The Ninth Floor Stairwell

    Nine security cameras, showing nine different areas of the building on nine rectangles on the flat screen. Still.  Unmoving. Might as well be photographs.
    Carl yawned, blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked back at the screen.  Movement on Camera 7.  Carl's eyes were pulled over to the rectangle on the bottom left of the screen.
    He blinked.
    He saw himself enter the ninth floor stairwell.
    Carl lept up out of his chair--it rolled back behind him and crashed into the filing cabinet (the filing cabinet  Carl sometimes sorted through, even though the files were technically confidential).
    He leaned in to take a closer look at Camera 7--what was he (I?) doing?  How the…?
    Jim.  Jim was messing around with him, using previously recorded footage.
    "Nice work, asshole," he said loudly.  His heart, in betrayal, was still beating a little too fast, his head feeling a little too light.
    Carl watched himself (myself?) on the monitor--when had he ever gone into the ninth floor stairwell?  Having an lifelong fear of heights, he'd never have gone  there without a reason.  The building was old and from the top of the stairs one could see them descending down, floor by floor, with a clear but disorienting view of the tiles on the bottom floor.  Just thinking about that drop made Carl a little nauseous.
    Fuck, he'd remember something important like that, important enough to enter the goddamn ninth floor stairwell.
    Leaning even further in, he watched his video self move quickly, slamming his entire body desperately against the stairwell door.  He seemed to be yelling something and looked panicked, but since the cameras didn't have sound Carl was going to have to rely on lip reading.
    Help.  He (I?) was screaming for help.  Someone (something) was trying to get in.
    This definitely had not happened before.
    Carl, hands shaking, zoomed in on his own face on the video.  He was wearing the same Red Sox hat Patricia bought for him at that bullshit game last month. His fingers lightly traced the brim.  The Video Carl's mustache, after residing on his upper lip for almost ten years, was shaven, just like he'd done this morning after too many "scratchy" complaints from Patricia.
    So this was today.
    (or after today)
    Carl stared at the screen, dreading what he'd see next but unable to stop watching.  Video Carl suddenly stopped pressing against the door.  He backed up slowly to the stair rail, staring in terror at nothing in front of him.  The door began to open.  Still nothing.  His back against the rail, Video Carl looked up at the camera.
    And jumped over the top of the stair rail.
    Carl yanked open the security office door and ran down the hall and into the darkened corner where the eerie glow of the EXIT sign was the only light.  The EXIT to the ninth floor stairwell.
    Carl pressed his ear against the door.
    Nothing.
    No screaming for help, and certainly not in his very own voice.
    Relieved, he leaned against the door, sliding down to the floor.  He must have fallen asleep at the switch and dreamed it.  Probably he was still asleep.
    He laughed a little.  What were these called?  Lucid dreams?
    A scuffling sound down the hallway.  Something moving.
    The EXIT sign at the opposite end of the hall suddenly went out.  Carl squinted his eyes, peering down the dark hallway.
    The EXIT sign wasn't out.  It was being blocked.
    By someone (something) very, very tall.
    Carl's heart skipped a beat.  The shuffling sound got closer.  Closer.
    A feeling of dread began to leak through his body.  Whoever (whatever) this was... it felt very, very wrong.
    Carl scrambled up off the floor.  He fumbled frantically until he felt his hand close around the door knob.  The doorknob to the ninth floor stairwell.
    He froze.  The feeling of dread now weighed the air down.
    It was coming.
    He didn't want to see it, he didn't want to look up.  In his heart he knew.  He knew what it was and he didn't want to look up.
    Carl looked up.