Highbridge Rising | #ONC2024

Chapter Four- Fish Out Of Water

The smell hit me like a wall the moment Becky and I stepped onto the first floor of the fifteen-story building, a sickly amalgam of neglect and decay. As we navigated the winding corridor towards the elevators, we could hear baby tantrums and music bumping behind some of the occupied closed doors. A few even emitted a musty order that clung to the air like a suffocating shroud as we passed. It was the kind of smell that could make my arm hairs stand.

Normally, I'd offer some cliché about not judging a book by its cover, but as my gaze swept along the smudged walls, the forgotten relics of who-knows-what luring in the corners, cobwebbed wall lamps casting feeble light, I realized the reality was worse than the scent implied. The Suites, as I sarcastically dubbed them, owned this decaying monolith, showing no inclination to revive its dilapidated state as I stare at the same diarrhea-green linoleum flooring that looked as ancient as the building itself.

Lately, I've caught the Suites parading around, flaunting their wrinkle-free suits and stiff ties like peacocks, topped off with those absurd hard hats. As if donning them would actually make them willing to soil their hands with labor.

Rumors circulated about their alleged mission to breathe life into the ghostly realm of the sixteenth level, a desolate expanse only the brave would dare to tread. Tales of neighbors venturing into the eerie unoccupied floor gave me chills as I recalled gossip of people witnessing haunted objects thrown in the air.

I for one have ventured to the foreboding height, but not alone or in the dark for that matter. Yet, thus far, my observations have yielded no supernatural encounters which left me to believe it's been all talk. "You've gone up to level sixteen before, right?" I asked Becky, attempting to jog her memory. Her face illuminated by the glow of her phone as she was texting.

"Hell no, girl," she retorted, pocketing her device. "You, Kara, and Sammy did, like a bunch of loonies." Her hands mimicking the narrative as she recounted, "I'm not dumb. There's like, some serial killer ghost haunting that place. My grandma was younger at the time when all that murdering went down by the Level 16 Killer." With animated gestures she continued, "Even after the cops took him out, my nana swore his ghostly presence lingered, lurking in the shadows, ready to gut you like a fish." With a mischievous glint in her eye, she pantomimed wielding a knife, tracing a slicing motion across my stomach.

My eyes rolled involuntarily, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I listened to her colorful embellishment of the tale. Even I, with my penchant for the fantastical, couldn't quite buy into that one. Yet, her words stirred memories of our own reckless escapade, when the other girls and I had ventured up there like a pack of rambunctious hooligans. The sun peeking through a mural of bullet holes and broken windows, giving light to the scene before us. Yet all we encountered as we walked down the windy hall, were yellow caution tape, broken door handles, and remnants of squatters' presence strewn about in careless abandon.

"You've always been a scaredy-cat," I teased, playfully nudging her with my hip as we strolled down the hall.

"I ain't gonna be the first one to bite the dust," she shot back her tone resolute.

My brow quirked in amusement. "And what makes you so sure you'll be the first to go?" I chuckled, genuinely intrigued by her reasoning.

With each step, her high-waisted flared pants grazed the floor, creating a soft swishing sound as we moved. "I'm the only white girl in our group," she explained matter-of-factly, her town laced with a hint of humor. "And I've seen my fair share of scary movies."

A laugh escaped me, echoing down the corridor at her response. There was a grain of truth to her words: after all, horror movies had a tendency to dispatch either the hapless, clueless white girl or the star-crossed lovers first.

As the echoes of our laughter faded, a cacophony of voices erupted in the hallway, their tones sharp and discordant. We rounded the corner to find two men one clad in a suit the other just jeans and shirt with a tool belt around his waist. Their ostentatious white hats perched atop their heads, looming over the diminutive figure of little old Erma. The elderly woman stood her ground, her frail frame trembling slightly as she jabbed a bony finger accusingly at their chests.

"You ain't waltzing your fruity asses into my casa, homeboy," Erma declared, her words punctuated by a slight stutter.

One of the men let out an exasperated sigh, his demeanor exuding impatience. "Look, lady, we just need access to your pipes. They connect all the way up to the sixteenth floor," the man in jeans explained, his tone strained. With a resigned air, he removed his hat, revealing a glossy bald head that seemed to gleam under the dim lights. He wiped his arm across his forehead, brushing away beads of perspiration that had gathered there.

As we walked past them, I muttered, "Pez fuera del agua," likening their discomfort to a fish out of water. The men remained rooted in their positions, their indifference palpable, as if I were nothing more than a passing breeze.

"Si, necesitan regresar de donde vinieron," Erma retorted, her tired eyes piercing through the air before snapping back to the men. Despite her petite frame, her spirit blazed with the intensity of a wildfire fueled by her Latina heritage. She stood firm, a stalwart defender of her threshold, prepared to hold her ground until dawn if necessary.

Around us, doors along the hallway began to creak open, curious onlookers peering out with furtive glances to witness Erma's impassioned tirade.

Upon reaching the elevators, I jabbed at the button but even that proved futile. The metal doors groaned reluctantly, barely parting to allow us passage. With a grunt of effort, we manually forced them open, the archaic mechanism serving as a grim reminder of our outdated surroundings. Each push felt like a battle against time in the inevitable breakdowns that haunted us. The frustration boiled within me like a pot on the verge of tipping over, the relentless cycle of hardship and adversity becoming increasingly unbearable.

Stepping back from the now fully open death trap metal box, I turned to the ones responsible for this. "Hey! Why don't you make yourselves useful and fix our elevators!" I unleashed my pent-up fury at the bewildered men, their startled expressions finally acknowledging my presence, if only for a fleeting moment.

"Yeah, get us some elevators that play music!" Becky's voice chimed in from behind me, injecting a note of humor into the tense atmosphere.

Before I could muster a retort, another voice interjected, "And how about some proper lighting in this dump!" followed swiftly by, "Fix my damn toilet while you're at it!"

The chorus of grievance echoed through the hallway, a symphony of frustration from our wary community, mirroring the exhaustion I felt with every fiber of my being. The two men in hats soon departed leaving behind a happy Erma and the lingering scent of citrus and laundry detergent.

Walking into the lift, we each pressed the worn-out buttons corresponding to our respective floors, the elevator responded with a feeble flicker of light. It struggled to ascend, as if expending every ounce of energy to lift us from the depts of our dilapidated surroundings. But even that couldn't conceal the reality of our environment. Etched graffiti marred every surface of the claustrophobic chamber.

Becky's floor arrived first, the number four buzzing to life, lighting up at the top of the panel. The doors creaked open reluctantly, allowing her to step out onto her floor.

"Be safe. Don't do anything I wouldn't do at that party," I offered with a smirk, knowing full well that Becky had a penchant for troublemaking.

"No promises," she winked back at me mischievously. "Just gonna check on my grams before we leave. Maybe change into something scandalous, you know?"

A chuckle escaped me, acknowledging the playful nature of our banter.

With our final goodbyes exchanged, Becky waved as the doors slowly sealed shut behind her, taking their sweet time before finally latching shut. Asthe elevator lurched upward, I felt the familiar pull of ascent, propelling towardsmy next destination: the fifteenth floor.