As he looked up at the twenty building and compared
his fears with the ad in his hand, he realized he had hit rock bottom in his
job search. He was applying for
something he knew nothing about just so he could go home and tell his wife that
he had been looking today. She was
tired of his excuses and so was he.
Enough time had elapsed since his burnout. Now that his unemployment pay had been used up from the state, it
was time to rejoin the work force.
He had tried several other avenues
only to discover his age as a barrier.
Also hampering him was the difficulty in explaining the long period of
absence between his interview and his last job. Since his last job was a disaster, he could not put that on an
application or resume, so he had to lie to his prospective employers, which
meant he had to deliberately doctor up his resume and falsify his
application. Each time he sent a resume
off for a likely position, he was sending a fictionalized account of himself
that might eventually catch up with him.
At times, he would be called in for an interview and, when asked to fill
out an application beforehand, began sweating.
Each time he sat down to fill out such a document, he was forced to
insert bogus dates and information on the form that the interviewer could
challenge or, at a later date, after attempting to verify the information, find
inconsistent with the truth. But the truth,
not the fiction, he believed, would have been far worse. If he told them that he had a nervous
breakdown and had been unable to do the type of work he had done before, a
company would likely not have hired him, especially if the interviewer talked to
his last employer. So, as he attempted,
in frustration, to try his hand at technical writing again, an act of
desperation, he had several uneventful interviews, undoubtedly due to what
interviewers uncovered, but at least no one discovered what had caused the
discrepancies nor found out what he had really been doing for an entire year:
writing a novel.
Unfortunately, but to no surprise to
him, he didn’t get hired by any of the companies he applied to, and his novel
didn’t sell. His wife, who at this stage
could care less about his creative surge, was alarmed that he couldn’t land a
job. Perhaps, she suggested, they
thought he was too old. It was more
likely, however, that they had checked his background out and found those
inconsistencies he had tried to hide.
It was apparent to her that he must give up trying to get a white-collar
job and just settle for a job—any job.
He felt frustrated and was wracked with guilt. He had never done blue-collar, menial, or low-paying work. After awhile of being rejected by every
place he applied for, he gave up for awhile and tried working at home, trying
his hand at online sales, but it proved to be a half-hearted effort. The temptation was strong to return to his
writing or sit there at his desk staring wistfully out of the window, hoping
fleetingly for a breakthrough of some kind.
His online effort was therefore no more successful than his
interviews. When his wife told him once
again he was dragging his feet and dodging the obvious remedy to his employment
woes, he decided it was time to try something different…. But what?
His wife’s income from the bank was no longer
enough. He had to make some
headway. He interviewed for a few
sales positions, cringing at the prospects of actually being hired, and was secretly
gratified they turned him down. He
applied for positions totally unrelated to his educational and employment
background in which he was unqualified for in management, public relations, and
even a human resource position, knowing full well he wouldn’t get the job. More timidly he approached the avenue of
manual labor and even checked a few well-known security guard services to find
out what they paid. Fortunately or unfortunately
(as he told his wife), the security agencies had no vacancies. For that matter no one would hire an
ex-technical writer with an MA in history who was ‘over the hill’ for those
more interesting jobs. He called a
place offering a trainee position for a counselor, only to find out that they
wanted someone who could speak Spanish.
At another time for an apprentice position in a museum, that carried a
level of respectability, he was told flatly that he was too old. Then one bleak day, after trying to get a
position with the school district, his interviewer grew suspicious of his
motives for such a menial job and was told he was overqualified. If he had lied properly on the application
and left out all that garbage about degrees and his experience technical
writing he would have being a full time crossing guard now. The pay was much higher than what he would
get as a clerk in a department store or apprentice in a museum. He might also have been working as a
restaurant host if he could have given them a better reason for applying for the
job. He couldn’t convince the young man
interviewing him at that he really wanted the job, which was true. He had never been a good actor. The only reason that the host and crossing
guard jobs were more desirable, in fact, was that they paid more than minimum
wage, which was more than what a deliveryman or security guard made. When he said he wanted a career change for
such a job, they would look at his middle-aged face, glance at his
“over-qualified resume” and know that it was a lie.
He was tired of lying and just
wanted to be himself, and yet he began camouflaging his background, deleting
information on his education and even lying about his age, just to get his foot
in the door, but when companies looked at his employment history and saw the
gaps and inconsistencies, these omissions made no difference in the end. He was, if he took the positions, only fit
for minimum wage at fast food restaurants or telemarketing jobs. It seemed that, as he approached his sixties,
he would have to compete with retired seniors and high school students, …until
one day, as he walked up to the assistant manager at MacDonald’s with a hastily
filled out application the very same moment that his cell phone rang.
In a lackluster voice, he muttered,
“Hello.”
“Is this Eugene Woodruff?” a
gravelly voice asked.
“None other,” he replied with a
tinge of sarcasm. “Who is this?”
“Waverly,” he croaked. “You were
referred to us by Quick Start Temporary Agency.”
“Good grief,” Eugene muttered.
That moment, as he handed the
assistant manager at MacDonald’s his application, she glared at it a moment,
looked up at him in disbelief, and heaved a sigh.
“You’re a bit overdressed,” she
said, eying his suit. “We normally hire high school and college students. You look like you should be working in a bank.”
“Mister Woodruff,” Waverly broke in.
