“Open the door, please.” I’m nearly screaming now. “I’minsidehere.”
I slap at my thigh several times, fumbling for my purse, and then remember I brought the clutch tonight, and it’s on the damn sawhorse by the door, with my phone stuck inside it.
By now fear’s foaming inside me. The lower level is windowless, so there’s no light coming from anywhere. After grabbing the doorframe of the podcast studio, I move cautiously along the wall for a couple of feet.
I try to picture the setup in my mind. There were two additional rooms before this one, I think—the other podcast studio and the meeting room—and if I walk along the outside of them, hugging the wall, I’ll reach the front, and I can feel my way toward the sawhorse. But there are booby traps on this side of the space—paint cans and rolls of tarp. It might be better to walk more in the center until I reach the workstations. Then navigate my way around them.
I start with baby steps, sliding my kitten heels across the tile floor with both arms stretched out in front of me, still seeing nothing. It’s like I’ve been submerged in a tank of quivering blackness. I take a deep breath, feeling my panic come to a boil.
Finally, my left thigh connects with something hard—the first workstation, I realize. I grasp the edge of the desktop with my hand and inch along the side of it. I do the same with the next two desktops until I’m finally at the end.
Sweat is nearly pouring from me now, soaking the armpits of my dress. I gulp air, assuring myself I’m almost there. And sure enough, my eyes spot a thin, faint ribbon of light along the ground. That must be where the door is, with the sawhorse just ahead of it.
I start baby-stepping again, aiming for the ribbon of light. And then, horribly, the ground gives way beneath my left foot, and I go pitching forward. For a split second I seem to be falling in space before landing on the ground with a hard thwack.
The conversation pit.I must be at the bottom of it now. Groaning, I slowly pull myself up on an elbow. Both my left hip and wrist sting from breaking the fall, but all I care about right now is getting out of the dark. I crawl around until I find the edge of the seating area, hoist myself onto it, and struggle to my feet.
The ribbon of light is now only feet away. I limp in that direction until my hand finally makes contact with my purse, and once I have it, I dig out my phone and turn on the flashlight. Training the beam toward the wall, I locate the light switch and flick it on.
Almost instantly my panic starts to subside.
I stand there for a moment, getting my bearings and finally focusing on my body. My hip and wrist are throbbing, but neither seems seriously injured. My dress is another story, however. Not only is it wet from perspiration, but there’s also a huge smear of dirt on the lower half. Though it will mean being late for the reception, I’ll have to return to the inn and change.
Yet when I press the door handle and push, nothing happens. I try again, this time using my unbruised hip. The door budges only an inch. Something is blocking it.
I flash back to the scrape of metal I heard minutes ago ... and then picture the table I saw in the corridor. Maybe that’s against the doornow. Did the workmen come back and place it there for some reason, not knowing anyone was inside?
Or did someone do this to me on purpose?
I feel my panic start to simmer again. I need to call Logan and have him send someone to get me out. I quickly tap his number on my phone, only to see that there’s no cell coverage or Wi-Fi signal down here yet.
Fuck.But I tell myself to calm down. At least it’s not dark anymore, and hopefully the people I heard earlier are still on the floor. Besides, if I keep pushing hard enough, I can probably force the table out of the way on my own.
After setting my phone back down, I start on the door again, using both my good hip and hand to shove. It’s obvious after a dozen miserable tries, however, that there’s no way I’m going to dislodge the table more than a couple of inches. It feels like one end is jammed into a corner of the hall, creating an unbudging wedge.
But at least there’s enough of an opening for my voice to be heard.
“Is anyone out there?” I yell with my cheek against the door. “Please, I need help.”
I call out several more times, but no one comes.
My hip is hurting even more now, so I drag a metal folding chair toward the door and slowly lower myself onto the seat. I start calling out again, taking small breaks in between. No response. I double-check my phone, hoping a signal has miraculously appeared, but it’s still a total dead zone.
Then I notice the time: 6:22. The reception has already started. Logan is there, of course, vaguely wondering where I am by now but probably assuming I didn’t want to arrive too early and have to mingle. But remarks are due to start at 6:30, and they’re only going to wait so long for me to arrive.
What if I miss his remarks? What if I miss the whole reception?
I struggle up from the chair and start yelling even louder than before, until my voice is strained. Why would someonedothis to me?
I need to make more noise. The people who were meeting down here earlier are obviously gone, but there still might be professors in their offices on the second floor. I glance around. Lying by the far wall are a couple of barrel-shaped metal rods. After hobbling over and grabbing one of them, I start pounding on the door with it. It makes an almost deafening sound, and before long I’ve not only chipped paint off parts of the door but also covered the top half with dents.
Minutes pass, then more minutes. I keep pounding, pausing now and then to listen and praying for the sound of footsteps—friendlyones. Maybe by this point, the building has completely emptied.
Chip,I suddenly think. I mentioned to him that I was going to stop here. But I doubt he’ll waste much time wondering where I am.
As I start to pound again, I feel tears welling in my eyes. I’m going to miss the reception, and Logan will assume I chickened out, that whatever change of heart I experienced about going was overridden by my initial instinct to stay away. Beyond that, I’ll be entombed here all night, forced to pee in a corner. Has someone done this to mess with my head?
And then, in between the repeated clangs of metal on metal, I hear it: footsteps, then someone yelling, “Hold on.”
