Late October nineteen twenty nine, and the Everlay Hotel still shimmered like a Champagne dream, even if everything beneath it felt unsteady. The stock tickers downstairs hadn't stopped stuttering all afternoon. Men who usually laughed too loudly were speaking in low voices. Phones were busy. Papers were being folded and unfolded, as if the numbers might change if handled carefully enough. Papa had been on the telephone twice before dinner, once with
New York, once with Chicago. Both calls ended the same way, with silence stretching too long on the line, and his voice afterward clipped and tired, like a man counting losses he didn't want to name. Yet Wall Street was misbehaving, they said, a correction, a tremor, nothing to panic over. Still, the word loss had crept into conversation where it didn't belong. Thankfully we had the hotel. That was what everyone kept saying.
Railroads might wobble, markets might fall, But the ever Lay stood solid, brick and marble, and reputation rooms booked months out, cash flowing, no matter what madness the papers were printing, whatever was happening out there, this place was supposed to be safe, and yet I told myself that's why I was restless. I was twenty nine years old, unmarried, and increasingly spoken about as if those two facts required explanation.
Everyone meant well, they always did, but lately every conversation seemed to circle the same unspoken question, how long I intended to go on like this? As if freedom were a phase i'd overstayed. I wasn't opposed to marriage. I just wasn't convinced it was meant to feel like a solution. I was lucky. I knew that the hotel had raised
me as much as my parents had. The staff had watched me grow up, scraped knees and all, and treated me like something precious instead of something overdue that counted for a great deal. Whatever Wall Street was doing, I wasn't about to let it touch me. Not tonight, I never do. I was up in my suite, top floor, marble floors, cool underfoot, silk drapes that cost more than most people's rent of Victrola spinning Rhapsody in Blue. When
I decided to go down and dance. I slipped into my little black dress and let my solid gold family heirloom necklace catch the light like spilled coins. Grandfather always called it a family heirloom, but I knew better. It was just pretty, and I liked how it felt against my skin when I moved. As I stepped onto the stairs, Missus Callahan, who had been pressing linens in this hotel
longer than I'd been alive, looked up and smiled. You're a vision this evening, Miss Eve Angeline, She said, thank you, I replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek. You'll tell me if I'm scandalous, won't you? She sniffed. If I had a dollar for every time you'd be married already, we both laughed. I was flouncing down the mezzanine on my way to the dance hall when Papa appeared at the far end, already half way up from the lobby, jacket still on ty loosened. His steps were quick, distracted,
we crossed paths without slowing. He glanced at me just once. This isn't the night for theatrics of Angeline, he said, quietly, already moving past me toward the stairs. Of course, Papa I stopped. He didn't. At the bottom of the mezzanine, James at the front desk, caught my eye and tipped his head respectful as always, evening, miss Everleigh, Good evening, James, I said, smiling, Try not to let the world end without telling me. He smiled back, just a little strained.
I'll do my best, Miss I, lifted my chin and kept going. Then he walked in like someone who already belonged somewhere better. Tall, slicked hair, impeccably tailored, three piece deep navy suit, impossibly clean emerald green pocket square, folded, sharp enough to kill with a matching tie. The kind of man who looks like his shoes cost more than
most people's apartments and doesn't need to mention it. He moved with the quiet assurance of a man who'd made serious money and, judging by the night, had probably lo lost a little of it, but still carried himself like the room belonged to him. Handsome in the expensive way, the kind of confidence that only comes with heavy sugar in the bank. Loaded, My kind of loaded. The sort of man who doesn't need to shout to be noticed, who could buy the whole juice joint just to get
a girl's attention and then actually do it. I didn't know his name, but my pulse gave a little jazz drum flutter. Anyway, He's a proper big cheese, I thought, a real chic, with pockets deep enough to make even me take notice. I followed him through the lobby. We came face to face for just a second, though I doubted he noticed me. He was even better up close, not just handsome, composed, a face built for portraits, clean jawline, dark lashes, lips that didn't smile unless they meant it.
He had that look certain men carry, the kind who know exactly what they're worth and never explain themselves. I wasn't used to being the one watching. But this man, this man I wanted to memorize. He turned and made his way toward the velvet curtain by the service bar, the one no one used anymore. Naturally, I followed him, not that I made a scene. I didn't rush. I never rush. I took my time, drifting in his wake, with a smile that meant nothing and eyes that meant plenty.
He cut through the curtain into that hallway. When he slipped past the velvet rope into the service corridor, the part of the hotel Grandfather had forbidden since I could toddle. I hesitated for exactly three seconds. Stay out of the old wing they drilled into me. Nothing good down there. Dangerous fear always tasted like excitement to me, especially when it came wrapped in a mystery like him. Then I stepped through. I trailed him at a distance, my heels
silent on the carpeted back halls. He never looked back. The service corridor behind the curtain was narrow and dim, lined with old crown molding, warped by time and steam. The wallpaper had once been gold and cream stripes, now faded. I passed a rusting service bell mounted on the wall, and a door labeled Linens in flaked paint. At the end of the hallway, a sliver of brass glinted through a half cracked door. I pushed it open. It led
to the real, forgotten part of the hotel. The bones of the building, brick walls, cool and damp to the top, much an old maintenance passage they must have built before the war, with gas lamp sconces, never wired for electricity, bare floor dust thick enough to hush my steps. A place for staff no one trusted upstairs, a place for secrets, and there it was the staircase, not the iron elevator I'd ridden as a girl on dares. No, that was
upstairs for servants and supplies. This was different, A narrow, black mouthed flight of stone steps, spiraling down into nothing, no railing worth, trusting, no light except the faint spill from the corridor bulb behind me. Papa could warn me all he wanted about staying to the lighted halls, but the truth was I hadn't set foot on those stairs
since I was twelve. I'd broken my ankle tumbling down them in the dark, biting back screams so the staff wouldn't tattle, kept the limp secret for weeks, limping through tea dances like it was just a new flapper step. That staircase was a descent into hell. For all I knew, I wasn't going down there again, not ever, except here.
