You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sound. A dimension of sight. A dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into...The Twilight Zone.

This story of the Twilight Zone is somewhat unique and calls for a different kind of introduction…

Hollywood, 1939. Amid the glitz and the glitter of a bustling, young movie town at the height of its golden age, the Hollywood Tower Hotel was a star in its own right; a beacon for the show business elite. Now, something is about to happen that will change all that.

Let us go back…to a stormy night full of possibilities…

Looming over the buildings of Sunset Boulevard, the hotel shone in the darkness. The green glow of the neon sign hung on its front lit the dark horizon, as the building's windows glowed like tiny, sharp golden eyes.

Lightning crackled, writhing across the Hollywood skyline. With a sharp flash, the hotel's marquee hung on the front gate was illuminated:

The Hollywood Tower Hotel

Faint strains of jazz music wound through the still air, as a steady stream of black limousines deposited their human cargo at the hotel gates. Guests excitedly chattered as they wound their way through the labyrinthine maze of walkways and hedges that traced to the wooden double doors at front.

They were making their way to the party.

The Tip Top Club was situated at the uppermost floor of the Hotel—hence the name. Only hotel guests and the Hollywood elite made it past the elevator doors into the club proper; the exclusivity made the Hollywood gossip hounds and media drool with breathless imagination.

The wildly popular bandleader Anthony Fremont, with his equally famous orchestra, would be playing tonight, and the guests were eager to hurry to the parquet floors of the club.

The party was already underway; Fremont had struck up "Sing, Sing, Sing," and dozens of couples in tuxedos and chiffon dancing frocks were whirling to the lively jazz. The green, red, and blue frocks spiraling across the solid brown inlay of the floor rotated like a living kaleidoscope.

Hardly anything could be heard over the chattering of the dance couples and the upbeat tempo, but the wait staff attempted anyway, while circulating with trays of drinks. Both Prohibition and the Depression were over, and the economy was booming. Times were good, and the guests' boisterous enthusiasm more than mirrored this.

The hubbub was even louder at floor level, as late partygoers flocked to the elevator, with guests checking in and out, and even more excitedly chattering and bustling about. One small party glared angrily and sighed as they attempted to complete a mah-jongg game.

Amidst the noise, a short bellhop struggled with several valises as he rounded the corner of the reception desk. Dewey Todd was thirty-five, but looked like a seventeen-year-old playing dress-up; the round glasses perched on his round, big-eared head gave him the appearance of a child attempting to emulate his father. A slight build on a barely five-foot-four frame added to his woes.

The son of the hotel owner, he had been a bellhop for twelve years. Twelve years! He mused angrily. I should be managing this with Pop, not running the bags of rich snobs around. And speaking of snobs…

He glared as he passed the tall, sophisticated man to his left. Gilbert London merely rolled his eyes expressively and continued tossing the small black box in his hand. Clad in a well-made, expensive tuxedo, his dark coloring and sharply chiseled features had earned him many an admiring glance from the hotel's female guests.

A member of the Actors' Guild, he'd had a distinguished career in both America and Britain. While theater had been his hallmark, it was time for something new. Perhaps the silver screen could earn him as much fame and idolatry as the stage had.

London dropped his box while pondering the night's course of events. Grumbling under his breath, Dewey stooped, picked it up, and tossed it over his shoulder, without missing a beat. London caught it in one hand, staring after the bellhop with clouded eyes.

The phone rang in the midst of the chaos. "Hollywood Tower Hotel, front desk."

Thunder slowly rumbled from the belly of the massive storm cloud heading towards the Tower.

The atmosphere in the club was alive and crackling with energy and enthusiasm. Uncaring of anything else, the band members were letting themselves fall under the spell of the intoxicating jazz. Trombones swayed, saxophones dipped, and Fremont played the clarinet one-handed, snapping in time.

One dapper guest picked his partner up to twirl her in the air, grinning at her delighted squealing as the ruby fabric of her dress rippled.

Those not dancing were socializing—loudly, so as to be heard over the music—at the dinner tables at the edge of the room. A dark-haired woman, seated at the table closest to the stage, grinned infectiously as she swayed her feathered mask in time to the beat.

Behind her, a man in a sharp tuxedo with graying hair tapped her on the shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She gave a delighted gasp, jumping up.

A crowd of cameramen and reporters, nearly all in matching gray jackets, huddled by the immense flower planter in the hotel lobby. Clutching their cameras and pads of paper, they fidgeted, waiting impatiently.

"I think she's here-"

"Well, I heard that she-"

"There!"

"There she is!"

It was a mad dash as the men eagerly rushed to the hotel doors, lining up on either side. Like dogs, the press could smell a good thing. Curious hotel guests tried to peek over the barrier of gray, trying to discern the source of the excitement and hubbub.

