by Tex Malone
Everyone agreed, even the most practical: the elevator in Building 7 was haunted. Every woman who rode it alone to the 7th floor was changed somehow. Male engineers inspected its mechanics but discovered nothing unusual. The elevator never made a recognizable sound—no hum, no ding—just a quietish sound a woman who heard it once described as sounding somewhat like a heavy sigh when the doors closed. All the women who rode it alone, both by choice and circumstantially, loved the babies they had. People stopped asking questions when those children reached their seventh birthdays—something was wrong, something terrible was happening, something organized and evil, but it was always better to mind your own business.
6S
Tex Malone writes under flickering lights in places not found on maps.
