Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

He’s nervous . Another bad sign.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Alex,” he began, exhaling a long plume of blue smoke. “Are there any tenants left? Who’s still living in the place?”

“Besides me, there’s only one. Two, actually; a mother and her daughter.”

“I see. Are they staying?”

A look of concern briefly passed over Cantrell’s face.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay then, let’s establish a bottom line: what are your prospects of drawing new tenants to the building?”

“Next to nil,” Cantrell laughed. “To be honest, Josh, I don’t think we could draw tenants with the promise of ten years’ free rent. The media has had a field day with all of this. Those who aren’t laughing are scared shitless. The place can’t attract flies.”

The lawyer grimaced again. He paused, as if mustering up the courage to ask his next question:

“Be straight with me, Alex: Does this place have a curse on it or something? Is it fucking haunted or what?”

Cantrell could see that the lawyer didn’t believe any of it. And why should he? He was a black and white guy, interested only in the facts. But when it came to the Exeter, the facts were strictly in the gray zone.

“I don’t know. You’ve read the papers, heard what they’re saying on TV. To be honest, I’ve seen things myself that don’t make any sense. I honestly don’t know what to make of it.”

He looked at Billings directly, skepticism apparent on the lawyer’s face.

“I do know this: whatever it is, it’s real as hell.”

“Okay, Alex. I’m not saying that I doubt you, but let me ask you a question: Is it possible that somebody is setting you up? A prank or shakedown of some kind?”

Cantrell watched Billings’ smoke rise to the ceiling.

“Trust me on this, Josh. Whatever it is, it’s bad, and it’s real . I doubted it for a long time, but I can’t anymore.”

The lawyer waited a minute before going on:

“Okay. Let’s leave that for the time being. Let’s look at the practical side.”

He opened a thick file filled with notes and accounting sheets.

“How long can you last? Financially, I mean.”

“Thirty days, at the outside. After that, the reserves are gone.”

“Have you talked to your partners?”

“They’ve all called, of course. I’m trying to delay a meeting, at least for the next few days. I mean, I have no idea what to say to them.”

The lawyer snubbed out his cigarette and bit his lip. “You know we’re going to have to talk to them, Alex. And pretty soon. Do you want me to set something up?”

“Yeah. But what are we going to tell them, Josh?”

“The same thing I’m going to tell you. There are three basic options here. The first is the most obvious: We can go Chapter 13; turn everything over to the bank and walk away. Two, there might still be time to sell the place. That is, if there’s anybody willing to buy it after all the shit that’s gone down.

“Third and last my friend, you can make a cap call.”

“What the hell is that ?”

“That’s when you ask your partners how deep they want to dig their hole, and whether they’re willing to throw good money after bad.”

Cantrell put his hand across his forehead.

“What do you think?”

“You’re paying me to provide options, Alex, not to do your thinking for you. I know this place means a great deal to you, and I’m sorry as hell that things have turned out this way. Chalk it up to good old Murphy, blame God, blame your past life, but frankly, things aren’t looking too rosy. But I can’t tell you which road to take. All of them have consequences and you’re a bright guy, you don’t need me to tell you that. Give it some thought, a few days at most, and let me know. We’ll get the partners together and try to hammer something out. That’s my counsel.”

With that, the meeting was clearly over. Cantrell rose and extended his hand to Billings.

“Alex, one last question,” the lawyer said. “What do you plan on doing? Are you still there? Do you plan to stay?”

Cantrell paused at the office door.

“Yeah, Josh. I’m there and I’m staying. No matter what.”

“In God’s name, why?”

Cantrell flashed a weak grin, shrugged his shoulders, and strode into the hallway.

It was twilight when he returned.

The feeling of deep dread, almost familiar by now, came back like a breath of chill wind the moment he turned up the drive.

The Exeter loomed in the wintry dusk, its verdant landscaping now brown and dry. He saw no lights in any of its windows. Nor were there any other cars in the parking lot. The empty spaces made the place look sad and naked.

Still, anything was better than the circus of press that had filled this lot only a week ago. The frenzy had lasted forever. He felt considerable relief that the media seemed to have finally lost their appetite for whatever the Exeter was serving up.

The bleakness also permeated the interior. For the first time, Cantrell felt the emptiness of the vast building, the sheer mass of its silence. There were no sounds of human occupation—no television, no music; no footsteps on floors and stairs, no laughter.

He noticed a small doll on the floor—a Raggedy Ann. Its once pretty face had been trampled by dirty shoes, the movers no doubt.

The little thing had been left behind during someone’s move. He picked it up, regarding its expressionless face. The doll’s feelings were impossible to gauge, but he felt sure that its owner was happier to be somewhere else. He tossed the doll into a corner.

The staircase which wound around the tall tree—still green and lush despite the season—looked stranger than the last time he examined it. Its angles and shadows even more perverse; still maddeningly impossible to analyze, even for an experienced architect.

His eyes turned toward the skylight far above. He was almost disappointed to see nothing there—no gauzy form wafting its way down the atrium toward him.

A sudden sound made him jump—a loud thump followed by the hammering of steel against steel. The furnaces. I’m jumping like a cat at a furnace.

He sighed, shaking his head at his own timidity.

As he began walking up the staircase, however, he couldn’t help but think that the sudden sound was something more; that the house was laughing at this rational man who tried to explain everything in rational terms.

When she saw his car pull into the empty parking lot two stories below, Su Ling felt enormously reassured. The past four hours had been torture. She was acutely aware of the slow passage of time, and the horrific emptiness that had now become the Exeter. With only her and Anna left in the entire building, she felt infinitesimally small and vulnerable—at the mercy of… she wouldn’t allow herself to finish the thought.

She quickly turned on the light and blew out the solitary candle she’d been burning in the living room. She knew it was foolish, but felt that the muted light of a candle left her less exposed.

She went into the kitchen and did a cursory check of the dinner she’d prepared—straightforward American comfort food. She passed through the living room and made sure that Anna—who sat drawing in the middle of the carpet—was okay. She checked her makeup, adjusting her top in the bathroom mirror.

She thought she looked good, and could not entirely suppress a feeling of giddiness. And with that sensation, a pang of guilt, like a cloud passing over the sun. She thought of her husband—only gone a year—how much she loved him, and missed him.

How could she possibly be falling in love again?