I was fear vanished the moment I saw him disappear over the edge, replaced by a queer thrill, curiosity, desire, the thrill of chasing a man who looked like he could buy the whole damn hotel and still have change for champagne. Whatever it was, It was the cat's pajamas, and it burned hotter than any fear I've ever known. I waited and slipped a compact from the black beaded pochette hanging from a gold chain, looped through the velvet sash at my hip, lipstick perfect. The catch clicked shut
with a whisper. A lady knows how to be ready for anything. I waited ten heartbeats, then followed down. I went, one careful step after another, the stone cold through my thin soles. The air grew thick, damp, and tasted faintly of rust and cold iron, a forgotten metallic scent from pipes that had long stopped running. The single bare bulb overhead swung lazily, throwing long shadows that danced like drunken flappers on the brick walls. Each step echoed just enough
to make my pulse race faster. The hallway was dim, still, the kind of quiet that accelerates your heart beat. At the end, the tiny square room, empty bare walls. He was already inside. The door hadn't closed behind him, it hung open. I stepped quietly up to the threshold, just far enough to see but not be seen. One metal panel flush in the far wall, shaped exactly like a door. No handle on the side, a keypad of ten brass buttons, no labels, just numbers, worn smooth. He reached for one.
His hand hesitated, then pressed seven. His head turned slightly, just a flick, enough that I felt it. He sensed I was there, but didn't want to know. He wanted to get where he was going fast. My breath caught. I pressed myself gently back against the wall, careful not to lose sight of his hand. But he didn't look back, just stood there, waiting. The panel shimmered, a wild spectrum of colors. A low static crackle filled the air. The metal rippled, became a curtain of shimmering light, like heat
rising off Lake Michigan in July. But alive. He stepped through the shimmer swallowed him whole, then faded back to dull steel. I stood frozen in the doorway. Grandfather had called it the trap door. He said, some treasures are meant to be kept, not passed through. That door is a golden trap, waiting for a soul that has nothing left to lose. But my parents had changed the subject. Fear had kept me away until now I waited a minute, long enough for my pulse to steady. Then stepped to
the keypad. My finger hovered, I pressed seven, same as him. The shimmer returned, and my heart pounded. I stepped forward. Poof. It hit like nothing I'd ever felt. My entire body vibrated, bones rattling, skin tingling. My gold necklace burned against my skin like fire. Every nerve danced, shook, shimmered in a wave that started at my toes and exploded through my chest. I was terrifying, it was exquisite. It lasted forever and no time at all. Then silence. I stood in the
same tiny room. The panel was metal again, inert. The keypad waited, no sign of the man. I exhaled, smoothed my dress. Well, that was something. I walked back up through the Devil's staircase, one heel in front of the other, like nothing had happened, Like I hadn't just shimmered through
a door I wasn't supposed to know existed. I made my way through the side corridor where the staff once let me sneak bites of wedding cake from the kitchens, and slipped through the lobby like a woman between dreams. The hallway above was familiar at first, same same sleepy eyed sconces. But something was off. Grandfather's favorite painting was gone. The color of the runner rug had changed, and the silence wasn't rich anymore. It was empty. When I entered
the lobby, it was unrecognizable. The sprawling marble was covered in a drab carpet, and the chandeliers were gone. I crossed through like I was a stranger in a strange dream, expecting eyes, smiles, a greeting by name. No one looked up. The front desk staff, not my staff, typed into some small glowing thing like it was sacred. The bellhop passed me without a nod. One of the maids glanced past me like I wasn't even there. Then the front door
swung open wide, and there he was. For a heartbeat, the night framed him perfectly in the doorway, silhouette, sharp against the wild, bleeding glow of the street beyond, tall, still impeccably tailored, that same deep navy suit, the emerald pocket square, catching a flash of unnatural color from the lights outside. That man, the one I'd chased down the Devil's staircase and through the trap door. He stepped forward, shoulders set like a man who'd seen worse nights than
this one. He paused just a fraction and looked around the lobby with the same quiet, bewilderment. I felt his gaze swept past the empty space and landed on me. Our eyes met across the lobby. No nod, no flicker of familiarity, just a sudden startled lock, his dark lashes widening for the barest instant, as if he'd seen a ghost. My own breath caught pulse, hammering like jazz drums in my chest. He didn't smile, didn't speak. He simply held the look a second longer than he should have, then
turned and vanished into the dark beyond the doors. A bellhop brushed past me without a word. He didn't even glance. The doors were still drifting shut. I didn't wait for them to close. I ran, heels clicking sharp against the marble, little black dress whispering against my thighs, and pushed through after him. I stepped out. The air hit me like a slap. I stood on the sidewalk, if that's what they still called it, and tried to make sense of
what I was seeing. The street was alive with color, not the muted grays and browns of my Chicago, but wild, electric hues that seemed to glow from within. Signs blazed in reds and blues and greens so vivid they hurt to look at, like someone had bottled lightning and trapped it in glass tubes. The cars were queer too. They glided past without sound, without the rumble of engines or the smell of gasoline, just silent, sleek shapes that moved
like sharks through water. No horses, no carriages, no coal smoke or manure or the familiar stink of the city I knew. And the people, oh the people. Women walked past in trousers, not riding pants or some mannish costume, but actual trousers that clung to their legs like thick stockings, showing off every curve, every detail. Skinny girls with legs like colts, Curvy women whose hips swayed with each step.
