Hold the Door

Halls of Pandemonium Day 27

May 28, 2026

Here’s my entry for Halls of Pandemonium day 27, in which I wrote a flash fiction piece based on a recurrent dream I’ve had in the past about elevators.

Hold the Door!

a hallway with a red door and a yellow rope — Photo by Aiden U on Unsplash

“Hold the door, please!” I yell, running like a frazzled cartoon character down the nondescript hallway.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure exactly why I’m in such a hurry, or where I’m even going. All I know is that I need to get on this elevator.

The five stoic strangers just stare at me, not moving a muscle. It’s as if they’re suspended in time, demurely watching the metal doors hiss shut in slow motion.

“Wait!” I cry, thrusting my arm between them.

The bloodcurdling realization hits almost too late: my trust in the infrared motion sensors was gravely misplaced. Like the jaws of a ravenous metal beast, the doors clamp down on my arm.

No one inside reacts.

“Press the button! Open them!” I scream, pounding on the steel.

Nothing.

Okay, this may backfire, but I have no choice.

I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and yank my arm back as hard as I can. My ass hits the shiny tile floor of this place whose name I can’t quite recall. The pain is not as severe as I would have expected. Though, as I shove up my sleeve, my stomach churns at the hues of violet and midnight blue blooming underneath my skin.

Crap. I might need to see a doctor after whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing here.

Head spinning, I gingerly lift myself onto my knees, then push my good hand into the floor to help me leverage my weight. Once I’m finally standing, cradling my crushed arm, I use my good hand to press the elevator call button.

There’s a tinny ding--an ominous, distorted sound that reminds me of a child’s toy running low on battery. The button fails to light up. So, I press it again. And again. Eventually, the dinging stops altogether. Pressing my ear gingerly against the doors, I detect no mechanical hum to indicate activity in the shaft.

Damn it. The thing must be malfunctioning. But would that explain the strange, lifeless expressions on the faces of the passengers who stood by while my arm was almost severed in front of them?

That’s another worry for another time. All I know is that I’m running late for a very important—

“Honey?”

The sweet voice slides into my subconscious like sunlight through windowpanes, pulling me out of my strange lucid dream state.

“Val, you okay?” Mila places a hand on my arm, which is noticeably unbruised.

“Oh, yeah,” I stutter, shaking my head, the ends of my cropped bob tickling my cheek. “What’s going on?”

“It happened again, didn’t it?” Mila pales, turning me to face her, emerald eyes scanning mine with trepidation.

“What happened again?” I stammer.

“You know,” Mila whispers, though no one around seems the least bit interested in eavesdropping. “Another episode.”

“Episode?”

Mila grips my shoulders, her lips drawing a tight line. “Thank God we’re already on the way to your neurology appointment.”

She presses the call button next to the elevator. With its ding, the sounds of the medical center come rushing back. Heeled shoes against a cold floor, muted waiting room music, the faint hum of expensive equipment.

I squint against the harsh fluorescent lights as the elevator doors slide open. A gaggle of chatty nurses in colorful scrubs pours out, nodding at Mila and me as they go. They look much more vibrant and lively than the passengers I’d seen just a moment ago.

Mila makes to step into the cab, but my feet refuse to follow.

“Honey, come on,” she urges. “We’re going to be late.”

The doors threaten to hiss shut again. A sharp jolt of pain zips up my arm.

“Actually, Mila,” I say, grabbing her hand to pull her toward another door at the end of the hall. “Let’s take the stairs.”