Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

“Come on, get over it,” she told herself, pulling a bottle of wine from the cupboard and pouring herself a small glass.

She silently scolded herself for being selfish. Here she was, obsessing over herself, worrying about nonsense, when Su Ling needed her so badly, not to mention her many other patients.

Sharon awoke with a start. She heard rain, falling hard and steady, and stared at the digital clock by her bedside. 4:02.

She rose clumsily and looked out the window. The night was pitch black, but she could tell it wasn’t raining.

Still, the sound was unmistakable.

She trudged to the bathroom and flipped on the light. The sound was louder in here—had she left the shower on? The curtain was drawn… Jesus, was someone in there?

Sharon stood for several minutes, trying to make sense out of the scene.

With a deep breath, she yanked back the curtain.

Nothing.

The noise was gone. The shower was not running, the tub was dry. There was no one there.

But the jangle of terror was not relieved.

A bad dream?

She had no answer, feeling ridiculous standing in her nightgown, staring at nothing.

Sharon turned out the light, went back to bed and drew the blanket tightly around her body, hoping for sleep.

Unnoticed, the clock at her bedside read 4:02.

“Okay, everybody. How are things going so far?”

A characteristic opening for Cantrell; blunt but casual. He hoped it would get the chattering group in his conference room down to business.

It was, to put it mildly, a mixed assembly, with the only apparent common denominator being their shared residence in the Exeter.

Among the group seated at the long conference table were the Sloanes—not in the best of spirits, by the looks of it; Derek Taylor—arms crossed, lips pursed, impatient; Sharon Knaster—preoccupied with her Blackberry, obviously busy with other matters; Stu Brown—leaning back in his leather chair, bored, restless; Su Ling Nugyen—shy, quiet, a silent Anna seated by her side.

Brown was the first to answer Cantrell’s general question.

“Everything’s fine,” he spat, “except the rent’s too damn high.”

There was a smattering of giggling which ceased as soon as the people saw the apparent seriousness on Brown’s face.

Cantrell chuckled along. “That’s how we keep our clientele, such as yourself, Mr. Brown, so very select.”

A few more tenants chuckled; Brown merely shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“Seriously folks,” Cantrell continued. “It’s our first formal Tenants Association meeting. I know there must be some real issues you want to discuss.”

There was a long, uncomfortable delay, broken at last by Bill Sloane, goaded on by a sharp jab to his ribs from his wife.

“I do have one issue… ” he began in a voice that reflected the smooth tenor of an experienced litigator. “It’s about the, uh, about the… sounds.”

“Sounds?” Cantrell asked.

“Well, yes. Voices , to be exact.” He paused to exhale before continuing.

“It’s a little odd, and I don’t know quite what to make of it. I was in the steam room and I could swear there was a group of people on the other side of the door. The voices were loud, urgent, like something was wrong. But when I opened the door, there was nobody there.”

Cantrell paused.

“What day was that, Mr. Sloane?”

“I’m not sure. A couple of weeks ago.”

Cantrell was about to provide a banal explanation—a repair crew, for example—but Mrs. Sloane spoke before he could.

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ve heard!” she snapped, the tension obvious in her voice.

Her husband put a hand on her arm, as if to calm her. She roughly pushed it away.

“He didn’t believe me,” Mrs. Sloane said to the gathering. “He said I was making it all up!”

“Honey, please… ” Sloane urged, hoping to avoid a confrontation.

“I’m talking, goddamnit!”

“Go ahead, Mrs. Sloane,” Cantrell urged.

“Thank you. I’ve heard noises. Mechanical noises, things like chains or gears grinding. Just awful. I hear it at night, when Bill,” she gestured at her husband, “has nothing better to do than sleep.”

“Can you tell where the noises are coming from?”

“How the hell should I know? They sound like they’re everywhere, like the whole building is ready to collapse. I mean, no disrespect intended, Mr. Superintendent, but what kind of a rat trap are you running here anyway?”

Her husband whispered “Shhh. Take it easy, dear.”

Cantrell broke the embarrassed silence around the table. “It’s a very old building, Mrs. Sloane, and it’s been totally remodeled. I’m sure you’ve heard noises, and I’m sure that everyone else has heard noises as well.”

He turned to the table, where several heads nodded in agreement.

“The building is settling, Mrs. Sloane, that’s all. Please think of it this way: the old has been married to the new. As a result, there’s tension; a little friction here and there. The structure itself is over a century old, but most of the physical plant is relatively new. It’s quite natural for there to be some… growing pains.”

It was a good line, though Cantrell wasn’t sure if he believed what he was saying. He wasn’t sure that what Mrs. Sloane was hearing was nothing more than an old building sighing and adjusting its bones.

For her part, Mrs. Sloane found his remarks patronizing, but she was already tired of the discussion and wanted nothing more than a second stiff scotch and water.

“Whatever,” she muttered, letting the subject die. She stalked angrily out of the conference room.

Derek Taylor uncrossed his arms and put a hand in the air.

“I have a question, Mr. Cantrell: I’ve been smelling things since I moved in. Are you saying that smell is part of the settling process too?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“It comes and goes,” Taylor said, rubbing his hand through his gelled hair. “It doesn’t seem to be there just when the air conditioning is running, for example, or at any given time, or place, for that matter. The last time I was relaxing on my couch when it hit me again.”

Taylor looked around the table to check out the reactions and was met with blank stares. It struck Cantrell that Taylor seemed to be checking whether anyone was looking at him.

“Can you describe the odors, Derek?”

“I don’t want to gross anybody out,” he began, “but the closest thing I can come up with to describe it is something you’d smell at the circus or the zoo; you know, animal. The first time it happened, I kind of assumed that maybe a small animal; a rodent or something, had crawled behind a wall and died. But it was stronger than that, and there was more to it. There’s an odor beneath that, something… metallic. I can’t really put my finger on what it is.”

“Do you notice this anywhere in particular?”

Derek thought for a moment then shook his head. “No. It’s happened in my bedroom, in the kitchen; even in the weight room downstairs. I can’t believe nobody else has noticed it.”

Cantrell scratched his head. This one stumped him. He wasn’t sure how seriously he should take this guy.

“I’ll check it out, Derek; I’ll do an inspection myself. If that doesn’t help, I’ll have the duct work checked. Fair enough?”

Taylor shrugged and resumed his silence.

Mrs. Daniels, an elderly widow, put a timid hand into the air.

“Yes, Mrs. Daniels?”

“I… I’m not sure how to say this,” she began. “There is… well… No, never mind. It’s okay.”

“Please, no complaint is too small: I want everyone here to feel free to express themselves. That’s my job.”