinner.

Your stroll through the well-lit office, passing the familiar cubes of co-workers and austere meeting rooms where you've had many a conference.

The glass double doors docilely await as you open them and pass through. You summon the elevator, and then travel down to the Home Level. You are already planning your time; you will take your sandwich back to your cube, eat while you work, and then finish the project with the next hour.

All is well.

The elevator opens onto the Home Level. As your footfalls echo down the concrete walkway and brick walls, you have a nagging thought. Did you hear two sets of footfalls? You shake your head in disbelief. Surely not.

You pick up your pace, ever so slightly, as that echo continues. Your reason tells you it is just the sound of your own walking bouncing back from the walls. The break room is dark. You flip a switch, and the overhead lights come on.

Your pulse is quickening, your breath choppy, and yet you do not know why. In your peripheral vision you detect the slightest of movement. Nothing more than a shadow. You swing around, but see nothing.

You tell yourself you are repeating last night's events; you are allowing mundane events to frighten you. You tell yourself that all is well.

Your assurances ring hollow.

You step quickly across the break room to the trio of ice boxes. You yank open the door, and locate the white container that holds your sandwich.

Container in hand, you bolt for the elevator. The ghostly footfalls seem to pace you. In your peripheral vision is movement, movement that eludes all attempts to focus on it.

The elevator doors obligingly open as you run for them. In a state of panic, you push the button to take you to your floor.

You scream in horror—in your terrified state you pushed the HL button. Only now the HL button is glowing red, and is scalding hot to the touch.

Screams are torn from your throat, screams many would deem impossible to be made by human throat, so great is the terror that consumes you. The elevator drops down. It drops swiftly.

The lights overhead flicker and go out. The panel buttons fade, all save the red HL button. Alone, in the dark, you plunge endlessly downward.



# # #



Well, the above should do. According to the nameplate on the cube wall, one Edwin Jones used to sit here. Thanks, Edwin, thanks for pushing that button on All Hallows Eve, and thanks for plunging to hell, and thanks for taking my place in that most dismal of realms on this, the one night of the year that such a thing is possible.

This computer device is quite foreign to me, but the nature of the keyboard entry is simple enough. You who find these words I have written on Edwin's computer will know what became of a certain Edwin Jones. You may or may not choose to believe. It is all the same to me. I am free, and that is all that matters.

Oh, and thanks, Edwin, for the sandwich. It was quite delicious.