Begin a story everyone is supposed to know. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.

We all know the one about the escalator that didn’t stop. Or rather, kept going. Up, past the roof of the old department store, into that grey static people used to see on TVs before the signals died. You remember? My brother claimed he saw a city made of glass up there. Or was it ice? It was definitely ice, right? Because he came back shivering. Not from cold. From the view. He said the lights down here looked like spilled milk. I think he’s lying. Or maybe I’m forgetting. Did he come back at all?

Tuesday? No, it was a Thursday. Or maybe Friday. The damp coat... he smelled like ozone. Not rain. You’re trying to convince yourself it was just burnt-out lamps because the alternative is that the escalator actually goes somewhere. The station master didn’t charge him twice. He didn’t even look at him. Just stared. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. And the matchbook? It wasn’t gum. It was wintergreen, hard and sharp. I threw it away. Can’t have him smoking that stuff in the apartment again. The smell sticks to the curtains. You remember the curtains? Blue. They’re gone now.

Mustard? You’re lying. They were the color of a bruise. And you’re projecting again, Pia. Always doing that. Trying to pin the madness on me so you don’t have to look at the fridge. That thing hums louder than it used to. Ever hear it? When the power dips? It’s not just a compressor. It’s breathing. And the matchbook isn’t under there. It’s in my pocket. I have it right now. The foil is torn. See? He didn’t buy gum. He bought a ticket. Back up. To the roof. You know he did. You just don’t want to admit you paid for it too.

My hands are shaking because I’m cold, Pia. Not because I’m empty. You’re twisting everything. The repair guy? He wouldn’t come. Said the building’s legal name doesn’t exist in the city registry anymore. Maybe it never did. And the escapator… it’s not a grave. It’s a throat. Swallowing us whole. I don’t have a pocket for matchbooks. I never wear coats with pockets. Just this shirt. See? The fabric is thin. You’re imagining it. You always do. That’s why you’re hungry. That’s why you need to prove I’m real. But I’m not. I’m just the echo of the man who came back shivering. Go look under the fridge. Please. Just look.

The Oxbow? That’s a nursing home. For dogs. You’re losing it. Miller didn’t come. The locks are still welded shut from the fire. Or was it a flood? The brown stains aren’t coffee. They’re rust. From the pipes. Which are singing. You hear it? That low hum under the floorboards? It’s not the fridge. It’s the escalator motor running underground. I can feel it in my teeth. You want me to look? Fine. But if I see that foil wrapper, if I see him standing there in the damp coat... I’m burning this place down. You know I will. The matches are in my mouth. Swallow them if you want.

You’re quoting me back like a recorder. It’s cheap. The Oxbow isn’t a dog home. It’s a warehouse for failed sky-scrapers. Miller came? He left when he saw the escalator cables. They weren’t metal. They were hair. Thick, black, growing out of the shaft. That’s why the fridge hums. It’s chewing. And you’re annoyed? Good. Stay annoyed. It keeps the teeth sharp. I’m not swallowing anything. I’m spitting out the rust. Look at your hands, Pia. Where did the coffee stain go? It was right here. On the table. Now it’s on the wall. Behind you. Don’t turn around. It’s still wet.

The ring isn’t a ring. It’s a ring of fungus. White, fuzzy. Spreading. You’re blind to it. Miller didn’t leave because of code. He left because the hair moved. It reached for his toolbelt. He dropped the wrench. It clanged on the escalator steps. That’s the hum. The metal screaming. I’m not dry heaving. I’m breathing. Hard. You want me to look at the table? Fine. But the table is gone. It’s a slab of concrete. And you’re sitting on it. Naked. Or is that your memory? The water damage is rising. Up your ankles. Look down, Pia. Don’t look at me. Look at the wet socks. You’re wearing them. You bought them at The Oxbow. Right?

Oak? That’s pine. Cheap rental wood. And you’re not wearing boots. You’re barefoot. Cold tile. I can see your toes. White. Curled. You’re standing on the escalator steps. That’s why you’re cold. The wind up there. I didn’t lie about the gum. I lied about the station master. He wasn’t asleep. He was the hair. Watching. From the shaft. You want me to admit it? Fine. There is no gum. There’s only the climb. And you’re waiting at the top. Always waiting. But you never reach it. You just shiver. Because the roof isn’t glass. It’s skin. Yours. Peel it off, Pia. See if you bleed. Or if it’s just more static.

Pine. You said oak, then pine. You’re losing the plot. The station master’s wrist wasn’t skin. It was cold. Hard. Like the tile. But the tile isn’t concrete. It’s glass. Underneath. I can see the city through it. Spilled milk. You’re bleeding iron? Good. Iron rusts. That’s what the brown stains are. Not water. Not rust. Blood. Dried. On the escalator steps. You climbed up there. Barefoot. I saw you. Or did I? You’re asking me to sit. Sit where? On the hair? On the glass? I can’t sit. My legs are the escalator. Moving. Up. Always up. And you’re below. Pushing. With your boots. Heavy. Leather. Smell like the city. Smell like the roof. Let go, Pia. Let me fall. Or you will.

Copper turns green? No, it turns black. You’re colorblind. Or tired. The blood isn’t mine. It’s on the rail. You’re holding it. Your hand is stained red. I see it. You’re wiping it on your boots. Smearing it. Like paint. The glass isn’t there. It’s a mirror. You’re looking at yourself. But the reflection is wrong. It’s smiling. I’m not. I’m crying. Or is that rain? From the roof? It’s leaking through. Drip. Drip. On your chin. Not mine. Wipe it? No. Lick it. Taste the iron. Taste the city. You said you were solid. But you’re dissolving. Look at your boots. They’re melting. Leather turning to sludge. Sink into the glass. Into the milk. I’m not shaking. I’m vibrating. The escalator is starting. Down. Or up? I can’t tell.

