But Leo was late. His phone battery was dead, his tie was askew, and his prospects for the Acme Corp account were dwindling by the second. The stairs were twelve floors of pure spite. The elevator, however, was right there. The doors were slightly ajar, the interior light a sickly, jaundiced yellow.
Leo didn't scream. He just watched, paralyzed, as the thing lowered itself down. It was vaguely human, but its joints were all wrong, moving like a marionette whose strings were being cut and re-tied in real time. Its mouth opened—a wet, silent hole. But Leo was late
Something was trying to get in .
Leo looked up.