Elevators- part 2

again, i'm unsure of the direction my story's gonna take here. I'm just making it up as i go. its more like peering into a fog, knowing where the destination is, not the way there however.

The elevator came to a lurching stop at what seemed, impossibly, to be the 13th floor. John felt his world spin around him, but then for a second, sanity gained a foothold. Maybe there was a problem with the display, it was just showing the wrong number. Maybe it was just the 12th floor after all. And so he waited with bated breath, as the elevator steadied itself and the door began to slide open..

It was dark. Pitch black. Not a sound. Yet there was a heaviness in the air that was palpable. The place was rank of a a deathly stillness. Maybe he was in the lift maintenance room or something like that. That would explain the extra floor. Then, just as if to rob him of his assuring conclusions, there was a slight rustle followed by the sound of something dropping. He snapped his head in that direction. Then it was followed by another rustle, and it about a second the whole place came alive with a flurry of invisible activity. John hastened to press the button to shut the door, but the door wouldn't budge. He took out his lighter, and tried to flick it on, trying to see where he was. With a snap the light jumped to life and he beheld the floor.

At first he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but when he looked down, he staggered backwards in shock. The whole floor was flooded with rats, rats of all sizes, all equally aggressive and all of them making a beeline for the elevator. Red eyes and a deafening collective squeal rising from their midst. Bug-eyed, he pressed the button again, and this time the doors slowly made their way shut, but not before two of the rats quickly jumped in with him. He looked at them for a second, then blindly tried to stomp them, all the while spasming from disgust. He never even realized the lift was making its way down on its own. His mind was consumed by the rats.

John Hanks had always had a deep-seated phobia of rats.

He stomped the two rats until they moved no more. Then, right in front of his eyes, they disintegrated to a white powder and blew away into oblivion. He didn't know what was happening, but he was sure he was losing his grip on reason. The elevator stopped at floor 6, which he then noticed for the first time. Glad that he was back again on a floor where he knew people were still there, almost bursting with relief, he bolted out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, searching for the first person he could find and tell him what had happened. But the entire floor was devoid of people. All he found was empty room after empty room. Then suddenly he yelped, and clutched the nearest door frame.

The entire ground beneath his feet had vanished, and he seemed to be floating in air. He was high, high up and he couldn't make head or tail of his situation.

He was gripped by a sudden wave of nausea; he didn't float miles high in the air on a daily basis. He vomited violently, but funnily, the salesman in him asserted itself even at that odd moment, and he made sure the vomit stayed clear of his shirt. The absurdity of his action startled and he burst out in laughter. Not the robust, joyous laughter, but the laughter of deranged mind, beset with terror. He rocked on his heels, still steadily standing on nothing and let the laughter ebb, letting it all out.

Still holding onto any frame he could reach, he slowly made his way back to the elevator. Something told him that like the last time, he would find refuge there. Just as he neared the doors however, he felt gravity making a magical reappearance. But it was building up slowly, his legs slowly beginning to sag from under him. He made desperate dash to safety, legs feeling like they were in quicksand. Just as he felt everything give way under way, he had miraculously made to the asylum of those four enclosed walls of the elevator, he hurriedly pressed the 'close door' button and by now having a faint idea of what would happen, waited for it to happen. And just like that, the elevator now made its way to the basement floor, the deepest and darkest level. John had always known what his fears were, heights and rats were two of three. Some part of him had silently accepted the surreality of the situation, and-would you believe it-was actually predicting what the basement would hold. His third and deepest fear...

The man who smiles

ever since I remember, I've been afraid of clowns. even as a kid who went to the circus with his grandpa, i used to secretly dread their coming. i dunno, at some level i always thought the smile on their masks hid something sinister. still do. put simply, i don't like them. Victor Alves' 'Clownhouse' has done nothing to allay my fears...anyways...

Lights explode on the insides of his eyes,

People cheer and jeer in equal measure.

Perverted enjoyment from his pathetic cries,

He is a freak he is, the man who smiles.

There's his story to tell, if someone lends an ear,

A sordid life of one who makes masses laugh.

A frustrated mind stuck neither there nor here,

He is a mess he is, the man who smiles.

