Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

The lovers fell asleep in each other’s arms, but their slumber was not destined to last long.

Once again, Cantrell was startled by a loud noise, echoing from somewhere below in the empty building.

The furnaces again…

But the noise repeated, growing louder, and did not stop. Eventually, it brought him fully awake. Su Ling’s breathing remained soft and regular. She was oblivious to the noise.

No, not the furnace… somebody was knocking on the main door. He glanced at the clock—just after 3 a.m. Who the Hell… ?

He got out of bed and fumbled in the darkness of the unfamiliar room for his clothes. He put them on hastily, creeping out of the flat into the dark hallway.

The banging was much louder now, like a sledgehammer against the thick wood.

Cantrell reached the door and angrily flung it open.

Momentarily illuminated by flashes of lightning, he immediately recognized the man, drenched in the cold rain that was falling.

The visitor was tall and slender, wisps of long white hair trailing from beneath his fedora. He wore a long, dark raincoat, carrying no umbrella. He looks much older in person…

Without a pause, Cantrell began to close the door. Everett Cross deftly blocked it with his foot.

“You need to talk to me, Mr. Cantrell,” the familiar voice boomed through the rain. “You shut me out at your own risk.”

The implied threat made Cantrell pause. Leaving the door open only as wide as the man’s foot, he spoke through the opening.

“I know who you are; that guy on television. You were here after Derek Taylor’s…”

“Untimely demise?” Cross offered.

“Whatever. I saw you talking to the press.”

“Yes. All true.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I have business here, with this building. With you.”

“You have no business here. I know what kind of business you’re in, Mister, what’s your name, again?”

“Cross. You can call me Steve.”

“Yes, of course. `Night Crossing,’ that joke of a television show.”

The man in the rain laughed softly. “Another cynic, I see. Do you have any idea how many cynics I meet? Do you have any idea how many of them I convert ?”

“I really don’t care, Cross. It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning. Leave me alone.”

“I could do that easy enough, Mr. Cantrell. Leave you to your bankruptcy, your failure to deal with whatever’s roaming these God-forsaken halls of yours. Or, you can let me in, give me five minutes, and let me talk you out of your disbelief. What do you have to lose?”

He’s nothing but a huckster; an exploiter; the kind of man you’d see at a carnival, barking at passers-by, trying to lure them into a freak show.

Still, there was something behind the man’s pale blue eyes, something vaguely authoritative in his professional, baritone voice, the voice of a consummate pitchman.

What did he have to lose?

“Okay, Cross,” he said, opening the door wider. “You have your five minutes.”

Cross entered, removing his sodden coat and hat, placing them on the elegant tiles of the foyer floor. Cantrell directed him to the conference room at the far side of the lobby.

Su Ling’s voice, echoing from the second floor above, was apprehensive, almost fearful.

“Alex?”

“It’s okay, Su,” Alex shouted back. “Just a visitor. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Cross’s head followed the sound of Su Ling’s voice. He then looked sharply at Cantrell, as if he understood at that moment their situation.

Cantrell hit the lights in the conference room and motioned his visitor to a chair. They sat down across from one another; two men at a table built for at least a dozen.

“Okay,” Cross began, wasting no time. “Let’s be frank: you and I have the opportunity to help each other; what you might call a win-win situation, different but coinciding interests.”

“Explain.”

“It’s not complicated. I’m the man who can solve your problem.”

“Which problem are you talking about?”

“Ah, that’s the beautiful thing,” Cross said with a smile. “All of them. Let’s start with the money. We both know you’re running out of it. Except for the young lady I just heard upstairs, I know this place is as empty as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. And I also know that it takes a steep pile of cash just to keep this place running.”

For a moment, Cantrell’s temper flared. Who the hell was this guy to come in here and delve into his personal business? Part of him wanted to throw this carney huckster back out into the rain. Another realized that he was making perfect sense.

“Okay,” Cantrell conceded. “But how can you help me with that?”

“First, I’m going to offer you a check for $20,000. That ought to buy you at least a little breathing room. But that’s just the start.”

“I’m listening.”

“After that, I’m going to put your building on television. National cable TV, Mr. Cantrell, with an audience of at least 12 million people, devoted fans of mine, each and every one of them. And then I’m going to rid this creation of yours of whatever ails it. I’m going to set the forces free, send them elsewhere. And you, my friend, will be in a position to attract new tenants. They’ll be tenants who will stay this time, and the reason they’ll stay is because there won’t be anything to scare them away. There won’t be anything to make them kill themselves, or each other, or go stark, raving mad. That’s my deal, in a nutshell.”

Cantrell rubbed his lower lip, looking silently at the man across the table.

“You’re speechless, aren’t you? You don’t believe me. You’re trying to find holes in my argument.”

“Yes, I am. After what’s happened here, I might be willing to believe in things I used to laugh at. But it’s you I have a problem with, Cross. I’ve seen your show. I don’t believe in all your mumbo-jumbo. It’s staged, phony . Excuse me for getting personal here, but I think you’re a con artist.”

Cross laughed. “Of course you do. Lots of people do. I’ve heard this my entire life, and you know what? It doesn’t matter whether you believe in any of it. What’s important is that I believe in it, and so does my audience.”

The medium ran his fingers through his white hair, just now beginning to dry.

“This place of yours, Mr. Cantrell, is loaded with energy. Very negative energy. The Exeter has been on my radar screen since that first incident, you know, the guy who ran nightclubs, what was his name?”

“Stu Brown.”

“Yes, ever since Stu Brown went nutty and burned his fortune in the fireplace. There was no doubt in my mind. Everything that’s happened since—and you’ve got to admit, Mr. Cantrell, you’ve had a few doozies —has only reaffirmed it. My point, obviously, is that this building is not done yet. Far from it.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’m an expert, that’s how. This is my business, my trade , and I take it very seriously. Despite your earlier comments, I do not consider myself a con artist.”

Cantrell did not apologize. “Go on.”

“My network likes to label me a ghost hunter . I don’t particularly like that phrase, but it brands well. I call myself other things. I’m a medium—I can see things, hear things, smell things, taste things from the other side. I’m a clairvoyant—I can tell what certain people are thinking at certain times. And I’m an expert at the science of the paranormal. You’d be bored by the details of such things as electronic voice phenomena, or infrared photography. But I can assure you that I’m as knowledgeable about my career as you are about yours.”