“Yes, I’m here,” Eugene grumbled. “I
apologize for that.” “You’re a very impertinent young lady,” he snapped at the
woman. “What kind of work is this?” he exhaled wearily into his phone, as he
pivoted and walked away. “
“Security,” replied Waverly
frothily.
“Oh, that’s just perfect!” Eugene
muttered to himself.
“Sir, sir,” the manager called
irritably, “are you applying for this position or not?”
“Not!” he called over his shoulder,
the cell phone still on his ear. One of
the jobs he had been avoiding now seemed to be staring him in the face.
“Can you come in for an interview?” Waverly
inquired, unruffled by Eugene’s rudeness.
“…When?” Eugene asked after a pause, filled with
dread.
“How about tomorrow night?” snorted Waverly snorted.
“Six o’clock sharp.”
“Okay,” Eugene replied, as he unlocked his car.
“Thanks Mister Waverly,” he said in a deadpan voice. “Where’s it at?”
Waverly
gave him the directions, which he punched into his iphone, almost in rote. He didn’t remember even thanking the man or
saying goodbye. In fact, he tried not
thinking about his upcoming interview.
The grim resignation that he might become a security guard filled him
with gloom.
*****
When he told his wife about the
scheduled interview, she smiled faintly, nodded, and gave him a blank look.
“Are you serious this time?”
She raised an eyebrow. “The last time you applied for a security guard job you
panicked. I think they picked up on
that. You’ve gotta change your attitude
Eugene. This time go with a positive
attitude, like you did for that counselor job.”
“Well, a positive attitude didn’t
help me then,” he grumbled petulantly. “It’s either my age or being
overqualified. It’s always something. I find this very strange, Nancy. At those temp agencies, I put down manager
and trainee jobs on my application, that’s all. I never mentioned security guard. I don’t even remember the name of the person at the agency I
talked to—some lady with a lisp and overbite.
She treated me like I was retarded.
I’m not going back to that place.”
“Tsk-tsk,” she cooed, “maybe you
should take the medicine the psychiatrist gave you. You’ve got that look.
Stop clenching your fists.”
“Not a chance,” he made a face.
“That stuff makes me dopey. The last
time I took it, I ran a red light and almost hit a pedestrian.”
It was plain to his family that
Eugene was showing signs of his manic-depressive disorder. The problem usually occurred if he failed to
take his medicine and was exacerbated by the pressures of applying for
undesirable jobs. This time, though,
his wife was growing desperate. They
were running out of money. His excuses
for not finding work had likewise run their course. That evening as they sat down to dinner, his son Bruce, who still
lived at home, also searching for his path in life, tried cheering him up.
“It’s an easy job dad,” he said
shoveling in a mouthful of food. “My friend Ben guarded a parking lot
once. He said it was easy money. They let him sit in his car, as long as he
made his rounds every hour.”
“Lord,” Eugene groaned, “I hope I
don’t have to do that? Did that make
him wear a uniform?”
“Yeah,” Bruce snickered behind his
hand, “a real sporty outfit. He carried
a big flashlight—must’ve been a thousand amps.
But most of the time, he stayed out of sight and hid his car.”
“How much did they pay him?” Eugene
grumbled. “Most of those kind’ve jobs are minimum wage.”
“Twelve bucks an hour,” chirped
Bruce, “more than I got at Wendy’s.”
“Why don’t you apply for the
job?” Eugene frowned. “You’ve been out of work longer than me.”
“Where’s this interview at?” Helen
interrupted. “Is it close to home?”
Eugene fished in his shirt pocket.
“Here’s the address. It’s a high
rise. I drove passed that place
before—tallest building in the county.
My interviews on the seventeenth floor.”
“Well, that’s a good sign,” she
beamed. “High rise security is the up and coming thing.”
“Hah,” Eugene scoffed. “It’s
probably where the security agency’s located.
With my luck, I’ll wind up guarding a construction site. It’s just an interview, Helen. He might take one look at my application and
give me the bum’s rush.”
******
That night Eugene lie awake staring
at the ceiling, wondering how things had gotten so bad that he was forced into
security guard work. After his burnout
at Thermal Dynamics, everything had gotten progressively worse. Those months on disability, in which he
began writing his book, tried half-heartedly to find work, and was finally
encouraged by the psychiatrist to get back to work, had brought him only
heartache and mental stress. The
medicine prescribed by the doctor had made him feel so dopey and uninspired
during his efforts as an author he stopped taking it. With a modicum of success, he had been able to function without
Prozac, but lately his depression had returned full force. Never a drinking man, he was nevertheless
tempted to find that fifty-year old scotch his father gave to him several years
ago…. Perhaps, he might even take a few pills again to bring down his mood.
When he awakened the next day, with
a full day ahead of him until his new job started, he returned to work on his
second novel. Now that he had a job,
his conscience was clear. He decided to
give his publishing career another chance.
His wife was at work, and his son was still asleep. His last novel, that received zero
acceptances after hundreds of submissions, had received little or no
attention. Of the few comments he
received, “No one wants to read young adult science fiction anymore,” and “This
is a overused theme,” didn’t bother him as much as the fact that over nine-five
percent of the publishers didn’t respond at all. Most of the small number returning a reply, sent form letter
emails, briefly stated, such as “Thank you for submitting your novel, but we’ve
decided to pass.” On a mental
backburner, he placed his first book.
