Free The Dead Gentleman by Matthew Cody

barely knew was carrying around her picture. Max was creepy. Thanks to his overactive hormones, she now had no one to turn to when she was in real trouble. The universe was stacking against her.
    She’d find the ghost boy. She would go to the basement, and the ghost boy would explain what was going on. Jezebel crept back into the apartment and grabbed a flashlight, careful not to wake her father. Outside in the hall, as she waited for the elevator, she worked on bolstering her courage. She’d get some answers. She just had to.
    The elevator door opened up and Elevator Man was waiting for her.
    As she stepped inside she kept her eyes focused on the floor—everything was still swirling around in her head.
    They’d traveled down several floors before she realized that something was different. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Elevator Man wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even looking at her; he just stared at the slowly changing floor numbers like normal people do. And he was no longer smiling.
    For some strange reason this alarmed her nearly as much as anything else she’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours. She felt like she should make some small talk, break the unnerving silence.
    “I missed the weather forecast,” she said. “You catch it by any chance?”
    “They’re calling for sun, but they’re wrong,” he answered, but the smile was gone from his voice. “The sun’s not coming back, not ever. And you’d better tread carefully from here on out, Jezebel. The Gentleman is at the door and it’s best not to keep him waiting. He will rise up the dead and buried of this world and throw them against you.”
    At the mention of the Gentleman, Jez’s breath caught in her throat and stayed there. She was suddenly keenly aware of how close they were. Gone was the smell of mint; today his breath reeked of rotten things. It was terribly claustrophobic in here, as close as a coffin.
    The door chimed again and Elevator Man opened the gate.
    “Bottom floor,” he said.
    Jez dropped all pretense at friendliness. She bolted out of the elevator without looking back, not even daring to breathe until she’d gotten halfway across the lobby.
    She was so panicked she didn’t even see old Bernie until she’d slammed into him.
    “Everything all right, miss?” he asked.
    “The Elevator Man! The Gentleman! He said the dead were coming!” Jezebel couldn’t help herself. Her heart was throbbing in her ears and panic had thrown all caution to the wind. It was all just coming out in a rush.
    Bernie bent down and put a hand on her shoulder. His eyes peered at her from behind thick plastic glasses. When he blinked he looked like an owl. She’d never noticed that before.
    “Who said this? The elevator operator?”
    Jez nodded.
    “He mentioned the Gentleman?”
    Jez nodded again. “He said he was at the door.”
    Bernie looked sharply over her shoulder and Jez followed his gaze. The elevator door was closed—the numbers up top were slowly rising as it traveled back up the floors.
    “Come, little miss,” said Bernie, leading her to his door. “Come inside.”
    “No one will believe me, Bernie,” said Jez, and she was surprised that her voice was hoarse. Her body was still shaking with fear.
    “I believe you, miss,” he answered, and his creaky, tobacco-burnt voice turned soft. “I believe you.”
    Bernie’s little apartment was a junk shop of odds and ends, and bits and pieces of machinery. She could see one uncluttered space in the whole room, a well-worn recliner with patched armrests that looked like it belonged in the trash heap. To the left was a small kitchenette, and set into the far wall was a closet door that Jez had no intention of going near. Every other square inch was covered in piles of scattered newspaper, but they obviously weren’t meant for reading; they were to catch the grease and oil of a hundred little cogs and contraptions. His apartment looked more like a