Carl is not mine, but I'm borrowing him for this story. Remember, reviewing earns good karma :-)
What Goes Up
By SpunSilk
Part One
If I have to listen to one more lame excuse from marketing, I won't be responsible for my own actions, I fumed. The entire 83rd floor, where my firm was located, was quiet at this hour, but there was noise enough in my head to more than make up for that. The elevator finally arrived and I walked on, feeling every one of the 14 hours I had worked that day. As soon as the doors closed, I thankfully slipped out of my pumps and rested my tired feet on the cool, smooth marble floor of the high-speed elevator. Mmmm. That felt so good. I can finish the Hollander letter at home before I crash, my mind continued to spin, even though my body had given up for the day, but I've got to talk to Dallas before I write the contract...
The elevator slowed, stopped and a pleasant ding! sounded.
The doors opened, and to my shock a man ran on, no – lunged on, and dove for the 'close door' button which he pressed in rapid-fire. The doors slid silently closed while he watched out through the gap as it narrowed, as if someone were chasing him. I scanned the hallway myself, but saw no one. I was surprised and honestly a tad jared to watch all this; we have a high class high-rise and you just don't see riff-raff in the building.
Once the elevator was underway again, the stranger exhaled deeply, and pulling his hat far forward over his eyes, he slumped against the side wall, breathing hard.
Silence.
It wasn't 20 floors before he was back on full alert again, watching the floors count down in lights over the door like his very life depended on it. He gave the impression of a coiled spring, ready to shoot out the door even as we made our way down the building.
I pressed a bit farther into my half of the elevator and tried to avoid looking at him, but my curious eyes were drawn by his out-of-style rumbled suit – white – together with white running shoes, I kid you not. A straw hat finished the ensemble, and he held not an attaché case but rather a lumpy canvas bag in one fist. Unreal. If I hadn't been so uncomfortable, I'm sure I would have been amused.
He glance at me for the first time, frowned, and said nothing. I glanced away. Silence hung between us for many floors. The uncomfortable ride was almost at an end when a sharp jolt nearly knocked me off my feet, causing a squeak of surprise from me and a cry of dismay from the stranger. Our speed disappeared at a shocking rate, then vanished altogether.
The elevator had stopped dead.
We both stared at number board above door which showed we were approaching the seventeenth floor, but not quite there yet. My mouth hung open for few seconds of shock as I tried to convince myself this wasn't happening. The stranger let out a slow breath with his jaw set hard, and his eyes narrow.
"Like a fly in his fist," were the first words he spoke out loud. I was instantly nervous.
"Don't worry, These things happen," I said, ill-at-ease. I picked up the emergency-call phone and pressed the button. He busied himself with feeling the walls of the elevator and watching wide-eyed as if he expected them to do something other than just stand there.
Watching this, I pressed the button a few more times in quick succession.
While I tried unsuccessfully to raise someone on the phone, he rummaged in his canvas bag and pulled out a tall white taper candle. Yes, a white taper candle. The stranger – with emphasis on 'strange' – lit it with a lighter from his pocket.
"What are you doing?" I asked, uneasy.
"Holding him at bay," he answered simply.
Okay, it was established: I was stuck in an elevator with a Crazy Guy. I pressed the call-button with rapid-fire.