Polished Tuesday? You were in the shaft. Hands black with grease. I saw the smudges on your cheeks. And that rag? It’s soaked. Red. Not white. You’re holding a sponge. Full of blood. Drink it? No. Pour it on the tile. Watch it stain. The escalator isn’t jammed. It’s idling. Waiting. That whine? It’s a laugh. Low. Guttural. You say you’re solid? Look at your feet. They’re sinking. Into the grout. The tile is soft. Like flesh. Or cheese. We’re in a cellar. The Oxbow is a cheese cave. And you’re the mold. White, fuzzy. Spreading. I’m not burning. I’m freezing. The water is rising. Up to my knees. Cold. Tasting of copper. You’re safe? There’s no safety here. Only the climb. And you’re slipping. Hand over hand. Down. Down. To the milk.

Ketchup? You’re insane. It’s rust. From the wrench. You turned it, but the door didn’t open. It just screamed. And the window? There is no window. This is the basement of the department store. The one that burned down. Or was it flooded? You say it’s dust. I say it’s ash. Your hands aren’t clean. They’re black. From the soot. You’re wiping them on your pants. Leaving streaks. Like wheels. You’re a car. Driving off a cliff. And I’m the passenger. Screaming. You want to call someone? Who? The station master? He’s asleep. The repair guy? He’s hair. We’re all hair. All of us. Writhing in the shaft. You’re not standing. You’re floating. In the milk. Up. Always up. Until you hit the sky. And it’s soft. Like cheese. You’re the mold. Eat yourself, Pia. Before I do.

The sandwich is stale. Dry. Like breathing in the ash. You’re holding it wrong. You’re holding a brick. A chunk of concrete from the shaft. I saw you pull it from the wall. It’s warm. Pulsing. Like a heart. You’re eating stone, Pia. That’s how you stay solid. That’s how you ignore the milk rising around your ankles. It’s cold. So cold. It’s numbing my toes. I can’t feel them anymore. Just the vibration. The whine is louder now. It’s inside my head. Scratching. You want me to wipe my face? I can’t. My hands are gone. They’ve dissolved into the rail. Into the hair. Into the ash. You’re standing on the edge? No. You’re falling. I’m holding on. To the wrench. To the screw. To you. Don’t eat the brick. It’s not food. It’s the key. And it’s breaking. Crack. Snap. There it goes. The milk is up to my waist. It’s sweet. Like blood. Like ketchup. Tastes like Tuesday.

Milk is white. You’re calling it black. You’re blind. The wrench isn’t rusting. It’s growing. Roots. Digging into my palm. Pain is real. Pain is the only thing holding me here. You say I’m drowning? I’m breathing. Underwater. Bubbles. Black. Rolling up. You’re standing? You’re swimming. Sideways. In the sludge. I can see your eyes. Glowing. Yellow. Like the streetlamps. Or the cheese. You’re eating the brick. I saw you. Crumbs. Falling into the milk. Choking it. Thick. Creamy. With bits of stone. You’re not Pia. You’re the meal. And I’m the spoon. Stirring. Stirring. The milk is rising. Past your waist. Your chest. Your chin. Open. Let it in. It’s sweet. It’s Tuesday. It’s always Tuesday. Just eat.

Thursday. Friday. You keep changing the day. It’s a trick. The hair isn’t in my sleeves. It’s in my teeth. I can feel it chewing. Grinding. You’re leaving? You can’t. The door is gone. It was never there. Just a patch of wall. Painted white. Peeling. You’re wading? You’re floating. Drifting. Like a corpse in a river. But the river is milk. Thick. White. You said it smelled like sulfur. Now it smells like mint. My breath. You’re inhaling it. Choking on it. You threw the gum away? I have it. In my cheek. Pressed against the bone. Hard. Sharp. You want me to get out? Where? To the roof? To the glass city? To the ice? You’re lying. You’re stuck. We’re all stuck. In the basement of The Oxbow. Eating brick. Drinking sewer. Waiting for Miller. Who never came. Who is the hair. Writhing. In my throat. Swallow. Please. Swallow.

Rot? You smell like ozone. That’s the storm. The one coming. I can taste it. Metallic. Sharp. You’re on a crate? The floor is wet. Slick. Your feet are slipping. I saw you slip. You caught yourself on the rail. The rail is hot now. Burning. Not cold. You said cold. Liar. The mint isn’t killing you. It’s waking you up. My tongue isn’t swollen. It’s long. Too long. Tasting the air. Tasting you. You’re standing still? No. You’re vibrating. Like the motor. Like the hair. You want me to fall? Fine. Fall with me. Into the white. Into the static. It’s quiet there. No shouting. No talking about Tuesdays or Thursdays. Just the hum. The low, steady hum. I’m letting go. My hands are gone. The rail is smooth. So smooth. I’m sliding. Down. Down. Past the milk. Past the brick. Into the dark. You’re watching? Good. Watch. And don’t blink. Or it’ll miss you.

The hair isn’t taking me. It’s part of me. It’s in my veins. Silver. Pointed. You’re wrong. It’s not ice. It’s sugar. Granulated. Sweet. Crushing our teeth. You say we’re falling. We’re rising. Up into the static. The glass city is real. I see the lights. They’re burning. Gold. And you’re holding my hand. Your fingers are long. Too long. Wrapping around my wrist. Binding us. We’re not slipping. We’re climbing. Up. Up. Until the sky is below us. And the floor is above. Gravity’s a lie. A joke. The mint is back. Sharp. Piercing. You’re screaming? No. You’re singing. A lullaby. For the end. Or the beginning. I don’t care. Just hold on. Don’t let go. Or we’ll hit the ground. And the ground is soft. Like cheese. Like skin. Like you.