Even the heavier ones wore these strange, stretchy garments that hugged their thust eyes and calves like a second skin. I'd never seen so much female form on display outside a burlesque house. The men were just as peculiar. No hats, not a single fedora or bowler in sight. Their hair was wild, unstyled, some of it long enough to touch their collars. They wore jackets without proper structure, trousers that hung low on their hips, shoes that looked like they
belonged in a gymnasium. And everyone, everyone stared down at little glowing rectangles in their hands, walking like sleepwalkers, eyes glued to those mysterious boxes, bumping into each other without apology or even acknowledgment. I scanned the crowd, searching for him, my mystery man. There half a block ahead, that same confident stride, the cut of his shoulders unmistakable even in this sea of strangers. I started after him, my heels
clicking against the pavement, except they didn't click. The sound was muffled, distant, like I was walking on cotton instead of concrete. I looked down at my feet, watched my shoes make contact with the ground, but the sensation was off, like stepping on something that wasn't quite there. A woman in a bright pink coat walked straight toward me, her eyes glued to her glowing rectangle. Excuse me, miss I stepped aside, but she didn't move. I stepped further. She
kept coming, miss oh God. Then the unfathomable. She walked through me, not past me, through me. The cold hit, like diving into Lake Michigan in January, a rush of ice that started at my chest and exploded outward. My breath caught, my vision blurred. For one terrible second. I felt her inside me, her warmth, her heart, her thoughts like radiostatic, I couldn't quite tune in. I smelled her perfume, something floral, felt her pulse faster than mine, tasted something
sweet on her breath, like candy. Then she was gone, already ten paces ahead, still staring at her little box. I stood frozen. People flowing around me, like water around a stone, through me, past me, never seeing me. My hand flew to my chest, feeling for my heart beat there still there. But to them, I'm invisible. I am aren't I. I looked down at my hands. I could see them, see the gold necklace catching the light, see my little black dress, my shoes, everything exactly as it
should be. But when I reached out to touch a lamp post, my fingers passed through the metal like smoke. No, I whispered, no, no, no. I tried again. A mail box, one of those blue metal boxes I didn't recognize. My hand went through it like it was made of fog. I couldn't touch anything. Ahead. My mystery man turned a corner, his navy suit, disappearing into the crowd. I ran after him, or tried to. My feet barely touched the ground. The sensation was all odd, like floating, like flying, like being
carried by a current. I couldn't see. I moved faster than I should have been able to, closing the distance in seconds. He stopped at a corner, waiting for the silent cars to pass. I caught up breathless or was I did I even need to breathe? I stood beside him, close enough to touch, so enough to smell his cologne, expensive and manly. The scent hit me with overwhelming clarity, every note distinct and sharp. But then a man in a gray suit walked straight through him. The stranger. My
stranger jerked back, his hand flying to his chest. His face went pale. He stumbled, caught himself against a lamp post, his hand passing through the metal just like mine had. He stared at his hand tried again. Nothing. Oh god, he whispered. He looked around wildly, his composure cracking. He reached for a woman passing by. His hand went through her shoulder. She shivered, pulled her coat tighter, kept walking. He tried the lamp post again, the mailbox, a car
parked at the curb. Nothing, all of it. Nothing, No, he said, his voice rough, No, this isn't. He looked down at himself, at his perfect navy suit, his emerald pocket square, his polished shoes. Then he looked up at the street, at the impossible future we'd landed in. I saw it the exact moment he understood the same epiphany I had just moments before him. We weren't in our world anymore. We weren't even in our bodies. He started
walking again, faster now, his movements jerky and desperate. He turned down a side street than another, moving deeper into neighborhoods. I didn't recognize. The buildings were taller here, sleeker, made of glass and steel that reflected the city back at itself in fractured pieces. I followed my feet, barely touching the ground. He stopped in front of a tower that stretched up into the night sky, its windows glowing like a hundred tiny moons. He stood there for a long moment,
staring up at it. Then he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a gold pocket watch. He flipped open the cover. He shook it gently, pressed the stem, tried to wind it. His shoulders sagged just a fraction, just enough for me to see the exhaustion beneath the polish Where are we, he said quietly to himself, to the night, to no one. I don't know, I answered, even though he wasn't listening to me, or couldn't hear me. I wasn't sure, but I'm here too. You're not alone.