Today, however, was a new beginning for him. He would write something that would sell this time…. The question
was, he asked himself as he stared at his laptop screen,… what?
After an hour of struggling with a
theme, Eugene began researching online for ideas. Judging by their book lists, most publishers were interested in
romance, mystery, horror, and young adult fiction. Fictionalized feel-good stories about people overcoming illness
and calamity was also popular. Since
most publishers required authors to have agents and only a few publishers even
read new submissions, these overriding factors of course trumped all other
factors, but he must at least get on the right track. Though it rankled him to consider the possibility, he narrowed
his selection of salable topics to horror or mystery, unless he could spin his
personal trials and tribulations into a tale.
The question again was “What?”
The next day found Eugene restless and out of sorts as he waited for the
appointed time. Though his anxiety had
been high, he arrived at the high rise with low expectations. It was good thing he allowed himself enough
time. The workday traffic had been
particularly congested, and there was road construction near the high
rise. When he arrived in the lobby
where he expected to meet the agent, Waverly was nowhere in sight. The day guard, who might be making his rounds,
was also absent. For a moment, he
almost did an about face. What kind of
operation was this? He wondered. What stopped him cold, were his wife’s
final words when he left this evening, “Don’t let me down, Eugene. Give this job a chance!
Then he spotted a sign over the door next to the
lobby counter that read Building Office. When he entered the
office, he found it empty too. The
lights weren’t even on in this room, and because the blinds were drawn, left
him in almost total darkness. Another
red flag popped up in his mind and he was tempted to leave, until, out of
nowhere it seemed, the lights came on, and a strange looking man appeared. Startled by his sudden appearance, Eugene
gasped and gripped his forehead.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“You, Eugene Woodruff?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes.” He nodded faintly.
The sound of toilet running in the next room told
him where the man had been. When he
shook Eugene’s hand it was still moist.
One more red flag rose in his brain, as the man waited for an answer.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Eugene answered. “I
know nothing about security work. I
need a job—end of subject.”
Cocking a bushy eyebrow, Waverly looked Eugene up
and down, and, with a wave of his hand, replied, “Okay, fair enough.”
As he studied the man a moment, he wasn’t
impressed. As usual, he wore a suit and
tie and polished shoes, whereas Waverly wore a gray sweatshirt, contrasting
black slacks, and tennis shoes. He
looked like he had just been jogging.
He was unshaven and looked as though he hadn’t had a haircut in many
months. Was this supposed interview for
real? He wondered. He wasn’t clear what Waverly meant by “Okay,
fair enough,” and he was afraid to ask.
Was he offering him a job of simply acknowledging the statement he just
made?
With misgivings now, Eugene asked, “Do I need to
fill out an application?”
Waverly shook his head impatiently, running a hand
through his stringy hair. “I know everything I need to know, Mister
Woodruff. The agency sent over a copy
of your application.”
When Eugene glanced around the room, which had been
filled with a building manager and office personnel during working hours, he
was filled with disquiet. The
casualness of the interview, if it could even be called that, and man’s
demeanor and attire, caused yet another red flag to surface in his mind. Apparently, Waverly didn’t care about his
background or the lame reason he gave him for wanting this job. What he did do, however, was question Eugene
on his frame of mind.
“Are you superstitious, Mister Woodruff?” he
inquired, folding his arms.
“I believe in God, but I’m not superstitious,”
answered Eugene.
“Fair enough,” he pursed his lips. “The question is,
“do you mind working the graveyard shift?’”
“Yes, of course,” Eugene responded forthrightly,
“but I’ll do it. I need the money.”
“Your honest, Mister Woodruff. I like that.” He set his jaw. “No one in
their right mind likes working the graveyard shift. If he says he does, he’s lying.”
“One more question,” he said, scratching his chin.
“You’ll be working with eccentric people?
Will that be a problem for you?”
“Not at
all,” Eugene replied in cavalier voice. “I’ve worked with some real assholes.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
They were strange questions, thought Eugene, but
Waverly, after all, was a strange man.
When Eugene asked him about the pay, he was greatly surprised when he
was told him the pay was twenty-five dollars an hour. Though apprehensive, his mood changed from being totally
uninspired to immediately interested in the position. The next question from his disbelieving lips was, “are you making
me an offer?”
Waverly nodded obliquely and shoved a sheet of paper
toward him. It was a very brief
contract, handwritten with almost perfect calligraphic form. It read simply: ‘You must arrive promptly at
the hour (not a moment before or after) and make an hourly check of each of the
twenty five floors, from 12 am to 8 am.
At the end of your shift, you will leave at exactly 8 am. It was so simple, Eugene giggled foolishly
as he signed his name. Bluntly now, he
asked when he would be paid. Waverly
told him just as bluntly that he would be paid each week, payment being made to
the address shown on his previous application.
Though he had received several mental red flags, which had worried him,
Eugene’s sloppy signature was on the contract.
When Waverly told him that the contract was binding, he uttered a
hysterical laugh. It was just too
absurd to believe. Nevertheless,
another red flag—this one a banner warning, was raised in his mind.
Waverly gave him the red sports
jacket, matching tie, and dark blue slacks—the uniform worn in the Chevington
Plaza Business Building. Wishing him
good luck, he signaled that he was dismissed by motioning to the door. It was as simple as that. When he told his wife about his meeting, she
was concerned at first. What tempered her
concern, as they debated the issue, was the hourly rate Eugene would be
paid. Both of them agreed that it was a
high rate for such a simple job.
