But Leo was late. His phone battery was dead, his tie was askew, and his prospects for the Acme Corp account were dwindling by the second. The stairs were twelve floors of pure spite. The elevator, however, was right there. The doors were slightly ajar, the interior light a sickly, jaundiced yellow.
He pried the doors open with his fingers. The car was there, thank God. He stepped in, punched "12," and held his breath. But Leo was late
Leo pressed himself against the rear wall, his mouth dry as ash. He didn't want to see what made a noise like that. A noise that wasn't metal, wasn't bone, but something in between. A noise that had no business existing in a world of verbs and nouns. The elevator, however, was right there
It wasn't a screech. It wasn't a clang. It was skrbt —a short, dry, granular sound, like grinding peanut shells mixed with gravel and regret. The elevator jerked, stopped, and went dark. The car was there, thank God
Leo’s first thought was cell phone . Dead. His second thought was panic button . He stabbed it. Nothing. He yelled. His voice didn't echo; it was swallowed by the thick, velvet-lined walls.
Something was trying to get in .
The hatch opened.