Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

An uneasy silence greeted these words.

“Yes, Marshall. I do know what this building used to be, as do most of you by now. But it’s been transformed into something new. I’ve got to be honest with you: I have a hard time believing that things that happened 60 or more years ago have any bearing on what happens today. Call me a skeptic. I just can’t accept that.”

“Not only are you a skeptic, Mr. Cantrell,” the young man’s wife said. “You’re a fool. Can’t you see it? This place is cursed… ”

Stunned silence greeted her words.

“I can’t speak for anybody else in this God-forsaken building, but we’re leaving,” she continued. “We’re out! By the end of the week, we’re gone, lease or not. Sue us if you want.”

The woman turned to the group. “And if the rest of you have any sense, you’ll do the same.”

The meeting obviously over, the tenants began to file out.

Cantrell knew there was nothing he could say or do to stop them, so he didn’t try. Nor did he say a word when the rest of the group followed suit; all except Su Ling.

He looked out at the darkening arbor, occupied now only by Su Ling, who sat quietly on the wooden porch swing near the end of the patio, Anna sitting quietly on the grass, oblivious to everything around her. Su Ling beckoned him with a finger.

“So you’re not running away with the rest of them?”

She smiled. “Did you think I would?”

He returned the smile. “No. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Have a seat,” she said, motioning for him to sit beside her. “After all, you designed this swing, didn’t you? I love it. Have you ever sat in it?”

Cantrell shook his head and took a seat. “No. I loved swings when I was a kid. I designed this as a little personal touch. I’m glad you like it.”

They sat in silence for several moments. “I guess I blew it with them, didn’t I?”

“That’s a harsh way of putting it.”

“But that’s what it is. I don’t think a single person walked out of here feeling any better than when the meeting began. I’m starting to feel as if I’m under siege.”

“How do they say it? The wolves are at the door.”

He smiled. “And that’s not harsh?”

“But it’s honest, Alex. These people are scared. Do you really blame them?”

Cantrell nodded. “Well, to share your honesty, Su, I can’t blame them. Too much has gone wrong. Too much is impossible to explain. I mean, what do you make of all this?”

A sudden chill, despite the warm evening, seemed to cross Su Ling’s spine.

“I think you are a skeptic, Mr. Alex Cantrell, and that’s why none of this makes sense to you. I am not a skeptic. In my home country, and even here as I was growing up, I heard many stories of ghosts. The Vietnamese people, like most Asian people, have no problem believing in the supernatural. And let’s be honest again. That’s what we’re really talking about, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he said quietly, almost fearful of being overheard.

“The Chinese regard spirits as routine. They put bead curtains on their doorways to confuse spirits who might wish to enter their homes. Other people cover their mirrors, or put salt on the threshold. To them, spirits and the supernatural are as real, and as common, as the sky and the birds that fly in it.”

“Let’s suppose you’re right; let’s say that spirits are as common and routine as you say: Is it common for spirits to make a man suddenly go insane? Or to encourage a woman to murder her husband for no apparent reason? Or to make a pool of blood appear under your clothes dryer, for God’s sake?”

He realized that his voice had risen, and he apologized for the momentary lapse.

Su Ling took his hand and held it.

“No, I don’t think any of those things are common. They’re terrible, but I don’t have the answers, Alex. Still, I feel pretty sure telling you this—all the awful things that have happened in this building were not caused by leaky pipes or settling foundations. Or any fault of yours, for that matter. You understand plumb lines. You’re comfortable with blueprints and construction schedules and precision. That’s not what this is about. This is no failure of yours, if that’s what you’re thinking. This is way beyond even you, Mr. Alex Cantrell.”

He looked her in the eye, immersed in her dark beauty. He realized, very suddenly, that he trusted this woman. That he needed her.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “One more lapse into honesty. I’m scared, Su. I really am.”

She smiled. “I know you are. I am too. But I want you to know this—you’re not alone. I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Without thinking about it, he brought his lips to hers. They kissed passionately, though the new emotions blossoming between them only provided camouflage for the fear that had brought them into one another’s arms.

“So you’re Derek Taylor. You’re not at all what I expected.”

Taylor looked at the man—30-something, narrow rectangular glasses, black turtleneck, slicked-back hair—and wondered what he had been expecting.

“And you are?”

“David Dunn,” the stranger replied. “I’m a friend of Ella Sanders. I work with her.”

Taylor tried to remember not only where Ella worked, but who the hell she was. He realized that he didn’t care. His eyes returned to the stranger—to David.

“Glad you could make it tonight,” he said warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

They shook hands firmly before David pulled away, merging into the swirling mass of party-goers liberally enjoying Taylor’s sumptuous flat, open bar and assorted high-end drugs.

It was turning out to be a highly successful soiree. At least 50 of the city’s hippest, most desired, young executives, artists and nouveau riche had gathered here, most of them eager to check out Taylor’s hot new digs at the Exeter which, at the moment, was considered the best address in town. All of them had come to see and to be seen.

He vaguely enjoyed their presence; the din of collective conversation, but, as usual, felt detached and remote from his contemporaries. If it weren’t for the fact that he was obliged to throw this party, he’d happily hoist each and every one of them out the door. That would be social suicide, of course; as much as Taylor didn’t fit in with these people, they counted him as one of their own.

As the hours swept by, punctuated by Godzilla bass and escalating mirth as the champagne flowed, Taylor watched as men and women—occasionally, women and women—began to pair off and leave. It almost amused him how predictably ritualistic, the mating dance was—casual touching, leading to close dancing; to passionate kissing; intimate groping.

At least they had the good taste to save their actual copulation for later—on their own sheets.

Invariably, one would remain behind. This particular sacrifice was named Susan. She stood five foot five, her dyed red hair contrasting with his own close-cropped ebony. She was gorgeous; shapely, well dressed, and seemed moderately intelligent, although the cognac and cocaine had obviously had an effect.

She drew close to him— crowding him —and he smelled the alcohol on her breath. She brought her lower torso into contact with his own and began a slow, side-to-side gyration. Taylor felt the vague stirrings of early arousal.

Susan brought her lips to his ear. “I heard you’re the best, Derek,” she whispered. “Prove it to me?”

Prove what? That I can fuck the next gold-digger in my sleep?

He took her hand and led her into the mirrored bedroom, which was lit by several candles, scented with jasmine incense.