The Elevator Etiquette

 

Spencer was the textbook definition of a musclehead — the kind of guy who thought his chiseled physique and self-absorbed charm put him above everyone else. His life revolved around a strict cycle: hit the gym, clean up, show off at the local nightclub, and if the stars aligned, bring home a girl to his apartment.

That night, the same routine repeated itself. After his usual post-gym grooming ritual, Spencer prowled the dimly lit club, scanning the crowd for his next conquest. But tonight, nothing — no one caught his attention. Disappointed, he decided to call it a night.

The air outside was unusually still as he walked back to his aging apartment block. The flickering fluorescent lights in the lobby greeted him like old, tired friends. But something felt... off.

Standing by the elevator was a little boy.

Skinny, long black hair falling messily over his face, the boy stood motionless, his head slightly bowed, hands resting on the elevator door frame. His posture, though childlike, felt unnatural — too stiff, too quiet for a kid.

Spencer’s instincts prickled. Pretending not to notice, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his empty notifications, feigning distraction. But the boy remained there, holding the elevator doors open, waiting for him.

Spencer shifted his weight, letting out a forced sigh as if he’d forgotten something in his car, and turned to leave. As he walked away, he finally heard the soft ding of the elevator doors closing behind him. The display blinked as the elevator moved upward.

A wave of relief washed over him.

A few days later, the boy appeared again. This time at the abandoned park near the apartment, sitting alone on a rusty swing set. The swing creaked with each gentle breeze, but the boy didn’t move. His head was tilted downward, his mouth moving as though whispering something to himself.

Spencer couldn’t hear the words — only soft, broken sounds, like someone stuck between breathing and crying. Goosebumps crawled across his skin, and without a second thought, he made his way straight to the apartment lobby.

At the elevator, as the doors were about to close, a frail voice whispered, "Wait..."

Spencer's stomach turned. The boy stood there again, reaching out a pale hand, barely able to hold it up. Instinct took over, and Spencer jabbed the close button repeatedly, heart hammering in his chest. The doors finally sealed, and the elevator rumbled upward. He exhaled only when the numbers blinked past his floor.

Weeks went by, and the boy became a common sight, haunting the apartment grounds at odd hours. But the fear gradually eroded into irritation. One evening, Spencer overheard gossip — the boy wasn’t a ghost at all, but the mentally unstable child of a new neighbor. The residents traded grim theories: some said he was possessed, others claimed he'd been spotted talking to "things" no one else could see. Children avoided him entirely.

For Spencer, the boy became little more than a creepy but harmless fixture of the building.

Until one night.

Spencer returned home alone, another fruitless hunt at the club. As the elevator doors slid open, he stepped inside — and there he was. The boy, standing in the corner, silent, staring at the wall.

Annoyed, Spencer leaned against the side panel, arms crossed, drumming his fingers on his bicep. He glanced at the floor display, counting the seconds until the doors would close and his night would be over.

That’s when he saw her.

A woman, walking gracefully toward the elevator from the lobby entrance. She wasn’t just beautiful — she was magnetic. A vision of curves, long legs, and an air of dangerous allure wrapped in a blood-red dress.

Without thinking, Spencer whistled softly and pressed the open button, holding the door for her.

But before the woman could step inside, the boy moved.

Suddenly gripping Spencer's wrist, his frail fingers tightened like iron clamps. His head jerked up, and for the first time, Spencer saw his face — pale, sickly, and horrified. The boy's mouth trembled as he muttered, barely forming words, just strained, panicked sounds:

"Argh... argh... don't..."

But the spell of the approaching woman was too strong. Spencer shook him off, shoving him backward. The boy stumbled but lunged forward again, grabbing onto Spencer's shirt, his voice cracking with desperation.

With a burst of frustration, Spencer flung the boy out of the elevator. The boy landed hard on the lobby floor, groaning, and as his head turned, his eyes locked with the woman’s.

She met his stare — and smirked.

When she stepped into the elevator, the doors began to close, sealing Spencer in with her. The air grew colder. The fluorescent lights above flickered, then dimmed, leaving the pair bathed in a sickly, unnatural glow.

As the elevator ascended, Spencer turned to her, feeling both giddy and uneasy. She leaned in, her voice a seductive whisper, but her breath felt like ice brushing his ear.

"I’ll bring you to a place you’ll never want to leave."

The moment she spoke those words, the lights snapped off. The elevator kept moving, yet the floor indicator glitched, flashing symbols and question marks. Spencer’s smile faded. His chest tightened. Fear flooded his senses, washing away every trace of his ego. Something moved in the darkness — something behind her, or perhaps within her.

The next morning, the building was buzzing.

A man had been found dead inside the elevator, his body slumped against the panel. The cause: heart attack. But the paramedics couldn’t explain the look on his face — twisted, mouth open wide as if mid-scream, eyes bulging, frozen in unthinkable terror.

The CCTV footage only deepened the mystery. Spencer had entered the elevator alone. He’d smiled, checked his hair in the mirrored walls, then... his face dropped. He gasped, stumbled back, and died. The cameras captured no one else.

Ever since that night, the elevator had become unreliable. At night, tenants reported the doors opening on their own. Sometimes, the elevator would move to a floor that didn’t exist — the display flickering '???' before returning to the lobby. And strangely, during daylight hours, no matter how many repairs were done, the elevator would simply refuse to function at all.

And the skinny boy?

That night, after the body was removed, he sat back on his favorite swing, gently rocking under the moonlight. His long hair still masking his face, he let out a soft sigh and muttered to no one in particular:

"Another one bites the dust."

Sometimes, what you expect isn’t what it seems. Remember to be kind — perhaps your small action might save you one day.