VALENTINES WEEK 2026
Runner-up
BY SHELL ST. JAMES
Copyright is held by the author.
WENDY RUSHED through the lobby, catching sight of the elevator, her heels clicking on the marble floor. Damn it, she was going to be late.
She pictured Matt, his lips thinned with irritation. Glancing quickly at her phone, the bold numerals of today’s date caught her eye, etching themselves forever into her memory: 1-9-1991. The day her marriage would officially end. How depressing. Just months ago, she thought they’d still had a chance.
The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside, grateful the space was empty. Just as the doors began to close, a familiar form shouldered through, and she felt her gut clench.
Matt.
Well, at least he couldn’t be condescending now. It appeared they were both running late for their appointment with the lawyer.
Steeling herself, she met his eyes, her heart twisting with love lost.
What happened to us?
As was his habit, he watched her silently, making her squirm uncomfortably.
“What?” She knew she sounded bitchy, but nausea was once again roiling in her stomach. She’d been feeling off all week.
Matt raised his brows. “I’m simply waiting for you to press the floor. You were here first.”
She sighed, finding herself annoyed beyond reason. He always managed to turn things around on her.
“For Pete’s sake, just hit the button, Matt!”
The buttons were clearly on his side of the car. Did he always have to be so difficult?
Visibly clenching his jaw, Matt pressed the floor button without comment. The elevator began to descend.
Wendy looked up, her eyes narrowing. They should be going up, not down.
“Did you hit the wrong floor?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, and she winced inwardly. Lately, Matt brought out the worst in her.
Above the doors, the luminous green display flashed a number: 1977.
Matt frowned at the strange number. “What? No. That doesn’t even make sense. This building only has 18 floors.”
Just as the words left his mouth, the elevator shuddered, shimmying on its track. Without warning, the floor seemed to drop out beneath them. Wendy yelped in panic as the cab rushed downward.
With an ominous bang, the car abruptly stopped falling. Wendy pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her nerves.
The doors slid open with a soft hiss.
A ghostly couple drifted in, semi-transparent in form. She wore bell-bottom jeans and sandals, her hair flowing to her waist. He wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and was bearded, with shoulder-length hair.
Stunned beyond comprehension, Wendy’s mouth dropped open.
It was them! Herself and Matt . . . at age 20. Happy, in love, about to graduate from college.
Astonished, Wendy shared a flabbergasted look with Matt. It was obvious he could see them, too. His face had gone deathly pale as he stared, unblinking, at the wispy forms.
The doors shut and Younger Matt pressed a button. The car began to rise.
“What is this?” Matt’s voice was hoarse, incredulous.
Wendy shrank back against the wall, her heart pounding, watching as her soon-to-be-ex reached out. His hand passed right through Younger Matt’s arm. The couple didn’t notice them, quietly talking, intent only on each other.
Matt shook his head, refusing to believe his eyes.
“This isn’t real,” he muttered. “Could it be a hologram?” He craned his neck, scanning the ceiling suspiciously before rounding on Wendy, brows drawn.
“Did you do this? Is this some kind of trick?”
She shook her head, speechless. The elevator came to a gentle stop, and the doors opened with a ping. The ethereal couple disembarked, floating down the corridor.
The doors closed again.
Her mind spinning, unsure of what to expect, Wendy hesitated. Her hand visibly trembled as she pressed the button for the 10th floor.
Matt continued to scrutinize the walls and ceiling of the elevator car, intent on finding an explanation, a deep scowl marring his features.
“Matt!” Wendy’s eyes widened as the display above the door lit up, flashing a new number.
1982.
The car clambered upward, groaning and shuddering. Blinding flashes of blue neon light began to pulse through the space, with no obvious source. Matt and Wendy pressed closer together, frozen with apprehension, co-captives on this strange journey.
With a pop like a champagne cork, the car stopped.
The doors slid open.
This time Matt and Wendy were prepared, scarcely drawing breath as another incarnation of themselves drifted through the door.
The misty twosome was clearly in love, curling their spectral bodies around each other, murmuring tender words meant only for lovers’ ears. Brand new wedding rings flashed on hazy, insubstantial fingers.
Wendy gulped, blinking back tears. She found herself unable to look away.
1982. The year they married. Everything was perfect in their world, their future shining with promise. Those early years were heavenly, before all the stupid fights, accusations, and trampled hearts… when love was all that mattered.
She didn’t dare look at Matt; afraid she’d start bawling — her emotions were so close to the surface lately. She bit her lip, wondering what he was thinking.
A few minutes later, the car stopped, and the couple exited, drifting through the door holding hands.
Immediately after the door closed behind them, Matt sprang into action, his frustration getting the better of him.
“I’ve had enough of this!” Reaching out, he pressed all the floor buttons at once, both hands smacking the entire panel.
Wendy watched fearfully, her eyes darting about.
A red light strobed through the space, an ominous warning. A rapid beeping began, spelling imminent disaster.
The car shot upwards, going faster and faster, seemingly out of control. Wendy cried out in terror, flinging her arms against the rails, braced for a crash.
With an incredible screech, the car slammed to a halt, nearly bringing its occupants to their knees. The beeping stopped, and the red light receded.
Rattled beyond even rudimentary speech, Matt and Wendy clutched fearfully at each other, their eyes trained on the elevator doors.
Slowly, they slid open.
A teenage girl stepped in, her hazy form clearly not of this world. Ignoring them, she pressed a button and stood waiting, unselfconsciously humming a faint tune.
Wendy let out her pent-up breath as the car began to move smoothly. She studied the girl’s face.
She looked . . . somehow . . . familiar.
The truth suddenly struck her, and she gasped, covering her mouth.
At her side, Matt’s eyes widened as he came to the same realization.
“Wendy . . .” he hissed. “She looks like us!”
Marvelling, Wendy’s gaze roamed over the ghostly figure.Yes — the young woman had Matt’s ebony curls and her own almond-shaped hazel eyes. Matt’s high cheekbones and her stubborn jawline.
An awakening stirred within her, a brand-new knowledge unfurling, and her breath caught. The nausea, the fatigue, the crying over sappy commercials. OMG.
Wendy pressed her hand to her belly.
Could it be? Could this be our future, if we choose it?
Her heart ached with want as she imagined their life together with a child. If only . . .
She sneaked a peek at Matt as the doors opened.
His eyes followed the vision of their daughter as she drifted away, an expression of longing softening his features.
Tentatively, Wendy reached toward the button panel, her hand hovering, unsure.
“Matt?” An unasked question in her voice, an opening. If he felt the same way . . .
Matt turned toward her, his intense gaze searching her face. The vulnerability in his eyes squeezed her heart, speaking to her soul. When he reached out, capturing her hand in his own, she knew she never wanted him to let go.
He cleared his throat twice, his voice rough with emotion.
“Wendy . . . I think we should go somewhere and talk . . .”
Pulling her along, he led them both through the elevator doors.
“. . . but let’s take the stairs.”
***
Shell St. James is an author and artist living in a 130-year-old farmhouse — complete with a resident ghost — in the North Carolina foothills. Her short fiction can be found in a number of magazines, anthologies, and podcasts, such as Shenandoah Literary Magazine, Emergence (anthology), SPOOKY Magazine, and Creepy Pod, among others. Her speculative art has been chosen for the covers of Factor Four Magazine, ParSec, Utopia Science Fiction, The Maul Magazine, Pulp Literature, Tree and Stone Magazine, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Radon Journal, and New Myths. Read selected stories for free at shellstjames.com, and view her art at stjames-art.com.
