The Elevator

Mark pushed a fry through ketchup.

"Funny thing about elevators. We step inside without thinking. Just a box hanging by wires."

David smirked. "Comforting."

Mark kept going.

"Worst is when one stops. Dead air. Like a coffin. Box you can't leave. Nobody hears you. Childhood fear in stainless steel."

David shook his head. "You should lay off the fries."

After lunch David called an elevator.

The car arrived. Empty. He stepped in, pressed his floor.

The elevator jolted, stopped between levels.

The lights went out.

"Great," David muttered. He sucked his teeth, swatted at a fly buzzing past his ear.

He pulled out his phone, turned on the flashlight.

Pressed the button again. Nothing.

Pressed harder. Still nothing.

"Come on…" He sighed, jabbed the emergency button.

The lights came back. The car moved again.

It reached his floor. The doors opened. David stepped out shaking his head.

"Piece of junk."

That evening he returned.

David pressed the call button.

The first elevator arrived full. He let it go.

The next arrived empty, but the doors closed before he stepped in. He muttered, pressed again.

A third opened. He entered, pressed "Lobby." Nothing. The doors stayed open. He stepped back out. The doors stayed open.

He pressed again. A fourth arrived. Empty. He looked around. The hall was empty.

David stepped inside. Pressed "Lobby." Held his breath.

The doors closed.

The car began to descend.

Sixteenth floor. Doors opened. Empty. Doors closed. The walls looked closer.

Fifteenth. Doors opened. Empty. David ran a hand along the wall. Less space. Must be my imagination. Stress from the presentation. Doors closed.

Fourteenth. Doors opened. Empty. Sweat formed on his face. He pressed both hands outward. Definitely less room. This is impossible. Buildings don't work this way. His breath came faster. Doors closed.

Thirteenth. Doors did not open. The indicator changed to twelve.

David laughed once. "Oh hell no. Twilight Zone. I did step into the Twilight Zone."

Just breathe. There's an explanation. Has to be.

Twelfth. Doors opened. Narrower than before. He leaned against the rail, chest tight. The walls. They're actually moving. This can't be real.

Eleventh. Tenth. Space reduced further. David pressed the emergency button.

Not real. Not real. People don't get crushed in elevators. This is a panic attack. That's all.

The car stopped at nine. Doors don't open.

Why aren't the doors opening? Why?

He pressed the button again. Nothing.

Heat built. No fan.

"Help!" he shouted. "Somebody!"

Someone will hear. Someone has to hear. Buildings have people. Always people.

No response.

He kicked the wall. Dull sound.

Thick metal. Soundproof. Mark was right. Nobody hears you.

He looked at the walls. They were closer. His chest heaved. Sweat ran down his face.

He pressed six. After a pause the car moved.

Maybe if I go up instead of down. Maybe it only gets smaller going down.

But each number down, less space.

Can't breathe. Air thin. Panic? Can't tell.

Six. The car stopped. Doors remain closed.

The space was coffin-sized. David stood rigid, arms pinned, sweat pouring. His eyes stared forward.

Mark knew. He knew.

Six floors up.

A coffin.

Closets. Kid. Couldn't get out. This is that closet.

The walls touched his shoulders.

Can't scream. No room. Drowning in metal.

His vision blurred.

Funny thing about elevators.

Morning. Lights came on in the building. A maintenance crew pried at the elevator doors on six. Metal screeched.

The doors opened.

A camera flash lit the interior.

Flash. The dark car.

Flash. David's face, eyes open.

Detectives spoke in low voices.

One maintenance man said, "Looks like he died standing in his coffin."

Flash. Mark walked past. "Funny thing about elevators," he said. "We step inside without thinking. I always take the stairs."

Flash. An OUT OF ORDER sign was taped to the doors.

—Sal