He snapped the watch shut, pocketed it, and turned scanning the street. His eyes passed over me again. Can you see me, I whispered. He didn't please, I said louder, please. I know you can see me in the lobby. You looked right at me nothing. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the street like he was searching for something or someone. He looked around at the people, at the buildings, at the space I occupied, but his gaze slid past me like I was made of glass. Then a woman
walked past and I nearly forgot to breathe first. I was absolutely zazzled by how she was talking to herself out loud. She was holding one of those rectangle boxes in her hand that glowed like a tiny luminous radio. But what truly had me gasped her dress. It clung to her like a wet rag, hugging every inch of her figure. In my time, we wanted to look like boys, straight, flats and free. We were dancing the Charleston, not showing off curves. I adjusted my little black dress, giving a
discreete tug on the boyish form corset underneath. We all wore them. Every curvy girl did the Garson, we called it. But this dame, she was flaunting curves that would have made a burlesque queen blush. Now her chest was practically spilling out of the low cut neckline. The swell of her breasts pushed up and together in a way that made my own boyish form binder feel positively modest. Where was the elastic webbing to flatten the tummy? Where was the binder to take down the chest and hide the
form of her nipples? Her legs were bare and gleaming oiled or lotion to catch the light. She looked like a statue of modern sin and not a stalking insight. I thought we were scandalous, but these girls are walking around in their lingerie. I glanced at him. His eyes weren't just following her, they were anchored to her wide and startled, as if he'd just seen a ghost, a far more solid one than me. A hot, sharp prick of jealousy stung my chest. Is that what he wants?
I wondered, my fingers twitching against the silk of my own skirt. If I unlaced the side straps, if I let the flattening bandeaux go and allowed my own concealed figure to breathe, would he look at me like that? Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, her lips painted dark and wet, her eyes lined in black that made her look dangerous and exotic, the kind of girl they warned you not to become, and secretly envied all the same. She looked like she was headed to
a blind pig to dance with the devil. And no one, not a single person, not even the bulls, batted an eye. But my mystery man was absolutely captivated for the first time since nineteen twenty nine, I felt like I was the one wearing a costume. I looked down at myself, wondering if I should unhook my binder. My mystery man's eyes followed her, widening slightly. Then she walked straight through him. He gasped, stumbling back. His hand flew to his chest.
For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, staring after her as she disappeared into the crowd. Then he shook his head once, as if clearing it, and kept walking. Instead of continuing toward the tower or the endless street, he made his way to a narrow storefront just a few paces away. Its wide windows blazed with light so fierce and many colored, it seemed to pulse like a
living thing. Reds bleeding into violent purples, purples into indigo, than green, then yellow, than orange, pink so bright they stung the eyes, all smashed together a gaudy rainbow of dazzling light. The whole storefront looked like a carnival had mated with a bordello and produced something tawdry and shameless, cheap, alarming, And yet the colors pulled at something low in my belly.
It was fascinating, to say the least. A sign above the door glowed in bold letters, adult books and videos open all night, books and videos harmless enough, one might think, only they weren't. Through the great sheets of glass, I could see everything laid out like wares in a bazaar of sin. He hesitated at the threshold, shoulders rigid, and stood there staring through the glass. His jaw had gone slack. His hand moved to his collar, loosening his tie just
a fraction. Then he stepped inside. I hesitated just for a heartbeat. A lady didn't enter places like this. A lady didn't even acknowledge places like this existed. But I wasn't a lady anymore, was I? I was a ghost, and ghosts didn't have reputations to protect. I followed him through the door. The inside was worse or better, I couldn't decide. The walls were painted the color of cheap wine, and the light inside wasn't proper lighting at all, but a sultry red that cast everything in the shade of
a crime. Shelves of bottles and boxes, all of them promising things no decent pharmacist would stalk, not like the plain brown paper wrapped parcels discreetly passed under the counter back home, the kind you had to ask for in a hushed whisper. Then more rows of metal shelves in a dizzying ryot. It was a dime store or a
druggist's display gone absolutely mad marital aids. I suppose devices, objects shaped like well, like bootleg parts of the male anatomy, only larger and made of some strange silky smooth material that caught the light, like polish satin, not the dull,
hard rubber. I remembered my aunt whispering about absolutely fascinating, and the pictures photographs of women in positions that would have gotten them pinched faster than a bootlegger, naked, brazen, doing things with men with other women with themselves, and then men with other men doing the pansy all out in the open. Rows of little boxes lined the walls, their covers showing women in poses no painter of virtue would ever dare capture legs, spread, mouths open, Oh, the
sheer hooy of decency. In this era, covers displayed on racks showed couples and acts too raw for even the wildest speakeasy I had to look away, then look back, then look away again. There were bottles of every shape, things shaped unmistakably like the male member, arranged in neat rows, like obscene candelabras, leather straps, handcuffs polished to a wicked shine, and more phallicies everywhere, all shapes and sizes and colors, some the size of my forearm. It was the most
ungentlemanly display I've ever seen. A girl no older than twenty five leaned over the counter, laughing with the clerk while she tested the weight of a purple doudad in her palm. She gave it a stroke, the way a woman might test the ripeness of a banana, and the clerk grinned like it was the most natural thing in the world. The stranger moved through the aisles slowly, his eyes wide, his composure completely shattered. He reached out to touch one of the devices, his hand passing through it
