The Saint George

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

The building was old and in dire need of countless repairs, but the rent was cheap and I desperately needed to find a new place to live. The priest who recommended moving promised me that the paranormal activity would end. It didn’t. It made it worse.

After the first month of living in my new building, I was forced to call the priest. He specialized in exorcism and thoroughly blessed my apartment. He claimed the cleansing was successful but the look on his face told me the opposite. Whatever had been haunting me had followed, and increased its aggresion.

Realizing no one could help me, I forced myself to face what was to come.

The elevator door had recently ceased working and the property management team plastered signs on each floor asking all tenants to please refrain from trying to open the elevator door until the technicians were able to fix the hydraulics.

One night, after coming home drunk from a local bar, I had the deep urge to defy authority and break the rules. I lived on the sixth floor and my legs and spinning head wanted nothing to do with taking the stairs.

I stepped in front of the elevator and hovered my finger over the call button. Overcome by weakness, my arm dropped to my side and I turned towards the stairwell.

A sharp ding and the shifting of gears forced me to turn around. The door to the elevator opened on its own.

Bewitched by the strangeness, I stepped inside. I pressed the glowing six, then waited. The lights flickered and the elevator hobbled. When the door finally opened, I wasn’t on the sixth floor. I wasn't even in my building.

I didn’t know where I was.