What if that creaking in the elevator
Was not the strain on a cable
Or the turning of a pulley.
What if the whooshing sound
Was not just displaced air,
Or the fan in the ceiling.
What if the creaking was the sound
Of zombie nails on metal,
The creaking the prizing of a bar
Held in undead hands?
What if the whooshing sound
Was the hot breath of decaying lungs?
And the beeps for each floor would
Become the alarm telling passengers
That the undead live in the elevator shaft.
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