like smoke. He tried again. Nothing. I tailed close enough that I could hear him, but distant enough that it wasn't obvious I was following him. Christ he muttered under his breath, What kind of world is this? He turned down another aisle, and I followed, keeping my distance, staying in the shadows. That's when I saw the back of the store, a hallway, a sign above it. In those same garish lights privit viewing rooms, a man walked out. He was flushed, hair musked, shirt untucked just enough to
look guilty. He adjusted his belt, glanced around, then hurried past the counter and out the door. As he passed, I heard it from that hallway someone was putting on a show and trying very hard not to be heard. Another went in, coins clinking into a machine. Just inside one of the doors. The red light above booth four flicked on again. I couldn't tear my gaze away. I should have been horrified. I was horrified. The whole thing was a real wet blanket on romance. But the horror
tasted exactly like desire. I understood then, whatever was behind those doors, they were not just for watching, they were for doing. Was it some sort of a tawdry, cheap version of a petting party taken to some morbid extreme? I he was extremely curious. Well, if I was being honest with myself, this part of the place gave me the he begbis my mystery man stared at the hallway for a long moment, then he walked toward it. It seemed we shared the same carnal curiosity. It was narrow
lined with small doors. Each one had a number and a coin slot. Little red lights glowed above each door, like the indicator lamps on a hotel switchboard. One blinked on, another went dark. Just before he reached them, another man pasted him in a black hooded jacket, head down, shoulders hunched, like he'd done this before but didn't want to be recognized. He moved quickly, like someone with a habit. The man chose a door near the end, slipped inside. The red
light above it flicked on. My mystery man paused, then followed and went straight through the door. And I stood in the hallway, heart caught somewhere between my corset and my throat. I didn't know what to do, but I wanted to see, needed to. But what if my mystery man saw me. I still didn't know if he could or not. So I did what any good ghost does. I did the unthinkable. I got down on my knees, leaned forward, and pressed my head through the door, like
a sinner at a confessional. Half expecting judgment to strike me. Where I knelt. The sensation was cold and strange, like being suspended between the solid and the air. I was certain I'd chosen the one angle where he wouldn't see me. The room was small, claustrophobic. The air inside had a stench hot used, and although it was unsavory, I was
glad to have that sense intact. There was one bench, one glowing pane of glass on the wall, one small table with a box of disposable napkins, and a large wastebasket that made my stomach twist when I understood what they were for. Then suddenly the glass frame on the wall flared to life, living pictures in full color. How could this be so vivid, so real? And the sound, my god, the sound. At first I saw a woman in a coat step into a room with a group
of men. Then the woman dropped the coat and stood stark naked before them. Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. Not even the speakeasy girls showed this much. And one by one the men slid open those fasteners on their trousers, revealing their credentials. My first thought, good, heavens, are those metal fasteners on their trousers. They didn't even have to unbutton them one by one. What kind of fast, living, brazen, scandalous world is this. They stood in a circle around her,
and they began touching themselves. They were playing a game of lone hand spooning, but with a cold, desperate rhythm that had no joy in it. It wasn't at all like a petting party. No, it was a slow motion Barney mugging of their own limbs, beating their own meat. I'd heard the rougher Fellas say that, but never understood the hollow sound of it until now Heaven to Betsy it was too vivid. Talkies were one thing, but this, this was the absolute berries of filth, a real sock
dolager of a scandal played out in screaming color. The sound was a hollow, desperate noise, like some beating a rug, lacking all the joy of a real speakeasy petting party. And the man, the living man, was seated already watching the picture show hood back now, trousers open, one hand
braced on his knee, the other moving. I'd heard the phrase taking matters into one's own hands, but I'd never imagined it meant this, not like this, And there, just beyond the threshold stood my mystery man, still quiet, transfixed, not a muscle moving, taking it all in with a high hat composure, watching the screen, watching him. He watched with the stillness of a man not just observing pleasure, but remembering it, longing for it. His jaw flexed, his
hand curled slightly. The woman laid down, legs o and wide, touching herself for the circle of men. I should have looked away, but I didn't. And then the shock, the horror. They creamed all over her. Oh God, the poor woman, what a nightmare. They spoiled her with their filthy, cold seed, a scene straight from the gutter. But the man on the bench stroked himself furiously at the sight of this. My mystery man turned to stare at this man in the bald headed row, not all the way, just enough
I could see his profile. Understanding dawned horribly on his face. Good God, he whispered, this is where they where men come to. The whole place is a dirty flicker house. It's too much to take in. And me, my head was still peeking through the bottom of the door, not blinking and not entirely innocent. Anymore. It was clear he was about to storm out, so I slipped out of that hallway first. A few seconds later he was coming
out of the hallway. He looked around in a daze, half smile of amusement, half shock of disbelief and repulsion. I knew the look because I felt it too. His voice was rough, nearly a whisper. They sell it like cigarettes now. And then his eyes found me, not as a spirit, not as the woman who chased him through the trap door, as a living woman standing in the aisle in a little black dress. He saw me for one heartbeat, his composure shuddered, his dark lashes widened, his