Despite her blessing, he knew she was worried, too, and he slept
fitfully that night.
******
Several before midnight, after a
long, restless day of working on his book and anticipating his new job, he
arrived at Chevington Plaza in his red sports coat and tie. For several moments he had to wait at the
entrance for the swing shift guard to arrive.
Finally, a shadowy figure emerged on the other side of the door. There was subdued lighting in the
lobby. Through the glass, it was
difficult to discern the image. The
sound of keys rattling, followed by the lock clicking, was an eerie sound. When the door opened to allow entry, he
slipped in, expecting a greeting, but found the lobby empty. With the specter disappearing so suddenly,
it felt as if he had just entered an inner sanctum. Popping up like a jack-o-lantern from the lobby desk, clipboard
in hand, the guard looked across the floor at him but said nothing.
“Oh there you are,” Eugene said
airily.
Motioning rudely at him and
grumbling, “Your early!” the elderly woman waited impatiently behind the
counter. As he approached, he
remembered Waverly’s question, “Do you have a problem with eccentric
people?” She shoved a nametag across
the counter. Fastening it to his lapel,
he took time to read her tag: Madelyn Le Blanc. Inclining her head, as would a crone, she studied him a moment
before shaking his hand. Though she
mumbled, “Glad to meet you,” the look in her hawk-like eyes wasn’t
friendly. Her handshake, reminded him
uncooked fowl.
“Here’s the log,” she snorted.
“Check all twenty-five floors each hour.
Carry this clipboard with you.
Check off each floor as you make your rounds.”
On that note, as she made her exit, Eugene called
out politely, “Have a nice evening!” Madelyn, moving swiftly for her age,
called back sarcastically, “The evenings gone!”
******
At midnight as he began checking doors, he heard
strange night sounds on the seventeenth floor.
They weren't anything spectacular at first, just a few high-pitched
giggles and a muffled conversation, which he couldn't make out. They were coming out of suite seventeen b,
which, according to his clipboard notes, was unoccupied and under
renovation. At first, he decided that
there must after hour workers in this suite.
As he continued his rounds, he called his wife to report in. She promised to wait up until 12:30 for his
first night on the job. He told her
about the cranky night guard and her exaggerated emphasis on his security
duties in the building, and she was encouraged by his resignation and attempt
at humor. When he told her about the
noises in suite seventeen b, she agreed that it must be workers inside the
suite. As he continued up the building,
however, he encountered a janitor, who insisted that there were no workers here
at this hour.
The old man, who identified himself as Ed Greebs,
related a chilling tale that moment.
“It happened last year. Stuart Rosenfeldt massacred his entire
staff. No one knows what motivated him
to murder them and turn the gun on himself.
After the murders, other tenants on seventeen claimed to hear noises in
that suite—real spooky sounds, like talking, laughter, and such. Because of the gossip, it’s been impossible
to rent it out. The word was Chevington
Plaza’s been doing renovation, but it’s taken to long for something like
that. The rumor is sir, that, after the
massacre, the previous occupants, now deceased, return to the scene of the
crime. They gather at the stroke of
midnight as they had that last day.
Rosenfeldt, himself, can be heard trekking up the stairwell until
reaching his firm. Occasionally, I hear
a door slam on seventeen, but just as I reach that floor, the door to the suite
will be shut. Sometimes, when I
listened to the strange goings on there, it seems like they’re having a party….
To tell the truth, sir, most of the time I avoid seventeen altogether. Take my advice, you avoid it too.”
“Well, that’s quite a story,” snickered Eugene. “You
ever meet Rosenfeldt on the stairs?”
“Of course not!” he shuddered. “I don’t take the
stairs. I take the elevator. I don’t think anyone’s met him!” “You
stay away from that suite!” he warned, moving on. “Something horrible happened
in that room!”
Because he had heard nothing about this from the
swing shift guard, he decided that Ned must be addled. Despite this conclusion, the janitor’s
squinty eyes and leprechaun demeanor had given him the creeps. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect person to
deliver such as tale. Perhaps, Ned, for
some quirky reason, just wanted to scare him.
He couldn’t very well avoid the seventeenth floor, as he suggested.
That night as he made his rounds a second time, he
decided to investigate and, hopefully, put to rest this tall tale. Finding the door locked, he sighed with
relief, satisfied that his instincts were correct. Most of the other suites in the building were secured too, the
exceptions being a few firms and offices that carelessly forgot to lock their
doors. Locked doors made his job
easier, he reasoned. It would a hassle
for him to check each suite. Because
Eugene had started his shift on the hour Old Man Rosenfeldt had supposedly
visited his suite, he wouldn’t have to test out the janitor’s claim. Nevertheless, as 2 am drew near, he grew
bored of his hourly rounds, and was drawn back to suite seventeen b. He had only checked the door once; that
should have been sufficient. When he
turned to knob this time and heard it open, he gasped loudly, recoiling from
the door. His first thought was that an
employee or worker had returned; for what reason he couldn’t imagine. When he stepped into the room, he was
immediately greeted by a beaming young woman sitting behind the receptionist
desk at the entrance of the suite.
