The Elevator

A Paranormal Horror Novella by Gaspar A. Hernandez

Prologue

7 days later

They don’t believe anything I’m saying. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t believe me either.

Sheila, in her late twenties, was lying propped up in her hospital bed. The painkillers weren’t working. Well, they were. But only for the bullet wound in her lower left side. Not for the deep, raggedly torn wounds around her crushed left collarbone.

Her cell phone buzzed. She looked at it. It was a text message from that guy “Ted”, from the dating site—again. What a jerk. She did not make the date last Friday night, stuck in that elevator. All week he had been accusing her of being a flake, but he still wanted to meet. Go figure, she thought. He was trying to come across as a tough and sexy guy. Yeah, right.

“And you expect us to believe all that?” the detective with an outdated mustache said. There were two of them, standing at the foot of her bed. Smirks plastered across their faces. She wished they had been there. They would have pissed their pants before dying.

“That’s what happened,” she stated frankly. It’s the fourth time. Same details. Exactly the same, she said to herself. They were looking for holes in her story. But it was all true.

They would never believe her. No matter how many times she repeated it without flaw. Who would? They would have had to have been inside that elevator. But if they had, they’d be gone. She didn’t even know why she was alive.

“There was blood on you from everyone inside that elevator,” said the other detective, who looked as if he had swallowed a huge doughnut that had settled around his midsection.

“Also blood from people that were not even in there,” said the detective with the bygone mustache. He looked and dressed as if he were still living in the 80s.

“There’s no way. What really happened?” asked detective doughboy.

“I already told you both the truth.”

“Sure—you’re lying. You had some part in it.”

“Right, I shot myself, tore up my shoulder and crushed my collarbone as a cover-up.” Her smart mouth and wise cracks had saved her. Her life had changed, so she didn’t care how they took it.

Sheila winced. The wounds were burning. Deep into her torso. Throbbing. They were infusing antibiotics into her. It wasn’t working.

The detectives stood silently. Not knowing what else to ask or say, their tongues were tied.

It was all incomprehensible. The aftermath. They couldn’t believe it. Accepting the story would make them sound like idiots.

“You know,” said detective 80s, “DNA tests found blood on you from a victim months ago. Who wasn’t even in that elevator—or in this city.”

Well, that’s not surprising, she thought.

“Imagine that,” she said.