lips parted. He muttered under his breath so low I barely caught it. God Almighty, A lady like that, in a place like this. His gaze raked over me, head to toe, lingering in ways no gentleman should. His jaw tightened, his hand curled into a fist at his side, then barely a whisper, rough and raw. What I wouldn't give. I stayed perfectly still, letting him indulge, letting the desire in his eyes burn through me. A low, aching phantom throb started between my legs and spread upward. I wanted
to touch myself. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted to drag him back into one of those little rooms and find out exactly how much two lost souls could do to each other without ever truly touching the world. But I had never been with a man, and when I saw him back at the hotel in nineteen twenty nine, I felt this overwhelming desire for him in that way. Suddenly he jerked his gaze away from me, a stone cold look of remorse flashing across his face. Damn it,
What in the hell did I do? He whispered, dragging a hand through his hair and turning on his heel. He walked out fast, almost fleeing. I followed, body alight with a need so fierce it felt like fire. The memory of his words looped in my mind, intoxicating. He didn't look back, but I'd seen the hunger he tried
so hard to hide, and he saw mine. He just didn't know I could see him, yet, without so much as a backward glance, he stepped back out into the night and turned the way we'd come back, toward the hotel, and I followed. He walked with purpose now, his stride quick and determined, like a man who'd made a decision and wouldn't be swayed from it. But then he stopped. I kneeled down beside a parked car and watch where
I couldn't be seen. A metal box stood on the corner, glass fronted, filled with newspapers, the kind of thing I'd never seen before. No newsboy, no vendor, just paper stacked inside like they were selling themselves. He crouched down, peering through the glass. His hand reached out instinctively, then passed through the metal like smoke. He tried again. Nothing christ, he muttered, but he could still read the date printed at the top. I watched his face change, watched his
jaw go slack. October twenty ninth, he whispered. Twenty twenty nine. He said it again, louder this time, like saying it twice might make it less true. Twenty twenty nine. One hundred years, A full century shifted forward. After we stepped through that trap door tonight. His eyes dropped to the headline, bold black letters screaming across the front page. One hundred years after the Great Crash, markets reach all time high.
He stared at it for a long moment, then laughed, not a happy sound, a hollow, bitter thing that scraped out of his throat like broken glass. Hah, well, I'll be damned one hundred years, he said quietly. They called it the great crash. Huh, the great crash. He shook his head slowly, And here they are, all time high, like it never even mattered. He clenched his fist. I
lost everything for nothing. I wanted to reach for him, to tell him he wasn't alone, but I couldn't speak, couldn't move, could only watch as he stood, shoulder set and turned back toward the hotel. There was a new speed in his step, now, urgency, purpose, like a man who just realized he was running out of time, even though time had already left him behind. I followed him,
matching his pace, my feet barely touching the ground. We moved through the strange streets like the ghosts we were, and in no time at all, we were back at the hotel. Now we both knew the cruel truth, neither of us ignorant to our reality any longer. We were ghosts, spirits, whatever you wanted to call it, But we could still feel and if we could feel them, could we feel each other. He passed through the hotel doors like smoke,
and I followed him into the lobby. He stopped in the center of the marble floor, turning in a slow circle, looking at the modern furniture, the strange glowing shadow boxes behind the front desk, the people who walked past him without a glance. Then he looked up straight at me, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch You, he said, and I heard him clear as a bell, the first voice that had reached me since I'd stepped through the trap door. Me, I said,
my voice shaking. He took a step toward me, then another. You can see me, he asked, You can see me? I echoed back. We stood there, ten feet apart, staring at each other like we were the only real things left in the world, because we were. What happened to us? I don't know. His voice was rough, strained, but I think we're about to find out. He stared at me
for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then something shifted, his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost understanding what were you running from? He asked, I blinked. What the shimmy? He gestured vaguely behind us. No one uses that door unless they're desperate, unless they're running from something they can't face. His eyes searched mine, and I saw it. Then a flicker of kinship.
So what was it? Debts, family, trouble, the crash, Oh, the shimmy, I echoed, softly, The words strange in my mouth, like borrowing someone else's slang. I paused. I wasn't running from anything. His brow furrowed. Then why'd you go through? I hesitated. I saw you in the lobby, and I followed you. The silence stretched between us. His expression shifted, confusion melting into realization, then flattery, a hint of a
smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You followed me, he repeated, slowly, as if testing the words, delivering it like a death sentence. Through the basement, Through the shimmy, because I lifted my chin, refusing to look away, even as my cheeks burned, because I wanted to know where you were going. The smile broke through, just for a moment, warm and genuine, Then it faded as quickly as it came replaced by something darker, concern, guilt, anger, but not
at himself, but at the situation. A woman chasing a man is never a good idea at all, he said quietly, especially not through cursed doors. He laughed, not loud or cruel, just a short, breathless sound that slipped out of him before he could stop it, disbelieving, almost incredulous, like the universe had just played a joke so elaborate it deserved applause.