Judging by her flushed face and silly grin, she appeared to be
inebriated. A cacophony of laughter and
loud outbursts typical of drunken revelry, which he hadn’t heard in the hall,
assailed his ears. He recalled Ned
telling him about such noises. Beyond
the receptionist’s desk, he could see men and women in a party mode. In the center of the main room, stood the
corpulent figure of a fellow, Eugene suspected was none other than Stuart
Rosenfeldt, himself.
“Holy shit!” he cried, backing away
toward the door. “ Ned was telling the truth!”
“Yes-yes, Ned knows,” giggled the
receptionist. “He’s afraid of us now.
He knows the truth!”
“Truth, what truth?” Eugene asked,
studying the scene. “…. Is this some kind of stunt? Are you supposed to be ghosts?” “I’m going nuts,” he muttered to
himself. “That has to be it. I
should’ve taken my meds!”
“Lighten up.” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Look around you sir. Do we look like
ghosts?”
Scanning the suite, he could see men
and women cavorting together with drinks in their hands. From a distance, in fact, they looked like
typical merrymakers… with one important exception at first glance: Rosenfeldt. Unlike the others, who wore conservative business
appropriate for a business office, Rosenfeldt was dressed garishly in a
herringbone jacket, striped vest, and bow tie.
Moreover, his features seemed exaggerated, almost clown like. Against his audience, he loomed large in the
crowded room: a loud, uncouth specter of a man, grossly overweight. Even from afar, the details stood out. His nose was red and cheeks were splotchy.
Though his head was starkly bald, whiskers stuck out shaggily on each side of
his face. The most unsettling aspect of
this man, Eugene noted, was his expression.
Two dark coals for pupils, set in wide bloodshot eyes, stared
unblinkingly at his employees. As he
stepped forward a few paces, he got a closer look at the receptionist as well
as others in the room, which seemed even more unsettling. Upon closer inspection, the woman’s face was
tastelessly painted and her blond hair glistened like the synthetic hair on
mannequins. Her cold blue eyes had, the
thought struck him cold, a dead fish look.
The faces of her co-workers, he realized with horror, seemed like death
masks. Unlike Rosenfeldt and his
receptionist, who had clown-like expressions, their mouths moved jerkily, as
would puppets and their gaze, similar to Rosenfeldt’s eyes, were unblinking
orbs, looking this way and that, as they swiveled their necks, an action
reminiscent of zombies Eugene had seen in movies.
Suddenly, as they became aware of their visitor, the
men and women turned simultaneously toward him, Rosenfeldt at the
forefront. Looking askance at her, the
looming presence of the receptionist completed the scenario of horror in his
mind.
“Awe, we have a guest,” Rosenfeldt bellowed.
“Welcome,” the men and women drawled, “join the
party!”
“He knows,” exclaimed the
receptionist. “Ned told him. He thinks
we’re ghosts!”
“This is insane!” cried Eugene.
Reeling around frantically, he charged the door,
struggled with the doorknob a moment, then, after the great door opened, fled
down the hall. He heard laughter as the
door slammed shut behind him, but, as he climbed into the elevator, he looked
out to an empty corridor. No one had
followed him. To hell with Madelyn, the
thought, as the elevator doors opened.
He planned now to spend the remaining of his shift in the lobby. If anyone from the security agency came to
check on him, he would be able to see them approach in a lobby camera and,
after scurrying into the stairwell pretend he was just coming off his
rounds. This had been his plain, but,
as it turned out, no one came to check on him during his shift. In the building office, he made himself a
pot of coffee, and then, with a brimming mug in his hand, sat down behind the
lobby desk, half convinced he had gone mad…. The other half, which had never
experienced a hallucination before, was not so sure. Everything he saw in suite seventeen was bizarre but not
dream-like. It looked and smelled
real. The images remained steady and
unchanging. The odor of perfume,
alcohol, and food wafted in the air.
From what he had read of hallucinations, they were more transient and
surreal…. So, he reasoned, if this hadn’t been a hallucination and he wasn’t
insane, had there been ghosts in suite seventeen b? What had happened in that room? If not spirits of the dead, were they the walking dead—zombies
returning to the scene of some unspeakable crime?
He felt as if he had escaped a horrible fate, and
yet no one had pursued him. This made
him wonder again if it had not all been a hallucination. He had learned about this room only from
Ned, the janitor. Had he been a
hallucination too…or was he just another ghost? The thought occurred to him, as he recalled Madelyn’s cranky
face, that she might also have been an apparition. And what if Waverly, the personnel agent who gave him the job,
was an hallucination? Could all of this
be one continuous figment of his imagination, the result of ignoring his
medications and slipping finally over the edge? At the very least, he reasoned, ghosts or not, Madelyn might have
known about this phenomenon, but had kept this information to herself. Would he admit to seeing and hearing
something like this? Who would believe
such a story, unless the experienced it themselves?
As he sipped his coffee, he was tempted to flee the
building entirely and put these questions behind him. After all, he reasoned, he could find another job. On the other hand, such an action would
appear indefensible. How could explain
this to anyone without them thinking he was insane? After his breakdown, months of therapy, and receiving Medicaid
instead of the salary he and his wife had depended on to pay bills, how would
it sound if he told her about tonight?
She might threaten to divorce him.
If he ran away from his post, he would have to go searching for another
job. Considering the discrepancies on his
patchy resume, he had been lucky to find this position. Who would hire him this time? He had but two alternatives, neither of them
desirable: remain a security guard in this spooky building or quit this very
night and try to find something else.
