Lev didn’t kill anyone.
Not at first.
The old man had had a heart attack and Lev merely consumed the body.
Cleaned up, you might say.
Like a vulture.
I was the apartment building’s night watchman at the time and saw it on the security camera:
…the old man clutching his chest, falling; squirming on the floor—until he wasn’t, then the acidic secretions dripping down the walls, dissolving him until all but his bones had been absorbed by the carpet…
It was like a sponge.
God, when I stepped on it, it was like a sponge saturated with liquified human.
I kept throwing up while removing the bones, wiping the interior, listening to the mammalsquish drip-drip-drip through the carpet, into what sounded like a cavernous space below.
Why did I do it: remove the evidence, delete the footage?
Because even then I felt something for him.
For Lev.
And I did a good job, because nobody noticed. Sure, the old man was gone, but he was missing, not dead. “He probably wandered out,” I told the cops. “He wasn’t all there in the head.”
A few days later I bought a goat.
Killed it, butchered it. Waited till 2:00 a.m. before—Ding. The doors opened—pushing it in.
Lev ate that too.
He loved it!
The next time, I tried a live goat, jerking it inside by a rope tied around its neck, the stubborn animal putting up a hellish fight before I managed to trap it in there.
Then I slipped out the shutting doors.
Bleat.
Bleat—
Ding.
More mammalsquish.
But squeaky clean by morning, my pink eyes struggling to stay focused on Mrs Edwards from unit 704:
“What were you doing in the elevator with that goat?”
“I—what?”
“I saw you,” she says.
She threatens to call the police, accusing me of occultism.
I invite her to take a look inside (“the elevator?”) Lev.
Ding.
He slides open his doors.
We enter.
My heart beats.
I’ve never been inside when Lev—
[violence]
.
I’m panting, sweating, flush against one of Lev’s walls. Mrs Edwards—what remains of her—gargle-flops on the carpet.
Lev retracts his teeth.
All I can think is He protected me! Killed for me!
Banging.
On the doors. I realise it’s the afternoon and people are waiting for the elevator.
“Why won’t it
open,” I tell Lev, and he does.
Gasps.
Family of three.
I know what I must do.
Before they can
realize
run
I
start grabbing their limbs, pulling them inside, sensing Lev salivate, bare his wicked fangs, oh, how they scream!
[violence]
Ding.
Blood-drenched I step into the lobby.
Thankfully: empty.
“Elevator problem,” I tell management over the phone.
Hang a sign.
Grab a knife.
Inside Lev there’s a mountain of flesh, four bodies jumbled together.
I slice the oversaturated carpet—
They fall.
Down the demon-throat.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Lev. “We’ll figure this out.”
My voice echoes.
echoes
echoes
My parental instinct kicks in.
“You’re a good boy, Lev.”
“You’re a very good boy.”