Silent Vigil

He began to rifle through the filing cabinets first, finding the usual records and documents that one would expect to see in an administrator's office. As he moved along the row, however, he came across something decidedly more unusual. The files in this drawer were listed by name, with only the surname scribbled in pen, not at all what one would expect for staff records or something of the like. Most of that stuff would be handled by computer anyway, there was no reason to keep physical files on employees...

Ethan pulled one from the drawer, opening the folder. There was a form inside with an NYPD emblem on the top, it looked like a police report. It was old, the paper yellowed and cracked in places, the text written in looping cursive. His eyes began to widen as he read from the aged document. It was a police report from the nineteen-fifties, detailing a fight between two patrons over a card game, which had resulted in one of them being stabbed. The man had died on the scene before an ambulance could arrive. As he flipped through the pages, he almost dropped the folder in alarm. There were crime scene photos, black and white, depicting a man sprawled on a carpet. His vest was stained with what was presumably blood, his eyes open, glassy and vacant.

He set the folder down on the table and pulled out another. It was similar to the first, a surname written on it in pen, its contents detailing another wrongful death. This one described a suicide by gunshot, Ethan's heart beginning to beat faster with every turn of the page. It seemed to stop dead in his chest as he came across more photos, this one showing a portly man in his underwear who was slumped in a leather armchair, most of his head...missing. It perfectly fit the description of the apparition that the tearful janitor had described.

After pulling out a few more folders, it became clear that this was a record of every murder and suicide that had taken place on the premises going back almost to when it was built. A storied history indeed, Spencer had downplayed how many deaths had occurred in the Abbott and Schutzman over the decades, there must be two dozen or more. It wasn't too unusual for a building like this one to see accidents and suicides, especially one so old, but this was excessive. More importantly, why were these records being kept? Who could possibly need access to this information?

He returned the folders to the filing cabinet, and moved over to the desk, searching through one of the drawers. After rummaging for a minute, he found a key, holding it up to the light. He couldn't be sure that it was the key to the elevator, there was no tag on it, but it was clearly very old. It was ornate too, made from gold, or at least plated with it. What else would the key to an executive elevator look like?

With the key in hand, he made his way back out of the office, heading for the elevator. There were three of them in a row towards the back wall of the lobby, the two public elevators, and the larger freight elevator. So, where was this executive elevator? With a little searching, he located it, situated on a wall to the left of the main shafts. It was more decorative than its counterparts, but it was out of view behind one of the luminous marble pillars, hard to spot if one wasn't looking for it.

Hoping that he had found the right key, Ethan pushed it into the lock and turned it. The creak of aged machinery greeted him as the two gold-plated doors slowly parted, their gears grinding, revealing an interior that was lined with crimson padding. Ritzy...

He stepped inside, praying that the damned thing even worked after so long and that he wouldn't end up pancaked on the basement floor. These old elevators required manual operation, so he moved the lever and pushed the appropriate button, the car lurching worryingly as it began to rise.

It was a tense ride to the seventy-first floor, but he eventually arrived, glad to be free of the gilded death trap as he emerged onto the first of the forbidden levels. Dilapidated was right. The carpet was covered in a layer of dust so thick that it almost looked like ash after a fire. The Art Deco wallpaper was peeling off the walls in strips, and the plaster on the ceiling had flaked off over the decades, raining to the floor below. There was damp everywhere, the danger of mold was real, and the ceiling was sagging in places. The musty smell was overpowering, Ethan wrinkling his nose as he began to walk, wishing that he'd had the foresight to bring a dust mask and maybe a hardhat.

This floor looked like it had served as some kind of high-class apartment complex, maybe for friends and colleagues of the owners. It wasn't too different from the hotel floors of the same era, albeit far more spacious, the suites here more akin to penthouses. As he peered into one of the suites, the door so swollen with damp that it could no longer close, he saw that there were windows up here. They were full-length, glass from floor to ceiling, not so grimy that he couldn't get a wonderful view of the city's sparkling lights.