******
When morning came, the day guard, a
crotchety old man with a limp, arrived right before the employees streamed into
the building. Eugene had spent a
difficult eight-hour shift. After
discovering the crowd in seventeen b, he had no desire to test his senses. He went on a few rounds, using the elevator,
avoiding the seventeenth floor entirely, falsifying the graveyard log with
entries showing hourly rounds for each hour he never made. His relief, who introduced himself simply as
Buck, struck Eugene as slightly senile.
For a few moments, as Buck settled into the lobby, pouring himself
coffee, glancing a the log, and commenting on the rear end of a female
employee, after she flashed him her badge, Eugene wondered if he should tell
him about what he saw. Perhaps, he told
himself, as Buck stood there muttering to himself, this was the perfect person
to break the news to. He might have
seen the folks in seventeen B, himself.
After broaching the topic, however, he realized how ridiculous he
sounded.
“Late at night,” he began carefully,
“I met a janitor on the seventeenth floor—a peculiar ol’ fellow named Ed
Greebs. He told me something very
strange.”
“Wait a minute sonny,” Buck
interrupted rudely, “there ain’t no janitors on the graveyard shift—not that I
know of.”
“Well,” Eugene frowned with irritation. “I met
him. He might’ve been working
overtime—I dunno, but he was there with his cart on the seventeenth floor, as I
made my rounds.”
“You sure, eh?” Buck replied, sipping his coffee.
“That floors almost empty. Suite
Seventeen b and c also vacated after that incident. Folks were really shaken up—all over the building.”
“What incident?” Eugene, who already knew the
answer, caught his breath. “What happened up there?”
Buck looked at him in disbelief. “Didn’t they tell
you?”
“Tell me what?” Eugene feigned ignorance. “All I
heard was that they were renovating seventeen b.”
“Well, I wasn’t here then. I work days… Story goes that Marvin Rosenfeldt, head of
Rosenfeldt and Rossi, went berserk and killed several of his employees—lawyers,
law clerks, and what, before blowing out his brains. What the survivors told was a real nightmare. It was in the news. Where you been for the last several years?”
“…I heard something like this awhile back,” Eugene
searched his memory, “but I never associated it with this building. With all
the terrorism and general mayhem in the media, I never made the connection.”
“Holy shit!” he sighed. “Of all the places to work!”
“It ain’t so bad.
You got it easy on your shift.
Days can be hell. Roger and I
have to put with a lot of crap.” By the way,” he muttered querulously, “where is
Roger? He’s always late.”
Buck’s story had been almost the same as Ned’s. Why hadn’t Buck ever heard of this man? Greatly irritated by the tardiness of his
partner, the crotchety old man drifted off the subject. If he returned to the topic, Eugene decided
not to tell him what he saw, only what Ned told him. For some reason, Buck’s corroboration of what the janitor knew
and what he, himself, saw shook him up.
It reminded him of a horror movie he once saw. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped Buck stayed off
the subject. There might be grisly
details even Ned was unaware of. For
several more moments, as he delayed his departure, he chatted with him, adding
his own comments about Roger’s tardiness.
Making up a fictitious job, he tried sounding annoyed.
“It’s happened to me too,” he said, glancing at his watch. “At my last
job, I had to wait for the night guy to show up. Sometimes that clown was an hour late!”
“Well, I wouldn’t stand for that!” Buck stomped his foot. “This time
I’m reporting that bastard. This is the
day shift. One of us has to watch the
lobby, while the other makes his rounds.
He knows that. He doesn’t take
this job seriously. He’s just a
kid. They shouldn’t hire kids for this
kind’ve position. I worked all my life
as a tool and die specialist, following the rules. Kids don’t listen to you these days. All they think about is sex and drugs! They don’t have any respect!”
Buck was red the face as he clinched his fist and pounded the
desk. Late arriving employees eyed him
with amusement or alarm as he carried on.
One young man, wearing the same blazer that Buck and he wore, was
laughing as he walked into the lobby. A
pretty brunette in a business suite had been chatting with him, as they entered
the door. Their conversation indicated
how immature Roger was. The woman told
him with annoyance that she didn’t date employees. His cocky reply, “I’m not an employee, I’m a security guards”
sounded inane to Eugene, but for Buck, it was the last straw.
“You little prick!” he stormed. “This is the last time you pull this on
me!”
“Oh dear me!” the woman recoiled.
“Chill, pops,” snarled Roger. “Traffics heavy this time of the
morning. You gotta beef, report
me. I don’t give a shit!”
Roger, though he had to be at least eighteen for this position, looked
no more than sixteen years old. Drawing
on some of his own inner rage, Eugene poked him in the chest with his
forefinger, giving him his fiercest look.
“Show some respect,” he growled. “You’d better give a shit. If I was him, I’d kick your ass!”
Roger gave him a shocked look.
Buck was taken back.
Fortunately, no one else appeared to have heard this exchange, as Eugene
exited the scene.
“You’re crazy.” Roger muttered.
“Oh, you don’t know how crazy I am,” he called back.
