The Elevator Anthology – Part IV
The voice had changed.
Martin noticed it on a Tuesday morning, waiting for the lift to descend from the ninth floor. The usual automated tone—that pleasant, genderless computer voice—had been replaced by something softer. More human. A woman’s voice, he thought, though he couldn’t be certain.
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
He stepped back automatically, letting Mrs. Okonkwo from 7C exit with her shopping trolley. She didn’t seem to notice anything odd. Martin pressed the button for the ground floor and tried to shake the feeling that he’d heard that voice before.
By Thursday, he’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined it. The building was old—1960s brutalist converted to flats five years ago—and the lift had always been temperamental. Slow. Given to stopping between floors with a mechanical groan that suggested decades of resentment. A voice update seemed overdue.
He hadn’t seen Sarah from 4B in a while, though. The one who always took the lift at eight-fifteen, same as him. Headphones in, reusable coffee cup, that slightly harried expression of someone perpetually five minutes late. Her absence left a gap in his morning routine he couldn’t quite articulate.
The voice did sound a bit like her.
The lift had been fine for three days. Martin had started using the stairs anyway—good exercise, he told himself, though the truth sat heavier in his chest each morning. The voice. Sarah’s absence. The coincidence that wasn’t quite coincidental enough.
On Sunday evening, returning from the corner shop with milk and bread, he pressed the call button without thinking. His knees ached. It was only six floors.
The doors opened. Empty.
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
A man’s voice this time, with a Welsh lilt that made Martin’s stomach drop. He knew that voice. Mr. Davies. 12A. Retired teacher who’d lived in the building since it opened, who’d corner you in the lobby with stories about when this place had been offices, before the conversion.
Martin hadn’t seen him in weeks.
The doors began to close.
“Wait—Mr. Davies?”
The lift stopped. Not gradual but a violent jerk that rattled the cables in their housing. The doors froze half-closed, then snapped open. Shut. Open. Shut. The light overhead flickered in rhythm with the spasming doors, casting strobing shadows across the empty corridor.
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
The voice cracked on ‘please.’ Mr. Davies’s accent twisted the standard warning until it sounded like a prayer.
Martin stumbled backwards into the corridor, his shopping bag hitting the floor. The milk carton split, white pooling across worn carpet.
The doors slammed shut. The lift descended, cables humming their usual irritated song.
He took the stairs for two weeks.
Six flights up, six flights down. Shopping in batches he could manage. Laundry hauled to the ground floor in stages. His calves burned. His lower back developed a persistent ache.
Other residents used the lift without incident. He watched from the stairwell landing—Mrs. Okonkwo with her shopping, the young couple from 10F with their toddler, the man in expensive suits who never made eye contact. The doors opened. The doors closed. The voice gave its calm warning in tones that shifted daily, a rotating cast Martin tried not to identify.
Nobody else noticed.
On the fifteenth day, Martin’s sister rang. Their mother had fallen, needed collecting from A&E. He was already late, already fumbling his keys and phone and the overnight bag he’d hastily packed.
The lift doors stood open.
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
Sarah’s voice. Definitely Sarah’s voice now, without question. That slight catch on the ‘s’ sound, the rising inflection that made statements sound like questions.
Martin hesitated.
The stairwell was six flights. His mother was waiting. His sister was texting: where are you???
He stepped inside.
His keys slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a metallic clatter. They skidded forward, stopping at the threshold.
The doors began to close.
Martin lunged—instinct, the automatic retrieval of dropped objects. His hand shot between the closing doors, fingers stretching for the keyring.
The doors didn’t reverse.
They closed on his wrist with steady pressure. Metal edges meeting flesh with the patience of something that had all the time in the world.
Martin pulled back. The doors held.
“Please stand clear—”
The warning cut off. Started again.
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
Mr. Davies’s voice, breaking on the plea.
The pressure increased. Not painful yet. Inevitable. Martin braced his free hand against the door frame, trying to lever himself backwards. The metal was warm. Almost breathing.
“Please—please—”
Sarah’s voice now, desperate.
The doors pulled him forward. Slowly. Centimetre by centimetre. His shoulder met the frame. Then his face, cheek pressed against cold metal that smelled of oil and something underneath, something organic.
The last thing Martin heard was his own voice, calm and pleasant, as if recorded from very far away:
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
The gap closed.
Three days later, a new resident moved into 6B. Young professional, worked in tech, took the lift every morning at eight-fifteen with her noise-cancelling headphones and reusable coffee cup.
On her fourth day, she noticed the warning voice sounded different. More human. A man’s voice, though she couldn’t place the accent.
It trembled on the word ‘please.’
She took the stairs that morning. And every morning after.
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