John was late. The kind of late where every second felt like it scraped another layer off your sanity. His meeting was on the forty-second floor, and the lobby clock had already mocked him with a bright red 9:58 when he walked in. The elevator doors were just closing, so he lunged, sliding his hand in to trigger the sensor.
The doors parted reluctantly, like they resented his intrusion. Inside, the elevator was nearly empty—only a faint buzz from the fluorescent strip above and the smell of metal, oil, and faint cleaning chemicals. The brushed steel walls were spotless except for the smudges where countless fingers had tapped the buttons. He stepped in, hit 42, and the doors closed with a soft sigh. Alone. Or so he thought. The ride was smooth at first, the hum of machinery a steady background. His mind drifted to his presentation slides, the half-drunk coffee sitting on his desk, the sweat under his collar. Somewhere around the fifteenth floor, the elevator gave a low groan, like an animal shifting in its sleep. Then—
JOLT.
The car jerked violently and stopped dead.
John grabbed the railing to keep from falling. The lights flickered twice, buzzing loudly, before holding steady but dimmer than before. The air felt heavier, close. He pushed the emergency button.
Nothing. No static, no voice—just dead silence.
“Hello?”
He called out, as if someone outside might hear him. Only then did he notice the sound. A wet, deliberate gurgle. It wasn’t the sound of pipes or machinery. It was human—or close enough to human that his skin prickled. Slow, bubbling breaths, like someone trying to swallow thick liquid. He turned his head sharply.
The corner opposite him, one that had been empty when he entered was now occupied. A figure hunched there, face hidden beneath a dark, sagging hood. They clutched something in their hand. A long blade, its edge catching the light in jagged flashes. The knife dripped. A dark puddle was spreading across the floor beneath them, thick and red, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood. John’s stomach knotted.
“What the hell—”
The hooded figure lifted their head just enough for him to glimpse a sliver of pale, mottled skin, lips dark and cracked. When they spoke, their voice was shredded, each word dragged over broken glass.
“You’re next.”
The lights flickered again. John’s breath caught in his throat. His fight-or-flight response screamed for flight, but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped in a steel box with this thing. The figure straightened slowly, in no rush, like they had all the time in the world. The knife gleamed, dripping more as they took a single step toward him. John slammed the emergency button again. Then all the buttons. Nothing responded. The elevator remained still, the silence between the flickers filled with that awful gurgling breath.
“Stay back,”
John warned, his voice shaking more than he wanted. The figure tilted their head like an owl, unnatural and jerky, then lunged forward and the lights cut out entirely. Darkness swallowed him whole. The sound of their shoes wet slaps against the steel floor closed the distance fast. John’s heart hammered so hard it felt like it was shaking his ribs. He threw himself to the side, hitting the cold wall, hands scrambling for anything to defend himself. His palm smacked the railing just as something sharp grazed his shirt, slicing fabric and skin beneath. He gasped. The smell of iron was immediate. Somewhere to his left, a ragged whisper:
“Don’t run. Nowhere to go.”
A sudden clang—knife hitting metal—made him flinch. His foot hit the puddle, nearly sending him down. He pressed against the far wall, trying to track their position in the dark by sound alone. Then came the worst sound yet. A low chuckle. Wet. Gurgling.
The lights snapped on for a heartbeat long enough for him to see the figure inches away, arm raised. The knife’s blade was jagged, broken at the tip, and caked with gore. The lights died again. Pain exploded in his chest. The air was knocked out of him, and he fell to his knees, clutching himself. Warm liquid poured between his fingers. The figure’s breath was right above him now. Slow. Savoring. He tried to speak, but the blood filling his throat turned it into a choke.
Another flash of light—his own reflection in the steel wall, pale and wide-eyed, the hooded figure’s shadow looming behind. Then darkness. The crunch came next. Not bone snapping in one clean break. No—this was wet, messy, like something being chewed. John’s scream ripped out, high and desperate, but cut off mid-breath. His knees hit the floor fully. Something hot spilled down his neck. The knife clattered to the ground, useless now that they had what they wanted.
For a few long seconds, the only sound was chewing. Then, silence. When the elevator doors finally slid open minutes later, the car was empty. No John. No hooded figure. Only a single red smear dragged up the wall, ending in a drip on the floor.