On that note, he saluted Buck and departed the building, more troubled
than ever after his outburst. Why had
he lost his temper? Would Roger report
him to management? Buck had also
looked frightened; perhaps he would make the call. In a strange, unsettling way, though, Eugene didn’t care. The worst that could happen to him, would be
to lose his job, but, after thinking about it a moment, he didn’t think that
would happen. The security agency must
be fairly hard up to hire old men, kids, and applicants with questionable
pasts. His resume had been so doctored
up, they couldn’t have checked his job history…or they just didn’t care. On the way to his car, a sudden inspiration
struck him that caused him to freeze in his tracks. Trotting back to the building, he slipped into the lobby in time
to see Roger exit in the elevator and Buck return from the office, a donut in
his hand.
“What the hell you want?” he snapped at Eugene. “You’re shifts over—go
home!”
“Buck,” Eugene came straight to the point. “This year, how many guards
have had the graveyard shift?”
“I dunno.” He scratched his baldhead. “It’s quite a few, especially
after the murders. I can’t believe all
that stuff about spirits and ghosts, but I heard it’s pretty spooky up there at
night.”
Eugene sighed deeply, thinking If I’m nuts, I’m in good company!
“You saw’em didn’t you?” he asked cagily. “I didn’t hear there was a
janitor on graveyard; that’s a new detail.
You’d think this building is haunted!”
“Yes…Thanks for leveling with me,” Eugene said, shaking his hand. “I
was in seventeen b. I saw them—Old Man
Rosenfeldt and his employees. I talked
to a janitor, who must be a spook, too.”
“Don’t tell them that!” Buck said, pointing at the log. “Keep
this under your hat… And stay out of seventeen b. Better yet avoid that floor.”
Ned had told him the same thing.
It was good advice. After
leaving the building, climbing into his car finally and heading home, Eugene
felt relieved. Because there had been
other sightings, he decided to tell his wife.
He would, he also decided, bring his camera next time, and get proof. All of a sudden, a new meaning was given to
Eugene Woodruff’s life. He was a man, who
saw ghosts… Unlike, the other security guards, however, he would make the case
to the agency. He would prove to them
that there were spooks in seventeen b.
******
That morning, soon after greeting his wife and before she left for
work, he told her about his discovery in suite seventeen b. Her immediate reaction was expected. Even when he told her about the other
security guards that had quit his post before him, who must have made the same
discovery as him, she waved her hands irritably, scoffing at the notion of
ghosts.
“You should never have gone off your meds.” She shook her head with
dismay. “You convinced Doctor Rajeed you didn’t need them, but he was
wrong. You’re hallucinating now.”
“Come one Nancy,” implored Eugene. “Several people saw it, not just
me. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t know, Eugene,” she called over her shoulder after snatching up
the keys, “but you can’t lose another job.
Don’t repeat this to anyone else—you hear me? I’ve been patient. I need
help with the bills!”
While watching his wife depart, Eugene’s spirits crashed down to
earth. What kept him from falling back
into depression was the information Buck imparted to him. The knowledge that this time she was wrong,
in fact, buoyed his spirits. He would
prove her wrong too. He would show the
agency and employees of the building that there were ghosts in seventeen
b. But he would do it later, he
thought, looking ahead to a quick breakfast and long nap. This would require planning. Until he had proof, he would take Buck’s
advice and keep this under his hat.
******
That very day, after several hours sleep, Eugene spent his time
researching his laptop for information on the incident in the building. The crux of what he found: Rosenfeldt went
berserk and killed many of his employees, seriously injuring the remainder of
them with a spray of bullets. His
motive remains a mystery, though it was hinted that he was embittered over
efforts by his partners to vote him off the board. The survivors of this massacre have kept a low profile ever
since. Until recently, Chevington Plaza
suffered greatly. According to building
management, the suite in which the firm resided was still vacant, and, considering
the lapse of time, the so-called renovation hadn’t fooled an investigative
reporter, who called suite seventeen b the ‘Chamber of Death.’ During his
Internet search, Nancy called from work to check up on him. When he told her what he was doing, she
scoffed at him. Because she didn’t
believe him in the first place, she thought it was a waste of time. “She still doesn’t trust me,” he grumbled,
returning to his screen. “She’d probably thinks I’m looking up porn!” Eugene found the original news story about
the massacre and follow-up stories but he could find very little on the
survivors. There was, because of
privacy laws, no information whatsoever on their addresses or phone
numbers. That evening when his wife
returned, Eugene had cleaned the house and done a little gardening—all to get
on her good side. He said nothing about
the ghosts or his research that day. If
necessary, he might use the lobby computer if necessary. Carting his laptop along with him would be a
red flag to his wife. With his digital
camera in his coat pocket, he was prepared to photograph ghosts.
Small as it might seem, he now had a mission in life. When he pulled into the parking lot, the
sparsely lighted outline of the building loomed darkly against the starlit
sky. As he approached the shadowy
lobby, Madelyn, the swing shift guard, was nowhere in sight. After meeting the senile Buck and Roger, his
adolescent relief, he wondered what was in store for him. After calling her on his cell phone,
receiving her answering machine, and leaving a curt message, he swore aloud,
paced back and forth, until the ill-tempered woman unlocked the door.
“You’re early,” she snapped. “You’re supposed to be arrive ten minutes
before the hour, not twenty.”
Eugene looked at her in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, of course,” she said testily. “I warned you about this,
Woodruff. I like things prim and
proper. You interrupted my rounds. I hadn’t finished my last floor!”
He grew indignant this time. “Prim and proper? What a crock! I’m here Madelyn. Get
over it! What’s the matter with
you? You should be thankful to get
relieved early!”
