Bloody gristle covered the man’s countenance from forehead to chin. It looked as though the man had fed his features to the churning blades of a blender. There were no eyes to guide him, only swirled pools of congealed blood, yet he continued in a straight path toward Lance’s position, pausing only to turn an invisible doorknob.
A black hole opened where the man’s mouth should’ve been, and choked words spilled out in his father’s voice. “It’s the end, boy. Just drive yourself into a pole or slit a wrist. There’s nothing left for you.” The sliding steps were getting closer. “Or wait just a minute right there, and I’ll help you.” The man’s hands came up and reached yearningly toward Lance’s throat.
The doors behind Lance slid open and he fell onto the floor of the elevator. The shuffling monstrosity still approached, just a few yards from the threshold. Lance sat up and stabbed the button marked Lobby hard enough to send a jolt of pain through his wrist. The featureless figure moved closer, and at the last second the doors closed slow enough to cause Lance to slide to the back of the car and shut his eyes.
The unmistakable feeling of dropping filled his stomach, and he opened his eyes to the sealed doors of the car. His held breath rushed out of him in a hollow wheeze, and he watched the lights of the car nearly fade to darkness. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard to keep unconsciousness from claiming him and tried to stand. His stomach felt as if it might push everything out onto the floor of the elevator, but he forced the nausea away as the doors opened to the sound of running feet, and he stepped out into the hallway.
Lance pulled the door of the Land Rover closed and sat back in the seat, his eyes closed, his fists clenched in his lap. The air within the car felt thick around him, like liquid. The storm had fully arrived, and thunder rolled continuously overhead, sounding like a boulder caught in a tumbling barrel.
A swarm of nurses had met him as he rounded the last corner before the waiting room, most pushing past him without a second look. Only the mousy receptionist questioned him as he tried to glide past the desk unnoticed.
“What happened?” she had called from behind the Plexiglas.
Lance turned, furious at the sneering, accusatory look on her narrow features. “She killed herself,” he said, and kept walking even after her shrill voice yelled for him to stop several times.
A soft beep issued from near his right hand, and he looked down at the dark display of his phone. Someone had called while he was inside. He nearly left the phone where it was, but he wondered if it had been Mary. He hadn’t called her like he’d promised. He picked up the phone off the seat beside him and flipped it on.
Several numbers peppered the screen, listing the people that had called him. Mary’s number was first, and then Andy’s. The last number made him falter. He thumbed the screen to see if a message had been left. There had. Holding the phone to his ear, he waited, listening to the silence before the message began.