Elevator: Fans of Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone will like this short tale of a man’s claustrophobic nightmare.

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EXCERPT

Not a car moved on Bond Street. Not a breeze stirred. No pigeon perched on any ledge of any office building. No smell of auto exhaust or of food cooking at the Chinese restaurant on the corner.

“Sunday morning in the financial district,” Jerry Bledsoe whispered.

Even as he said it, he knew it was not true. He had been downtown on Sunday mornings before, and Bond Street had never been this deserted.

Bledsoe stood on the sidewalk gripping the handle of his patent leather briefcase and looked up at the Sharpe Building, all fifty-five floors of it.

He didn’t remember how he’d gotten here. He didn’t remember leaving home. He didn’t remember stepping from his cab. He didn’t remember paying the driver. He didn’t even remember waking up this morning.