In an attempt to get my butt moving on my “The Conjuring” review, I decided to write some horror fiction this week. It’s not really as scary. But I’m hoping this gets my writing moving…
This has partial basis in reality.
The elevator has been stopping on the 11th floor for months now.
It doesn’t stop for long; it always moves on after a few seconds. It stops long enough someone to get on or disembark. But no one does. No one lives on the 11th floor.
We don’t know why it does that, and we’re not sure why it hasn’t stopped even after we got the repairmen to try and fix it five times over the last three months. There would be times when we’d have no choice but to climb up the dark, dusty stairwells of the building (more often than not, though, we’d wait for a guard to manually control the elevator; even then it stops at the 11th). When we use the stairs, we’d always have this sense of claustrophobic foreboding. Like someone is pushing the walls towards us. Like someone is lifting the stairs, making it steeper.
This usually happens when we get close to the 11th floor.
We asked the head guard about it, but he said he didn’t really notice these things. He just promises that the management is working hard to fix the issues in the elevator.
I, for one, hope that they finish fixing it soon. Last week, I started to see people in the elevator mirrors; they’re getting on and disembarking at the 11th floor. There always seems to be 11 of them inside, at any given time. They’re always in there, pretty much.
I tried to avoid it, you know. Last Thursday, I took the stairs; I told the guards that I’m trying to lose weight. But there were people on the 11th landing, standing there, watching me climb. They all looked so proud of me and I don’t know why they were all looking at me like that, but I avoided their eyes as I squeeze past them. They weren’t cold, like I expected. They didn’t feel like anything at all. They only smelled like old books and dust and, for some reason, roasted pig.
Today, I walked out of the elevator into the 11th floor. I’ve been stuck here for hours. The buttons don’t work. The door to the stairwell is locked, and so are the windows. My phone, from which I’m typing this, is running low on battery–as it is, I’m actually surprised that I have Internet access here; I don’t have enough cellular signal to call my family upstairs. I have my charger in my bag, and pretty soon I’m going to have to break into one of the condominium units to use a socket. I get the feeling that none of those doors are locked to me.
I smell roast pig and old books and dust. Somewhere down the hall is a little girl’s voice: “When will we have sister for dinner?”
If anyone on Tower 1 Island Villas Quezon City is reading this, PLEASE HELP ME.