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Whatever the reason, guilt crashed over me. He was probably freaking out. He got me this phone so he could always get in touch. And now he can’t.
Something akin to dread worked its way up my legs to pool into my belly, making it feel bloated. The idea of Ben being upset was something I could not endure. I might not have all the memories of us he did, but one thing I knew so clearly: He cared about me. So much. Clutching the phone, I looked at the elevator. I could just ride up a couple floors, call him, and then come back down to finish my laundry. No one was down here, so it wasn’t like my clothes could get mixed up with anyone else’s. And there was no rule that said I had to stay here with my unmentionables as they washed.
Okay, maybe there was a sign that said DO NOT LEAVE CLOTHES UNATTENDED, but what were they gonna do, throw my clothes in the trash?
I couldn’t remember what they looked like anyway. And they were dirty.
Stuffing my phone in the kangaroo pocket on Ben’s hoodie (yes, I was still wearing it), I headed toward the elevator.
The heavy metal song blaring through the speakers suddenly cut out, making me glance up at the ceiling as I continued to move. Then the washing machines cut off midcycle.
The silence was abrupt, so astute that, suddenly, the well-lit, redone laundry room seemed exactly like the creepy basement.
I stopped walking, the silence skittering up my spine like the quick legs of a spider. I swiveled at the waist, looking over my shoulder toward the washing machines that were suddenly out of commission.
Slam! The large wooden door to the stairwell banged closed. I jolted so hard one of the crutches slipped from under me, the hollow clattering sound it made on the slate floor like a gunshot.
Heart palpitating and leaning heavily on just the one support, I stared at the heavy door that was completely shut and latched. How did it slam like that? We were in a windowless basement. There was no wind. No fan. The way it slammed so hard, it was as if someone pushed it.
But I was alone.
Wasn’t I?
“Hello?” I called out. My voice sounded small against the much larger silence in the room.
A sharp popping sound knocked me back. I hit the floor, and the lights cut out, plunging the room into darkness so inky I couldn’t see my hand when I held it up in front of my face.
Terror turned me cold, any warmth I had leeching out of my extremities faster than water placed in a subzero freezer. My heart, which had been pounding, slowed to a dull thud, each beat so heavy my ribs ached.
Pulling up the leg that was not broken, I bent the knee, wrapping my arm around it as I braced my free hand on the floor. This is nothing, I told myself. Just a power outage.
A power outage that slams doors.
Oh my God, if the power is out, the elevator won’t work.
I can’t walk up the stairs with a broken ankle.
I was trapped.
Breath wheezed between my lips as I grappled for the crutches lying nearby. I winced at the sound they made scraping over the floor. I listened acutely, hoping maybe the custodian of the building had just come down here for maintenance, not realizing I was here.
A faint sound made me freeze. My body ached with how still I forced it to remain.
Low voices on the other side of the door made me think someone was out there. Or coming down the stairs.
I opened my lips to call out, but something stopped me. Intuition? Paralyzing fear? Final girl energy?
Whatever it was, I heeded the warning and pressed my lips closed.
The sound of the knob on the door rattling made my stomach lurch. I glanced toward the other side of the room where I knew the vending machines sat but knew I’d never make it there. Thinking fast, I half crawled, half dragged myself over to the washing machine on the end, the one that had my first load of clothes inside.
The door creaked loudly, the hinges sounding old and rusty as the heavy door opened. I huddled around the side, hoping its size and the lack of light would keep me hidden.
Cautious scuffling footsteps stepped in. A dim beam of light swept the room. I wilted into the side of the machine, pushing my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of my gasping breaths.
Pulse hammering in my veins, I stared toward the space where I’d left my crutches. I should have dragged them with me, used them as weapons. The longer the person lingered, the harder my limbs shook, and the sensation of being stalked seemed to slither across the cold floor to coil around my ankles and slowly snake up my legs.
A horrible sense of déjà vu overwhelmed me, and I swallowed back a gag.