He stepped inside, noting the crystal chandelier that was hanging from the flaking ceiling above, now draped in a thick covering of cobwebs. The leather furniture had mostly rotted away, exposing white puffs of stuffing, every surface coated in dust. What a shame, if these floors had been maintained, they could have been leased out to the city's wealthy denizens for inordinate sums of money.

As much as he wanted to explore these relics of the past, he shouldn't linger. He had to return the keys before morning, and being here was dangerous for reasons other than mold. The less time he spent on these levels, the better.

He pressed onward, mounting a spiral staircase that led up through the center of the building, its banisters decorated with lavish gold leaf. It creaked worryingly, but it seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight. He passed by more penthouses, eventually emerging into an open space that took up most of the floor. It was decorated much like the lobby, with an Art Deco flair, deep reds and browns accented by shining gold. There was more red marble, the structural pillars that were spaced out at intervals sporting those same inlays of amber onyx that had once softened the light strips that illuminated the room. They were dark now, there was no power being delivered to these levels. The ceiling was maybe eight or nine feet above his head, the maze of geometric patterns flaking away, the carpet beneath his feet impregnated with damp and mold.

Ethan began to wander, his head on a swivel. It was like exploring the abandoned stronghold of some Middle Eastern dictator, or a super-villain from a spy movie. It was so impossibly lavish, yet at the same time, in such an advanced state of decay. There were red leather armchairs all over the place, usually sitting around tables of dark mahogany, the varnish having long since lost its luster. The furniture was all exquisitely carved, the legs of the tables and chairs sporting intricate reliefs, their feet fashioned into the hooves and paws of various animals. Speaking of which, the walls were adorned with hunting trophies, dozens of glassy eyes staring back at him vacantly. There was a whole African Savannah's worth of exotic creatures here, from lions and tigers to ibex and buffalo. Much like the crystal chandeliers that dangled from the high ceiling, they too were draped in cobwebs, so thick that they almost looked like bridal veils. There were blank spaces where artwork had once hung from the walls, too, but those at the very least had been salvaged at some point.

The most striking part of the room was the row of windows that occupied the entire North face of the floor. They extended from carpet to ceiling, designed to look like one uninterrupted pane, now caked in several decades worth of dirt. Ethan walked up to them, peering through the grimy glass. No wonder they had called it the Sky Lounge. When these windows had been clean, it would have seemed like the occupants could reach out and touch the clouds...

To the right of him was a section of the floor that was conspicuously clear of furniture, the wall behind it devoid of any decorations. As Ethan walked over to examine it more closely, he noted that there was a clear break in the carpet, only visible because it had rotted away to reveal the wood beneath it over the years. It was crescent-shaped, and there were clear indents in the wall behind the peeling wallpaper. Could this be the secret speakeasy that Spencer had described?

He began to search for the lever, finding an almost comically out of place candelabra and giving it a tentative tug. A grinding sound filled the room, machinery that hadn't seen use in nearly a hundred years coming to life, making the floor vibrate. The crescent-shaped section of flooring slid back, revealing what must once have been a varnished countertop. There were bar stools arranged along its curve, their stainless steel supports still gleaming, while the red leather that had once padded their seats had been eaten away in places.

The whole assembly began to rise from the floor, Ethan watching in fascination as a bar materialized before his eyes, locking into place with a mechanical clunk. On the wall behind it, more wooden panels began to slide back, revealing shelves and compartments that had once held liquor bottles. They were empty now, no doubt cleared out after the fateful police raid that had resulted in the death of that unfortunate man.

Ethan was a facility manager before he was a ghost hunter, and his heart sank when he considered that few other people would ever get to see this place. If Spencer would let them clean up this area of the building and bring it up to code, it would put the Abbott and Schutzman on the map, the place would become a tourist hotspot.