All the years he'd bottled up, come tumbling out,

Darkest of secrets the world must not know.

He has hid behind the painted mask too long, no doubt,

He's on edge he is, the man who smiles.

None know where his family vanished in that night of rain,

The night the monster in him gained full control.

He is sharpening the same old knife once again,

He is awaking he is, the man who smiles.

He's calling you to him, an innocent question to ask,

You follow him, assured by the bright colors to follow,

Till he's upon you, the knife and the twisted mask,

He is alive now he is, the man who smiles.

Elevators- part 1

i mean, they're just elevators aren't they? they go up, they go down, mindless messengers. but what if they weren't? p.s. all the places mentioned in the 2nd para are related to Stephen King's life. Little dedic ;)...

John Hanks was a salesman. Pretty dry introduction to a man I know, but then again, there weren't all that many dimensions to John. His job was pretty much his life, and his family understood. That was the thing about being a travelling salesman. It consumed you, it'd make you its slave. Most of the year spent going from one unfamiliar place to another, till you eventually never know where you actually belong.

But he had memories from almost all of them. The man in the motel room beside him in De Pere, Wisconsin who sang sinister and sordid rhymes till late into the night. The receptionist in the office at Fort Wayne, Indiana who used to take frequent breaks to inject herself with juice to make it through the day. John had noticed the needles. The toilet cubicle in Stratford, Connecticut which read, 'I saw Jim Morrison at Woodstock and I liked it!', accompanied by a very graphic and lewd drawing of an excited male reproductive organ. And the pair of stern father and timid girl he had seen at a bus stop in Portland, Maine once. He held her in a very peculiar and unsettling way, and she was evidently very uncomfortable but dared not utter a word. His gaze seemed to quell and threaten her at once. John could sense something amoral at foot.

But these were nothing more than imprints on his endlessly gray mind, the pattering of certain distinguishable moments from a sea of sameness. He would be taking none of this to his grave, no souvenir, no memory of his pointless life. He was just another number. Or so he thought, until that fateful day in Bangor, Maine on the evening of 19th June, 1984.

It was his call at The Transatlantic Food Packaging Company, on that day. He had a 6 'o clock appointment with the sales manager. John basically worked for a polythene production company who had patented a new variant of the substance and wanted to market it. That's where John and his trips to companies all over the country came into the picture. And so here he was, meeting the manager, a pleasant fellow to talk with, but one who wouldn't buy his pitch one bit. And so John there soon, another refusal on his record. He took the elevator from the 8th floor office to the ground, mind occupied with thoughts of his future if his luck with his sales didn't change. That was when the elevator suddenly ground to a halt midway, lights flickering. He groaned and cursed silently, pressing buttons futilely. The little box wouldn't budge. He leaned onto one side and sighed. Slid down and sat on the floor, casting his briefcase aside. The last thing he wanted was to be bored to death in a stuck elevator. Of course, that was never going to happen.

A minute passed. Then two. John had started dozing off already, when he heard something. He snapped up to listen carefully. It sounded like a low gurgle, like someone trying to say something underwater. Then he heard low murmurs, whispers. He could not make out what they were saying, but the tone was secretive and ominous. Then again the gurgling sound, a note of desperation creeping into it this time, more intense this time. Then again, more whispering, slightly louder this time. He caught a snippet or two.

'-that should do it?'

'Yeah that should take care of it'

'HEY!! HELP ME!! I'm trapped in here!!' John yelled as loud as he could. He didn't care who the voices belonged to, if they could help him out of here, that was all he wanted from them. The whispering stopped suddenly, and an unnervingly long silence followed. Just as John began wondering what was happening, the elevator suddenly sprung to life, but started going upwards. John sighed with relief. Now he could thank those voices for helping him and make his way to his motel room, where his warm bed awaited him.

The elevator kept climbing. 5,6,7,8,9,10...the building had 12 floors. It reached 12 and John wondered how he'd been able to hear whispers from the top floor. Then something happened that numbed him with shock and terror and suddenly he wondered if he were in a bad dream. The panel to his right had buttons for 12 floors, and he knew the building had only 12 floors.

The elevator had just gone past 12 and the little LCD display over the door softly glowed.

With the number 13...