“Well, I’m not!” she snorted, storming ahead of him. “Next time, show up on time and not so damn
early!”
Eugene actually had two senior citizens to deal with, Buck and Madelyn,
both of them suffering from dementia, Madelyn apparently the worst of the
two. Without the required briefing she
was supposed to give him before departing, she grabbed her purse, gave him a
curt nod, and ambled away from the desk.
“Wait a minute,” he shouted through cupped hands. “I have a few
questions for you Madelyn. Did you see
anything strange on the seventeenth floor?
Did you meet a janitor named Ned during your rounds?”
“Check the log,” she called over her shoulder. “There ain’t no janitor named Ned, and
there’s no spooks in seventeen b. Buck
warned me about you. The last fellow
who made that claim got fired. Damn
fool posted his photos on YouTube. This
building has a bad enough reputation without being haunted.”
A thrill ran through Eugene. As
he charged after her, he reached out excitedly to grab her elbow. “Wait, please wait. You say he took photos. I never saw them on YouTube. Are you certain? Do we have his phone number on file?”
“Get your hands off me!” she spat, jerking away. “I never saw the video. I don’t own a computer. His phone number should be in the log. Take my advice, forget about seventeen
b. You best keep your suspicions to
yourself!”
“Suspicions?” he mumbled as she crossed the parking lot. “You heard
about it, didn’t you?” he called after her. “You heard the ghosts in seventeen
b.”
“I didn’t hear nuthin,” she hollered back. “That room’s empty. Has been for over a year. Forget it, man. It’s not worth losing your job!”
Returning quickly to the desk, Eugene brought up the Internet on the
lobby computer and typed in massacre on seventeenth floor. As before, all he got was the information
about the murders. When he typed in
ghosts in seventeenth b, however, several entries immediately popped up. Most of the articles were from various media
outlets, including the local station and papers, but only two YouTube entries
popped up. First appeared the crime
scene, itself, showing an empty room.
In the background, a voice droned on about the ongoing case, which was
information he had already read. The
second YouTube video presented by the onetime security guard was a blurred
scene of ghostly image against the same office setting. Typical of spectral imagery he had seen, the
images were indistinct, white willowy, disembodied, faceless, incorporeal
static, without personality or human form.
Eugene’s heart sank in his chest as he pondered the video. Is this what Madelyn meant when she
mentioned a YouTube photo?
******
That night, as Eugene made his rounds, he skipped past the first
sixteen floors, went straight to suite seventeen b with his camera ready, and
found the door once more locked. On
the eighteenth floor, he ran into Ned Greebs, the janitor, who supposedly
doesn’t exist, but Ned was reluctant to unlock the door.
“Uh uh.” He rotated his head.
“You don’t need to go in there.
Orders are orders. That room
stays locked, sonny, until they clean it up.”
Ned’s response was, of course, inconsistent with the facts. When Eugene asks him who ordered him, he
made a gesture hard for him to define: he rolled his eyes upward, a gesture he
had seen his wife do when she was disgusted with something he did. Was he implying irritation or, by the
direction, was he pointing to heaven?
“What does that mean?” Eugene pointed upwards.
“Purgatory,” he replied cryptically. “… Are you a Catholic,
Eugene? Look it up.”
“Shouldn’t you be looking down?” Eugene frowned. “I’m not a Catholic,
sir, but I felt unvarnished evil in that room.
Who are those people in seventeen supposed to be—demons?”
“There isn’t one purgatory, Eugene,” he answered directly. “…. There are millions. Most folks can’t see them. You certainly can’t take pictures of them.”
“What?” Eugene’s eyes popped wide. “You’re telling me suite seventeen b
is part of hell?”
“Not hell—purgatory.” He frowned irritably. “That room will exist for
Rosenfeldt for a very long time, as he contemplates his crime—long after it’s
demolished to make way for a new building, freeway, or mall. It’s where the crime was committed—the
murders by Stuart Rosenfeldt, who played both judge and jury. Unlike Rosenfeldt, who must pay his debt,
those people you saw, like all ghosts, haven’t crossed over. One day all of them will find the light. Until then they’re trapped in time and
space.” “…You have a gift, sir,” he added dreamily. “You can see spirits of the
dead…”
******
Eugene Woodruff had never believed in spirits of the dead. Where all “bad”ghosts caught up in their own
purgatories? This wasn’t explained to
him by Ned, whom, Eugene made the connection, fancied himself as the gatekeeper. Purgatory was a Catholic concept. He wasn’t even Catholic. He had heard about ghosts from childhood on,
but he had never believed in them. Had
Ned been talking only about specific places, such as rooms or dark
corners? Where there private purgatories,
as he said, everywhere? This sounded
quite insane. Looking ahead, as he
finished his shift, he wondered if he would see more ghosts. Ned told him he had a gift, but had a
previous guard. In spite of what Ned
said, Eugene wasn’t sure he wanted to see more ‘spooks.’ Most folks didn’t believe in them. They
evidently didn’t register on video…. With his psychological profile, it made
him look even crazier… And yet, despite his failure to gather proof, he no longer
doubted his sanity. He had no intention
of visiting that room again, but he had seen ghosts in suite seventeen b. He had met a gate keeper to purgatory, and
been reaffirmed in what he had seen—secret knowledge he would tell no one else
but carry the rest of his life.