As he turned to leave, he was stopped in his tracks by the prone figure of a man. He was wearing a tailored suit, the fine fabric stained with blood, one of his loafers lying on the carpet a short distance away. His body was twisted, broken, as though he had been thrown from a car wreck. Ethan couldn't see his face, the man's head was turned away from him, but it was easy to imagine how broken and bruised it must be. This must be the patron who had been beaten to death by the overzealous police all those years ago.

As much as the sight filled Ethan with dread, he knew what these ghosts were now, echoes of the past that were forced to relive their final moments over and over again. Fear of the unknown was one thing, but he understood this phenomenon, at least enough to know that he wasn't in any immediate danger.

The crumpled figure began to move, crawling towards the bar with shattered limbs, a baleful moan echoing in the empty room.

"Nope," Ethan muttered, walking briskly around the apparition and refusing to look at it. "Fuck that."

He made his way back to the spiral staircase and ascended, leaving the harrowing sight behind him.

***

The next floor was the observation deck, all four of its walls made up of windows. The building was starting to narrow now as Ethan made his way deeper into the crown. There were a few comfortable chairs arranged by them, but the main event was happening outside. There was a walkway that ringed the building, open to the air, with nothing but an insubstantial railing to prevent curious tourists from plunging to their deaths. That might have been sufficient in the twenties, but this was one floor that Ethan could completely agree with closing off to the public.

It must have been breathtaking back in the day, but the windows hadn't been cleaned in an age, so he couldn't make out much. Knowing that he was probably asking for trouble, he walked over to the door that led out onto the balcony, finding that it was unlocked. He pushed it open and was immediately hit by a gust of frigid wind, the familiar scents of the city rising to his nose. This floor was nearing the thousand-foot height of the building, an altitude more suited to small planes and helicopters than people. He walked cautiously out onto the balcony, gripping the freezing railing in his hands as he peered out over the cityscape. It was the dead of night, but the moon was full, just peeking out from behind the dark clouds. The glittering lights of the city greeted him, the traffic on the roads far below seeming to make them glow, bleeding up to illuminate the buildings from beneath.

The railing at least seemed sturdy. There were old floodlights that were no longer operational, pointing back up at the facade of the Abbott and Schutzman, which must have lit it up beautifully back in the day. There were four stone brackets that projected out from the balcony, one on each corner, and sitting atop them were four massive gargoyles.

They were carved from the same stone as the rest of the building, their sculpted wings folded across their backs, their devilish tails trailing behind them. Each one had a slightly different pose, leering out over the city, crouched as though preparing to pounce. Ethan edged his way closer to one of them, admiring its craftsmanship. They must have weighed a ton, and they were exquisitely carved, far moreso than one would expect from such a piece. The original owners really had spared no expense. Gargoyles were often fairly crude and stylized, but these were intricately detailed, bulging muscles visible beneath their lifeless skin. He could even make out trailing veins in places, along with the indent of their ribs. Their proportions too were more human than most, almost like the sculptor had sought a middle ground between a gargoyle and a Romanesque statue, giving them a far more unnerving appearance that they might otherwise have had. The one that Ethan was inspecting had twisted, swept-back horns that jutted from an otherwise bald head, its lips pulled back in a snarl to expose rows of sharp teeth. A long tongue jutted from between them, its brow furrowed, its nose more like that of a lion or a bear than a person. The elements had not been kind to it, it was cracked in places, patches of green lichen clinging to its rocky skin. Another shameful display of neglect.

Whatever he was looking for, he wasn't going to find it here, so he made his way back inside.

***

There was only one floor left, the interior of the spire, situated at the very top of the building. It was a place never intended to be visited, never meant to be seen by the public. Ethan had never actually set foot in one before, but he knew what to expect, a hollow tower that was crisscrossed with exposed structural beams. He reached a point where the spiral staircase ended, giving way to naked metal and brickwork, the walls further narrowing around him until there was only maybe twenty feet of clearance.

