Trapped in the Sky

Trapped in the Sky - Linden Harroway - Written Summer 2023

I was never good with heights. The thought of being hundreds of feet above the ground made my stomach churn, my palms slick with sweat. But when my company sent me to Dubai for a conference, I couldn’t say no. The Burj Khalifa loomed over the city like a needle piercing the sky, and I was supposed to meet a client on the 148th floor. The elevator ride was just a means to an end. I didn’t expect it to become my personal descent into hell.

 

The elevator was sleek, all glass and chrome, with a digital display ticking off floors like a countdown. I stepped in alone that evening, the conference having run late. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, and the cabin began its ascent. The city sprawled below, lights twinkling like stars, but I kept my eyes on the floor. I didn’t need to see how high I was. The elevator hummed, smooth and steady, until it hit floor 72.

 

Then it stopped.

 

Not slowed. Stopped. A jolt so sharp it threw me against the wall, my briefcase slamming into my shin. The lights flickered, and the digital display froze, glowing a sickly red. I pressed the call button, expecting a voice, an explanation, something. Nothing. Just static crackling through the speaker. I jabbed it again, harder, my heart starting to thud.

 

"Hello? Anyone there? The elevator’s stuck!" My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the silence.

 

No response. I tried the emergency button, the floor buttons, even the door-open button, mashing them in a panic. The elevator didn’t budge. I was trapped, suspended in a glass coffin 72 floors above Dubai.

 

I pulled out my phone. No signal. Of course. The Burj Khalifa was a fortress of steel and concrete, a dead zone for cell service this high up. I banged on the glass walls, shouting for help, but the hallway beyond was dark, empty. The conference had ended hours ago. Most people were gone.

 

That’s when I heard it. A low, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. It wasn’t coming from the machinery. It was too organic, too alive. It pulsed through the walls, vibrating in my chest. I froze, my breath hitching. The sound grew louder, faster, until it felt like the elevator itself was breathing.

 

"Who’s there?" I called, my voice cracking. I didn’t expect an answer. I didn’t want one.

 

The lights flickered again, and when they steadied, the glass walls weren’t reflecting the city anymore. The view outside was gone, replaced by a murky, swirling darkness, like ink spilled in water. I stumbled back, my shoulder hitting the control panel. The thumping stopped, and in its place came a whisper. Not words, not yet, just a hiss, like air escaping a punctured tire. It slithered through the elevator, circling me.

 

I’m not a religious man, but I started praying then, muttering half-remembered words from childhood. The whispering grew louder, forming syllables, then words. My name. "Daniel... Daniel..." Over and over, soft and insistent, like a lover calling me to bed.

 

I clapped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t help. The voice was inside my head now, burrowing deep. I sank to the floor, curling into a ball, my briefcase clutched to my chest like a shield. The air grew thick, heavy with the smell of damp earth and something sharper, metallic. Blood.

 

The elevator lurched again, dropping a few feet before catching itself. I screamed, scrambling to my feet. The digital display flickered, the numbers changing, but not to floors. They were random, chaotic: 666, 13, 4, flashing in no pattern I could understand. The whispering stopped, and the thumping returned, louder, closer. It wasn’t a heartbeat anymore. It was footsteps.

 

I pounded on the doors. "Let me out! Please, someone, let me out!"

 

The footsteps stopped. Silence, thick and suffocating. Then, a new sound: scratching. Slow, deliberate, like nails dragging across metal. It came from above, from the ceiling panel. I looked up, my neck stiff with dread. The panel was shifting, inching open.

 

I didn’t think. I grabbed my briefcase and swung it at the panel, slamming it shut. The scratching stopped, but only for a moment. It started again, faster, angrier. The panel buckled, screws popping loose. Something was trying to get in.

 

"Stop it!" I shouted, swinging the briefcase again. "Leave me alone!"

 

The panel flew open, and a hand reached through. Not human. Too long, too thin, the fingers tipped with claws that gleamed like polished bone. I screamed, dropping the briefcase, and stumbled back. The hand groped blindly, scraping the walls, leaving deep gouges in the chrome.

 

I pressed myself against the glass, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst. The darkness outside pulsed, and I swore I saw shapes moving in it, faces pressing against the glass, their eyes hollow, their mouths stretched wide. The hand withdrew, and the panel slammed shut, but the scratching didn’t stop. It was everywhere now, above, below, behind the walls.

 

I slid to the floor, sobbing. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"

 

The whispering returned, louder, clearer. "Stay... with us... Daniel..."

 

"No!" I screamed, kicking at the air. "I’m not staying! I’m getting out!"

 

The elevator shook, a violent tremor that knocked me flat. The lights went out, plunging me into darkness. The only sound was my own ragged breathing and the faint, wet slither of something moving closer. I fumbled for my phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, and I wished it hadn’t.