Then the laugh died. He looked at me properly for the first time, not as a curiosity or a mistake, but as a woman standing in front of him, dressed perfect and entirely wrong for the world we'd landed in, and something in his face shifted that looked like regret. His jaw tightened, his smile vanished. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, like a man taking response on'sibility, whether he wanted it or not. Do you
realize what you've done? He asked. The tone wasn't angry, it was worse, the voice of a man who kept ledgers and balance sheets and never lost track of consequences. I I tried to answer, nothing came out. I opened my mouth again, My throat tightened, still nothing. Panic fluttered in my chest, hot and sudden. I shook my head, eyes stinging, the words piling up behind my teeth, with nowhere to go. His eyes narrowed slightly. Do you, he pressed,
his stern tone escalating to a fever pitch. I swallowed, my hands curled at my sides. I nodded once, miserably, even though I wasn't sure I did. My vision blurred. I hated that, hated crying, especially in front of men like him. He stepped closer, just one careful step, as if he was afraid of spooking me, or of discovering something else had broken along with the world. I tried to speak again, failed, Tears spilled anyway, traders sliding down
my cheeks. He sighed, sharp with frustration, not at me, I realized, but at himself. Damn it, he muttered. Then his hands were on me. He grasped my upper arms, just below my shoulders, fingers spreading instinctively, as if to steady me, as if to shake sense into me. Do you, he said again, softer? Now, do you understand that we might be trapped like this? Forever. The world stopped. I felt his hands, not the idea or a ghostly echo,
his hands. I gasped. He froze, slowly, very slowly. His gaze dropped to where his fingers curved around my arms, where his thumbs pressed into my skin. I followed his stare. We stood there, staring at his hands like they were a miracle. Neither of us had ordered. I can his voice caught. He swallowed, I can feel you. My breath came out shaky. I can feel you too. A smile crept across his face before he could stop it, something boyish and stunned and dangerous. I can touch you, he said,
almost to himself. Yes, I whispered, finally able to speak, you can. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between us, his hands still on my arms, my pulse jumping under his fingers, the impossible suddenly possible. His eyes lifted to mine, lit with something he hadn't planned on feeling tonight. Oh baby, he murmured, voice dropping without permission. I could just kiss you. The words landed between us like a spark. My phantom heart pounded. I tilted my
chin up without thinking, why don't you he went utterly still. Then, before I realized it was happening, he reached for my hand and barely placed a kiss upon it, and then gently let it go. He stepped back, straightened his jacket smooth as cuffs, pulled himself together like a man snapping a spine back into place. His voice, when he spoke again, was polite and impeccably restrained. Well, he said, clearing his throat, because I should mine myself. I forgot how once already tonight,
and I am sorry for that. He offered me a small apologetic smile, one that promised restraint now and trouble later. Then he inclined his head just enough to be proper. My name is Theodore, he said, Teddy, if you insist, And just like that, the game changed. Evangeline ever Lay, but call me Evie. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying my face. Huh ever Lay, as in I knew what he was asking, everyone always did. I tilted my head, let my smile turn. Knowing the Everlay Club, he had the decency not to
look away. Well, I was going to say this hotel, but yes, yes, I've heard stories, of course, he did. The Everlay Club was Chicago's most notorious high class brothel at the turn of the century. Run by two elegant sisters who turned sin into something almost respectable. It thrived in the Levee district until the city shut it down in nineteen eleven. I'm sure you have, I said, aloud, voice light as champagne bubbles, distant cousins. Maybe, or maybe
it's just in the blood. I paused, letting him sit with that image for a moment. But if you're wondering whichever lay, I am the hotel heiress not the other kind. Something shifted in his expression. I'd say he was intrigued. The hotel you own this place? My family? Does I just live here? I gestured vaguely upward. Penthouse Sweet that earned me a look the penthouse, he repeated, Of course you do. I suppose it's my turn, I said, with
a smile, lashes lowering just a touch. And I realize I never asked, what is it you do, mister Theodore Banks, I paused as I met his eyes, then gently, and what's sent you through that door? He held my gaze a moment longer than politeness required. Then he nodded once, as if settling an account Chicago, he said. My interests are national, he exhaled lightly. But my base is here, rail steel, banking capital that moves through Chicago, whether New
York likes it or not. A faint, knowing smile touched his mouth, especially this week. I didn't interrupt. Men talk when they're frightened, he said, and they've been frightened all weak. His eyes flicked briefly toward the deeper halls of the hotel. No one's even agreed on what to call it yet, a panic, a collapse. Some are already calling it the crash. He shook his head once. All I know is the market went to hell and the ticker couldn't keep up.
I swallowed. My father's been the same on the telephone all afternoon, calling it a selling wave one moment, a panic the next. He keeps saying it will write itself, but he doesn't sound convinced. Teddy smiled. Just a little, a brief look of recognition passing between us. That's how it starts, he said, quietly. When men who've never doubted numbers begin doubting their own voices, he continued, they hinted at a way out, an impossible alternative to bankruptcy, not
quite excise well. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. One man claimed he stepped through the shimmy as casually as a revolving door. My pulse quickened. He told you that, he bragged. Teddy said, men always do when they think they've beaten time itself. He paused, fiddling with his gold tie bar. He spoke of a future beyond scarcity, beyond oversight, a world where wealth isn't managed, it simply exists. And you believed him, I said, I listened. He corrected, there's
a difference. His hand moved instinctively to his jacket pocket. He showed us proof fits in the hand. No wires, no keys, just a smooth, dark surface that lit from within. His brow furrowed slightly, a glowing window, like holding a city in your palm. I nodded, Yes, Those dew wangers seemed to be everywhere. Yes, he said quietly, exactly. Then, with an eerie pause, he looked around, then stared hard down at the ground. He told us, if we ever needed it, truly needed it, we were to find the
door press seven. His mouth tightened. He made it sound indecently simple and tonight. I asked, tonight, he said. Men I've known since before the war, watched the Ticker steal their lives between luncheon and supper. He looked at me then, unable to hide the sadness in his eyes. So I went chasing a dream, he said, I smiled wistfully. I suppose I did the same, I admitted, while gazing adoringly into his eyes. He let out a low, surprised laugh. Ha ha, A dream, he repeated me. He shook his
head once, still smiling. Well that's rather flattering. I felt my face revealing too much and looked away. Then he said quietly, I hope I live up to it. His gaze lingered. Come on all this way, he said, as he marched on toward the basement, and I kept up right by his side, back to the shimmy. Yes, we need to see if we can undo this mess. Something told me getting back wouldn't be as simple as walking
through the door again. But another voice, deeper, louder in me thought, if I died and got to be stuck with him, so be it. It wasn't so bad, not bad at all. I glanced sideways at Teddy as we descended the service corridor again, His stride was purposeful, but there was a new tension in his shoulders, a faint jitter in the hand that brushed the wall and passed through it. He hadn't let go of my fingers, not fully.