The only way to get any higher now was to mount a long ladder that led to a hatch in the ceiling above him, so he began to climb. The higher he went, the warmer it seemed to get. There wouldn't be A/C up here even if it had electricity, because it wasn't supposed to be inhabited. He arrived at the hatch, the floor here made from bare iron, and lifted it with his shoulder. The hinges creaked, then it fell open with a loud bang, Ethan pulling himself through an opening that was scarcely wider than the breadth of his shoulders.

As he struggled to his feet and brushed himself off, he looked up, seeing something that he could never have anticipated. He spun on the spot as he tried to take it all in, his footsteps echoing on the metal, his confusion gradually turning to realization. Above him was the mess of steel beams that he had expected to find, the spire towering two hundred feet into the air, motes of dust dancing in the shafts of moonlight that bled in through its windows. There was another ladder leading higher, fading into the shadows above.

All of the supports in sight were covered with rows of candles, great masses of them, their wax dripping down the naked I-beams. They came in all shapes, colors, and sizes, blending together as though they had been lit and re-lit hundreds of times. There must be a thousand of them at least, completely surrounding him. Those same beams were also engraved with symbols that had been etched into the metal seemingly by hand, strange runes, and elaborate seals. The most ubiquitous of them was a circular symbol surrounded by Latin letters, within which was contained a strange pictogram that made no sense to him. He wasn't sure what it was supposed to represent, perhaps a crude drawing of a bull. The letters too were nonsense, Ethan frowning as he tried to read them off. O-N-S-B-I-F-R. It was meaningless.

There were charms and trinkets hanging from the supports too, wooden amulets carved with the same strange symbols that dangled from lengths of string. They were joined by more lavish necklaces, encrusted with various jewels, the pendants glinting as they caught the light.

When his eyes turned to the floor beneath his feet, he saw something that he recognized. Spanning the entire room was a massive pentagram, a five-pointed star, encircled with flowing script that looked like Hebrew to Ethan. It was incredibly intricate and detailed, drawn onto the rusted metal with white paint, the runes and geometric patterns intertwining and flowing into one another.

"What the hell is all this?" he muttered to himself, beginning to walk around the circumference of the pentagram. Some kind of devil worship? He was already starting to accept the existence of ghosts, so it wasn't like much could surprise him at this point. There was a small table against the far wall, and he made his way over to it. It was stacked with old books that were bound in faded leather, strewn with strange trinkets, more pendants engraved with different runes. There were the remnants of incense burners, along with what looked suspiciously like a magic wand whittled from dark wood. He didn't dare touch anything, not wanting to leave any trace of his presence.

"Now what?" he wondered aloud, as though the ghosts that were purported to be watching could hear him. "I'm here, what the hell am I expected to do?"

Why couldn't the man in the cap just say precisely what he wanted from Ethan? He didn't know anything about the occult, or whatever all this shit was. This didn't tell him how he could stop what was happening. Maybe he should trash the place, pull down all of the charms, cover up the pentagram on the floor? But if that didn't work, then whoever was responsible would know that someone had been here. Should he call the police and tell them that there was a wizard keeping ghosts captive in the roof?

"Tell me what I'm supposed to do," he said, a little louder this time. He waited with bated breath, his voice echoing through the spire, but no specters materialized to answer him.

A clap of thunder almost made him jump out of his skin, reverberating inside the spire. A storm had rolled in while he had been exploring, the rain beginning to pound against the exterior of the building. He peered through one of the narrow, triangular windows, the night sky now obscured by rolling clouds in shades of ominous grey. Fuck it, it was time to leave.

Frustrated that his expedition into the upper floors had not resulted in a solution to his problem, he returned to the hatch and began to climb back down the ladder. As he neared the top of the spiral staircase that led back down into the building, he heard a loud thud, not thunder this time. His heart seemed to stop dead in his chest, Ethan holding his breath as he listened intently. Had someone followed him up here? Could it be that the person who was responsible for the strange shrine in the spire had come to continue their occult work? When else would they do it if not in the dead of night?