 

The walls were bleeding. Thick, dark liquid oozed from the seams, pooling on the floor. It wasn’t blood. It was too black, too viscous, like tar. And it was moving, crawling toward me, forming tendrils that reached for my legs. I scrambled back, my shoes slipping in the muck. The air was freezing now, my breath visible in the dim light.

 

"Help me!" I screamed, banging on the doors. "Someone, please!"

 

The tar-like substance touched my ankle, and pain seared through me, sharp and electric. I kicked it away, but it clung to my skin, burning, burrowing. I clawed at it, my fingers coming away sticky and raw. The whispering grew into a chorus, a dozen voices, a hundred, all chanting my name.

 

I was going to die here. I knew it. The elevator was no longer just a machine. It was alive, hungry, and it wanted me.

 

Then, a new sound: a chime. The elevator doors slid open.

 

I didn’t hesitate. I lunged forward, expecting freedom, but what I saw stopped me cold. The hallway wasn’t there. Instead, I was staring into a void, a vast, endless darkness that pulsed with the same rhythm as the thumping. Shapes moved in it, humanoid but wrong, their limbs too long, their heads twitching at unnatural angles. They reached for me, their claws glinting.

 

I threw myself back, slamming into the control panel. The doors stayed open, and the things in the void began to crawl through, their bodies slick and glistening, like they’d been born from the tar on the floor. I grabbed my briefcase and swung it, hitting one of them. It hissed, a sound that made my skin crawl, but it didn’t stop. Nothing could stop them.

 

"Get back!" I shouted, swinging again. "Stay away from me!"

 

One of them spoke, its voice a wet rasp. "You can’t leave, Daniel. You belong here."

 

"No!" I backed into the corner, the tar pooling around my feet, climbing my legs. The creatures advanced, their eyes glowing faintly, like embers in a dying fire. I was trapped, no way out, no hope.

 

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. Human. "Hey! You in there? Hold on!"

 

I blinked, disoriented. The creatures froze, their heads tilting as if listening. The voice came again, muffled but real. "We’re getting you out! Just stay calm!"

 

The tar receded, the creatures retreating into the void. The doors began to close, but not before one of them lunged, its claws grazing my arm. Pain exploded, hot and sharp, but the doors sealed shut, cutting it off. The elevator lurched upward, the lights flickering back on. The digital display reset, showing floor 73.

 

I collapsed, clutching my arm. Blood seeped through my sleeve, but I was alive. The thumping was gone, the whispering silenced. The elevator felt normal again, sterile and cold. But I knew better. Whatever had been here wasn’t gone. It was waiting.

 

The doors opened on the 148th floor, and two security guards stood there, their faces pale. "You okay, sir?" one asked, his voice shaky. "We got a call about a stuck elevator, but the system said it was moving fine."

 

I couldn’t speak. I stumbled out, my legs barely holding me up. The guards caught me, their hands warm, human. "What happened in there?" the other guard asked, eyeing the blood on my arm.

 

I shook my head, unable to form words. How could I explain the void, the creatures, the tar? They’d think I was crazy. Maybe I was.

 

They took me to a medical station, bandaged my arm, and asked questions I couldn’t answer. I kept my mouth shut, my mind replaying the horror. The wound on my arm wasn’t deep, but it burned, a constant reminder of what I’d seen. What I’d felt.

 

That night, in my hotel room, I couldn’t sleep. Every sound made me jump, every shadow seemed alive. I kept the lights on, my back against the wall. Around 3 a.m., I heard it again. The thumping. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. It was coming from the ceiling.

 

I grabbed my phone, ready to call for help, but the screen flickered, and the wallpaper changed. It was a photo I hadn’t taken: me, in the elevator, surrounded by those creatures, their claws inches from my face. My own expression was blank, my eyes empty, like I was already one of them.

 

I dropped the phone, my hands shaking. The thumping grew louder, closer. I backed toward the door, but before I could reach it, the lights went out. The whispering started again, my name echoing in the dark.

 

"Daniel... stay with us..."

 

I ran, barefoot, down the hotel hallway, pounding on doors, screaming for help. People opened their doors, staring at me like I was unhinged. Maybe I was. But I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t go back to the Burj Khalifa. I couldn’t trust any elevator, any enclosed space.

 

I left Dubai the next day, quitting my job via email. I didn’t care about the consequences. I just needed to be grounded, to feel the earth beneath my feet. But even now, months later, I hear it sometimes. The thumping. The whispering. It’s faint, but it’s there, in the walls, in my dreams.

 

And my arm? The wound never healed. It festers, black and oozing, no matter what doctors do. They don’t understand it. They can’t. But I know what it is. It’s a mark. A claim. Whatever was in that elevator isn’t done with me. It’s waiting, patient, knowing I can’t escape forever.

 

I avoid elevators now. I take the stairs, no matter how many floors. But sometimes, late at night, I feel it. The pull. The void, calling me back. And I wonder if one day, I’ll step into another elevator, and this time, the doors won’t open.

 

I wonder if I’m already trapped.

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