I stood before the gleaming elevator doors, my palms slick with nervous sweat. My tie felt like a noose around my neck, constricting my breath as I prepared to step into the unknown. This job was my chance at a better future, a ticket out of mediocrity. As I entered the elevator alone, the scent of disinfectant mingled with my anxiety, filling the confined space.
Pressing the button for the twenty-third floor, I willed the elevator to transport me to my destination. The gentle hum of the machinery reverberated through the cabin, and with a soft ding, the doors began to close. My reflection in the polished metal surface revealed the tension etched upon my face. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The start-up to which I was applying already occupied the entire twenty-third floor and was anticipating more growth. Visions of vested stock options and private jets were difficult to suppress.
But as the elevator ascended, unease gnawed at my stomach. The golden numbers above the doors illuminated each passing floor—four, five, six—until, inexplicably, the doors opened to reveal a dimly lit hallway, shrouded in an eerie silence. Shadows danced upon the worn carpet, cast by a flickering fluorescent light overhead. I stepped out, the doors closing behind me, and glanced at the floor number. Fifteen stared back, mocking my confusion.
I hustled back inside the elevator just before the doors closed. I pressed the button for the twenty-third floor, my finger jabbing at the panel with a desperate hope. The elevator rumbled to life, carrying me upward, but my hopes shattered when the doors revealed yet another floor that was not my destination: Seventeen.
I repeated this cycle, but each time the doors opened, I found myself on a different floor. Eleven, eighteen, six, thirteen—the numbers merged into a blur of frustration. Sweat soaked my brow. The elevator had become a cruel game, taunting me with false promises.
With each failed attempt, my spirit dwindled. Trapped within this steel box, I had become lost, disconnected from the path I had set out on. The job that had once held such promise now felt like a distant illusion.
On the verge of tears, I stood there, defeated and ready to give up. But then, the elevator doors slid open again. This time, I hesitated, bracing myself for yet another disappointment. To my astonishment, I found myself standing in a bustling office space, bathed in warm light. The twenty-third floor.
Confusion gave way to relief as I took in the sight of busy employees, their focused energy permeating the air. A smile tugged at my lips as I realized the truth. The elevator had not been malfunctioning. It had been a meticulously designed test—a psychological trial to assess my resilience, adaptability, and determination.
I met my own eyes in the reflection of a mirrored wall, a mix of joy and newfound confidence filling my being. I had aced the test, proving my worthiness for the job I pursued. The elevator doors closed behind me, ushering me towards a future brimming with boundless possibilities.
But as I walked closer, something seemed off. The receptionist, an impeccably dressed woman, greeted me with a proper, closed-mouth smile. Her eyes, however, held a glint of something sinister. My optimism began to waver, a subtle unease creeping up my spine.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with insincerity. “There seems to have been a mistake. We weren’t expecting anyone by your name today.”
My heart sank. How could this be? I had passed the trial, proven my worthiness. But doubts gnawed at me as I glanced around the office. The bustling employees I had seen earlier now seemed distant, their smiles painted on, their movements mechanical.
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I aced your test, the elevator… I was supposed to be here.”
The receptionist’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of amusement and malice. “Oh, the elevator. A clever little game we play. But you see, it was never about the job, my dear. It was about testing your resilience, your determination. And you did indeed pass—quite admirably, I might add.”
I felt a chill run down my spine as her words hung in the air. The realization crashed over me like a tidal wave. The elevator trials had been a mere façade, an elaborate ruse to assess my character. They never intended to offer me the job.
“But why?” I managed to utter, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her smile widened, revealing an uneven row of yellowed teeth. “Because, my dear, we feed on hope. We thrive on shattered dreams and broken spirits. It sustains us, empowers us. And you, my dear, were the perfect prey.”
My mind reeled, struggling to comprehend the sinister truth. I had been nothing more than a pawn in their twisted game, my optimism a tool for their nourishment. The feeling of triumph that had once swelled within me now curdled into bitter despair.
As I turned to leave, desperate to escape this nightmarish charade, the once busy office seemed to warp and shift around me. The employees’ faces contorted into grotesque masks, their eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. Panic seized me, but I pushed through, my legs carrying me inside the elevator.
But the elevator, once my vessel of hope, now held no solace. Its doors refused to open, trapping me within its claustrophobic confines. Panic coursed through my veins as I pounded on the unyielding walls, pleading for escape.
And then, in a cruel twist of fate, the elevator jolted to life. It began to descend, hurtling downward at an alarming speed. My screams blended with the mechanical whirring, the descent into darkness a fitting metaphor for my shattered dreams.
The doors finally opened, revealing a desolate abyss. The receptionist’s distant laughter echoed through the empty void as I stepped out, my spirit broken, my optimism shattered. The elevator doors closed behind me, sealing my fate in a world devoid of hope.
In that moment, I understood the true horror of the elevator trials. They had lured me with the promise of success, only to strip away my dreams and leave me adrift in a world where optimism was nothing but a feeding ground for darkness.
What seemed like an eternity passed before the elevator doors opened again—spitting me out into the pitch-dark street, devoid of human life. I looked at my watch. It was 3 a.m.—countless hours after my appointment. I spun around, determined to confront the pathological techies pulling an all-nighter the 23rd floor—no doubt laughing about how cruelly they’d humiliated me.
But the skyscraper had vanished—there was no 23rd floor, no 1st floor. All that lay before me was a leafy park bisected by a curving concrete path upon which a skateboarder approached.
“What happened to the skyscraper that was here?” I asked him.
“This has been a park for one hundred years.”
“But I just spent all day going up and down on the elevator trying to get a job!”
“Get to rehab, tweaker,” the skateboarder taunted as he rumbled away.
Three days have now passed. I fear I will never again muster the courage to apply for a job. The very sight of an office tower makes me quiver and scream. The malevolent force that lured me up to the 23rd floor has broken my ambition. I have blocked Indeed, Linked In, Monster.com, Zip Recruiter and even craigslist, for god’s sake. I owe $100k on my student loans. My rent is overdue. I eat one meal a day—the Early Bird special at Red Lobster, with all the other retirees.
I spend the wee hours in the leafy park with my new buddy, the skateboarder. It’s the only way I can cope.