Apart from having suffered from claustrophobia for so many years, I have this fear aptly coined ‘fear of elevators’ – for there is no officially declared name that ends with a phobia – and I always used to think it had been a consequence of my claustrophobia. But it got me thinking when I visited the Festive Grande at singapore and sweated profusely at the sight of the enormous elevator open in front of me. The mob of smelly tourists and crisp-looking staff made sure I had my mind collapsed, and it went down like the splinter in an attic full of furniture. But then, it is quite a shock when you hurt yourself by the very splinter, and you’re down on a memory lane.
Let me tell you this before anything else – there exists zero paranormal activity in this tale. It is just a projection of my dumbness – which, as it seems, is quite exorbitant in me – and is a creepy incident. There, I said it – it just gave me the the blues and the willies.
So I live in an apartment of five blocks and a gross of sixty houses, and bang in the middle of it. So now you know there are zero dark corners, zero thrills, zero surprises. But every block has this dull elevator lurking in a corner – green, dull and menacing, along with a fan inside and some good grey b*****s that flash red when pressed, and an emergency key slot to unlock the door if the elevator gets stuck (that makes zero sense).
So it was one fine day when I was running my errands as usual, and I had to go up to the terrace – I keep forgetting why – and I pressed the topmost button the lift. I closed my eyes as I started to sing (crackly, adolescent voice with mixed-up lyrics, being precise), and the lift came to a stop. I opened my eyes as the song faded out from my mouth.
Creepy point #1: The lift had stopped at the first floor, which may have been a terrace. But in an apartment?
Creepy point #2: The red display box that was intended to show the floor number you’re in blinked a 5. Clearly, it indirectly ripped people of impatience as it got slower (unimportant point).
Creepy point #3: This realisation gave me the willies. Our apartment had only four floors.