Our hands hovered near each other, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel that low electric hum whenever our outlines drifted too near, like two tuning forks resonating in the same key. You're awfully quiet for a man who just discovered he's a ghost, I said, keeping my voice light, even though my own pulse or whatever ghost panic passed for one, was still hammering. He stopped at the top of the Devil's staircase. The black mouth
of it yawned below us. Again. I'm a lucky man, he said, and quietly, Oh, how so, I stepped closer, close enough that the energy between us sharpened into a shiver that ran from my collar bone straight down to places I wasn't ready to name yet, Because he said softly, some men lose everything, and some find exactly what they weren't looking for. He glanced toward the staircase, then back at me. Come on, then, he said, his voice gentler. Now he moved past me toward the stairs, then stopped,
looked back, extended his hand. Stay close. These steps are treacherous even when you can feel them. I looked at his outstretched hand, at the way the dim light caught the gold of his cuff links. Then I placed my hand in his. The electric tingle shot through both of us sharper, this time, more tense, like the shimmy itself had decided to live inside our skin. Treacherous, I agreed quietly, but at least were in it together. His fingers tightened just a fraction. I concur almost a smile. Let's see
if the shimmy still wants us, shall we? He said? He started down the stairs. I followed the same careful steps, the same cold stone under shoes that didn't quite feel the impact. But this time I wasn't chasing a mystery. And if the door didn't open, well, I could live with that. Hell. I might even prefer it. We retraced our steps in silence, down the staircase and through the narrow brick hall, the little square room waiting at the end unchanged. Only now it looked less like hell and
more like the only door left in the world. The first thing I did was reach for the shimmy. My hand stopped cold against the metal. I tried the keypad, same thing. I frowned, then turned and slid my fingers straight through the brick wall beside it, easy as breath. Did you see that, I said, softly, interesting, Yes, he murmured, my hand won't go through the shimmy. But that means I waited for him to finish my sentence. That means, he said, a note of something brighter creeping into his voice.
There's hope. He gave me a look I was beginning to recognize, the one that meant the rules had just shifted in our favor. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and pressed seven, but nothing. We look at each other, then back at the keypad. Slowly, carefully, We pressed another, then another. We tried pairs, sequences, every combination that made sense, everyone that didn't. The panel stayed dull and lifeless. Teddy's face tightened for the first time since we'd met. He
looked genuinely shaken. Calculations failing options thinning. Then the air changed. The panel shivered, Light rippled across the metal, A rainbow of colors shimmered. Our eyes widened and then Teddy grabbed my hand. Wait, he whispered, come here, stand behind me, just in case. He pulled me with him into the corner behind the open entry door, casting us into shadow. He placed himself before me, one hand still holding mine. We waited, his grip tightening. As the silence stretched, the
light intensified. A figure stepped through. We squeezed each other's hands hard. Teddy lifted a finger to his lips. The man who emerged was well dressed, handsome, confident, smiling to himself as if pleased with the night. He didn't glance our way, didn't hesitate. He hurried out of the room and up the corridor, solid as anything. Teddy leaned close, his voice barely a breath. That's him. We followed silently.
He passed through the lobby and headed straight for the hotel bar, took a seat, ordered a drink, And that was when we knew he made it and we didn't. I felt Teddy's hand tighten around mine, his grip almost painful. That son of a bitch, he huffed, Calvin Decatur, Teddy murmured. We called him the calculator. Everyone thought he'd beat in the market. Turns out he'd beaten time the shimmies. His
hedge hah, thinks he's some big shot wise guy. Now, we watched the man who'd let us hear lift his glass to the air itself, Calvin de Kater alive in every way. We weren't you think he knew, I whispered, he knew what would happen to you? Teddy's jaw worked, his eyes, never leaving the figure at the bar. He told me it was simple, press seven, step through, start over. His voice was flat controlled, but I heard the fury beneath it. He didn't mention the part where you end
up a goddamn ghost. I watched the man's signal for another drink, watched the bartender gnad and pour, watched him settle into his seat like a man who owned the world. What do we do? Teddy was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned to face me. The anger in his eyes had shifted into something sharper and more dangerous. We watch him, he said, We learn what he knows, and we figure out how the hell he made it through
when we didn't. His thumb brushed across my knuckles, a small gesture, but it soothed me, And then a smile touched the corner of his mouth like a man on a mission, and then he said quietly, we get our lives back bound between the past that shaped us and the future that unmade us. We refuse to fade