The Lift

‘Going down?’ asks pinstripe, mischief in his smile. The pretty PA blushes and presses 86.

In the greasy darkness two hundred feet above, a rifle shot crack as a huge ageing pulley shatters, snapping the rusted cable.

A cleaner on the 38th hears a faint scream, gone in an instant.

‘Like the howl of a trapped animal,’ she will tell the Press.

Seven seconds later someone in the Lobby hears a chilling shriek flash past the lift doors. Silence. Then a long, deep rumble far below.

They find them the next day, pressed flowers locked in a final embrace.

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