Dewey struggled through, laden down with even more valises. Behind him trailed a short, broad woman in earth-colored tweeds, forcing her way through the crowd and shoving back over-eager reporters with a smart black umbrella. She shot annoyed looks at the men through her round, horn-rimmed glasses. Emmeline Partridge was growing frustrated.

"That's the nanny, isn't it?"

"Yes, but where-"

"There she is!"

"Sally!"

"Ms. Shine! What would you-"

"Sally! A smile for the camera!"

Veritably bouncing over the threshold, Sally Shine gave her audience a huge, infectious grin. Blonde curls bounced, cornflower-colored eyes twinkled, and her dimples flashed. She gaily waved at the guests trying to get a look at her, and turned back to the media men. The child star blew kisses and waved with friendly delight, winning smiles from even the most jaded reporter.

Another girl, in a chocolate-colored dress that matched her braids, peeked around the planter. With envious eyes, she watched Sally pose for the cameras before the blonde scampered off to join her governess.

The clouds above the Hotel glowed electric green, thunder growling more insistently than ever.

At the front desk, London tapped his fingers against the wooden surface while stealing a glance at the clock. It was two after eight.

More than a half-hour late! What could be keeping her?

He felt a quick tap against his arm. A red-haired woman in a glittering white gown beamed at him, her upper face shrouded in a sequined mask.

London smiled as she removed the mask, beaming impishly. "Darling," he murmured.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized, turquoise eyes holding him captivated through the chaos. He offered her his arm, which she readily accepted. After all, they were fashionably late for the party, and it wouldn't do to keep everyone waiting.

The doors of the main elevator slid open with a ding, guests stepping out. London led his companion inside, Dewey staggering behind under a load of suitcases and small valises. Ms. Partridge steamed along like a small ocean liner, one hand on Sally's shoulder, as the press eagerly followed.

As the adults settled inside, Sally skipped out for one last smile and wave. Dewey pressed the button for the floor, and arranged the luggage as London put his arm around his companion, smiling also at the cameras.

Just as the doors closed, Ms. Partridge pulled Sally back, and the crowd sighed in disappointment. It felt as though the enthusiasm was drained from them, with the young starlet's exit.

Green lightning flashed through the sky, rivaling the intensity of the neon sign.

Inside the elevator, the guests waited impatiently. Sally absentmindedly did a few tap steps as the two actors behind her gently teased each other.

Fifth floor.

The small girl bounced excitedly, beaming at her nanny. The solid woman raised an eyebrow. Sally slumped.

Seventh floor.

Dewey grinned at his clients, confidence flashing across his youthful features.

Tenth floor.

As the elevator neared the eleventh floor, it ground to a halt, jerking slightly. The lights flickered, causing Sally to gasp and edge closer to her nanny. Ms. Partridge put a hand on the child's shoulder, reassuring her with her solid presence.

Dewey's grin was sliding off his face as he fiddled with the elevator controls.

The bellhop grunted as he tugged at the wheel. It was solidly stuck.

Lightning flashed, closer, brighter…

Dewey's eyes darted across the elevator. Now what do I do? I've…I've never…this…

Emmeline Partridge gazed around the machinery suspiciously, while Sally clung to her, eyes wide. The small girl trembled slightly.

Electric green clouds seethed, flashing white-hot. With arrow-like speed, a jagged bolt of lightning struck the building's front, causing sparks to fly from the neon sign.

Sally whirled around, shrieking.

Heat flared and the light hit, surrounding the occupants with a flash of brilliance. Sally's hands flew to her face, as the others attempted to cover their eyes…

It grew hotter and brighter, and she couldn't see anything.

Hot and bright…and she was falling…

Hello! I'm Crescent Venus, and this is the second installation in my weird and wacky "The Spirit Detective Files" series. This fic series is a Sabrina the Teenage Witch crossover with various other properties (Disney's Haunted Mansion and Tower of Terror so far, and an eventual Yu Yu Hakusho one as well). The "Sabrina the Teenage Witch" portion of this is a blend of the different types of the franchise: the original comics, the "manga" reboot, and the TV show. (I'll admit that it was hard choosing just one, but there are so many fun elements to use!) Characters from the different versions will make appearances, but not all of them (sadly, we don't have enough time/room for that!). The Tower of Terror elements in the story are a blend of the ride and the Disney Channel movie.

If you haven't read the first fic in this series, "Tribute," I recommend you do it now, since you will most likely get confused. Some other reminders: this is set in the same USA and time period that Sabrina lives in. The year is 1999, and she is seventeen years old. The series is rated T/PG-13 for thematic elements and occasional language. If semi-graphic violence or occasional profane language disturbs you, please be warned.

As a general disclaimer, I do not own any of the intellectual properties used in this work (Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and Disney's Tower of Terror, the Twilight Zone, etc.). This work is intended solely for entertainment, and no profit is being made.

I believe that is all, so if you will be so kind, your elevator is waiting for you—a special one, still in working order. But be careful, for this elevator stops at the floor marked "terror," in…the Twilight Zone.