The Elevator

The Elevator

Driving home from work, I was looking forward to stepping into an empty flat. Hugh was away on business which meant I didn’t have to cook. I poured myself a large glass of red and slipped into something more comfortable.

I waited for my signal from James that the coast was clear; one ring of my doorbell for yes, two for no. I never understood why waiting for James to call was almost as exciting as the affair itself.

I sat down, anticipation fluttering in my stomach. When I heard the first ring, I stood and made my way to the door. But then there was another. I paused, consumed with disappointment. When the third ring came, my head went into a spin. The bell rang three times, I thought. What does that mean?

I wasn’t sure whether to stay in my flat or go to James. My instinct was to sit back down, drink more wine and make him wait. But I wanted him desperately, he was the reason I made it through a stressful Monday in one piece.

Loosening another button on my dress, I made my way to the elevators. I could have climbed the stairs, but thirteen floors was a lot of steps in killer heels. I waited for the elevator to reach me and stepped inside. It wasn’t until I pressed the button that I realised I was not alone.

There was a man and woman, both with marbled, sickly skin. The man was smiling at me, his amber eyes full of fire. They smelt of hospitals. They smelt dangerous. The man had James’ ID tag around his neck. Oh God.

Communicating with each other through adoring silence, the man pinned me to the wall and the woman cut my throat. I became one of them.

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