Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

Now it was his turn to smile. He took her in his arms and gave her a long kiss.

As their lips met, both felt a flash of excitement and anticipation—a feeling perhaps of hope.

The crew began arriving at 3 p.m. An entourage of four trucks was parked in the circular drive, their crews soon busy disrupting the cemetery silence of the Exeter. On the side panel of each was the logo for “Night Crossing,” in lurid colors and cheesy horror movie graphics.

They were mostly young, men and women, toting cables, lighting equipment, tripods and screens. Soon, the mechanical whine of a master generator, set up beside the building, filled the darkening evening.

Their expertise and professionalism were obvious. Within a couple hours, much of the old building resembled a Hollywood set.

As the workers conducted various tests of cameras and lenses, Cantrell and Su Ling watched from the landing by the staircase.

“This is cool,” Su Ling said as she watched the preparations. “I never watched a movie being made before.”

He raised his eyebrows at her comment.

“I don’t think anybody here will be getting an Oscar.”

She smiled. “Come on, Alex. I’m just having a little fun.”

He touched her face and replied, “I know. I should lighten up. I’ll keep an open mind.”

There was a lull in the activity around 5 p.m., as the crews ate a quick bite from the catering truck. During the wait, Cantrell, Su Ling and Anna ate their own small supper. As they watched the winter sun setting through the front window, a sense of nervous apprehension came over them.

Both of them knew that it would all begin soon. Cantrell couldn’t wait for it to end .

Standing by the great circle, the great circle with great arms, looking out into the place which could not be passed, disturbances were felt.

Many shapes, busy in their movements and rapid in their motions, going to and fro. Going from here to there. Breaking the quiet and sending vibrations into the space.

The quiet, so recently regained, was gone. Again. There were few shapes for a while, and that was nice. These shapes were not nice. These shapes brought disturbance.

One of them, a dark shape, moved more slowly than the others. This shape had a strong temperature. And something else. From this shape, something extended; long and narrow and writhing. Something that sought . Something that could see through solid forms. Something impossible to hide from.

Not nice.

Very bad.

Great fear, and something new. Anger .

It knows I’m here.

Steve Cross paused at the entrance to the Exeter, gazing into the night sky, seeing his breath in the air, the dark tower looming above.

It’s watching, sizing me up…

Even at this distance, he could tell that that the hands on the massive clock face had somehow frozen in place.

Interesting.

He collected himself and smirked. Tonight’s show would be a killer .

He recalled his initial conversation with Cantrell. The architect had begun resolutely; flat out refusing Cross’s generous offer. No different from the many others he’d encountered over the course of his career.

The resistance, of course, had weakened. Whether Cantrell’s turnaround had been due to greed, a chance at fleeting fame, or genuine desire to rid this place of its illness, Cross neither knew nor cared. He knew that Cantrell would come around. He’d felt it.

The story of my life: Whatever Mr. Cross wants, Mr. Cross gets. Mr. Cross… the blessed man.

Except for one goddamn thing.

The reprieve.

He had wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. A reprieve for his father.

The old man was an evil one, of that there was never any doubt. His mother—who had divorced him a decade earlier—had a kinder way of putting it, branding him a ne’er do well .

Bullshit . Cross’s father had kidnapped, raped, tortured and killed two young women. College roommates, no more than 18 years old. And he’d enjoyed every second of it.

But he was his father , for Christ’s sake! The man who had once rocked his son to sleep after awakening from a terrible nightmare. The man who loved to take his family out for picnics and car trips, and who would sing lovely old-fashioned songs as they traveled.

The son, only 12 years old, refused to believe that his father had done anything wrong. He wrote his own note to the judge, pleading for mercy after the guilty verdict was delivered. He prayed, for nights and nights, that they would give the old man something less than the ultimate punishment.

But it wasn’t to be.

Cross was 22 the night of his father’s execution.

He could still imagine the man regarding his last meal, shuffling down the hallway, priest by his side muttering useless banalities, walking into the death chamber, the sweat pouring off his trembling body, breath coming fast and unsteady, mouth dry, sour .

The young Cross didn’t have the heart or the stomach to be present himself, there in the stark penitentiary room with the electric chair located dead center.

He wasn’t there to hear the loud crackle of electricity, the pounding volts; to smell the burnt hair and flesh. Nor did he hear the final scream.

He didn’t need to; he felt it. He felt it all. And had imagined it, day after day, night after night, replaying like an old 78 rpm record, over and over and over…

God, how horrible it must have been for him. How horrible to know that your death is coming in the next few seconds, and there’s no way to stop it.

It terrified him to this day. It always would.

A cold wind brought him back to the present. Cross’s hands trembled, though not from the cold.

Christ! Not now, not just before I go on…

He pushed thoughts of his father away, sweeping them into the dark recesses of his mind, where they belonged. Where he wished they would stay.

He took a deep breath, glanced back at the massive clock far above, and noticed that its second hand had begun moving again.

Interesting… He turned his attention away, passing through the Exeter’s front door.

There was a flurry of activity inside. His crew had already positioned most of their equipment, following the instructions of Cross’s assistant director, a high-strung and capable individual whom everyone called Wingnut.

The assistant director had already anticipated most of the shots. As the makeup tech patted the star’s face with powder and pale rouge, Wingnut explained that he’d like to do the introduction, then go upstairs to the rooms where the “bad things” had happened.

The plan was for Cross to do a walking tour of the rooms upstairs while two “spiritual technicians” would go through the building, testing for paranormal phenomena. They would check temperatures, take infrared images, and operate sensitive recording devices for evidence of electronic voice phenomena, or EVP.

Cross gave his approval, his impatience obvious. He turned to Cantrell, Su Ling and Anna, who stood to the side of the foyer, and smiled.

Cantrell and Su Ling had discussed whether to let Anna join them in watching the show being filmed. They were both concerned that she might see things that would terrify her. In the end, they agreed that she could come along until something questionable happened, if it did at all. If things turned ugly, Su Ling would take her away.

“You ready for this, folks?” Cross asked them in a jaunty tone. “Because it’s show time.”

The two nodded their heads.