Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

“Okay, J.B., we’re all set here,” Wingnut said into the microphone attached to his headset.

The director, in the production van parked outside, apparently told Wingnut to go ahead and start. He barked to the crew inside and told Cross to take his marked position in front of the winding staircase and towering linden tree.

Cross cleared his throat as the lights dimmed to a sinister bluish tint. A magical transformation came over his face as the cameras began to roll, his expression growing grave, his voice deepening to a stentorian baritone.

“Thank you for joining me for Night Crossing. We are here at the Exeter, a former slaughterhouse, remodeled into what some have called the jewel of Derbytown; a luxurious residence of prestigious lofts, the exclusive domain of the city’s fashionable elite.

“All this,” he said, sweeping his arms in a wide arc toward the staircase, “the dream of brilliant architect Alexander Cantrell.”

Cross turned to face the camera directly in close-up.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “this dream became a nightmare. A nightmare of death and madness.”

He paused for effect.

“There are stories about this building, after the slaughterhouse ceased its killing—old, dusty tales about guard dogs who jumped to their deaths, about tramps and workers found dead of questionable causes in the cellar. In tonight’s episode, we will seek to determine the cause of this nightmare, and perchance drive it away.”

Behind the camera, Wingnut motioned two attractive young people to step forward.

Cross welcomed them warmly.

“You are all familiar with my spiritual assistants, Lisa and Greg. They will take their expertise and their sophisticated array of equipment throughout this cursed building. They will seek disturbances, anomalies and, hopefully, the dreaded center of the evil which I believe dwells here. When they have finished, they will report their findings to me so that I can take the necessary action.”

He directed his assistants to do their jobs and then turned once more to face his viewers.

“As they explore, I shall take you along on a tour of the Exeter. But be warned, my friends; what took place here is far beyond imagination, not to mention sanity… ”

“Cut!” Wingnut cried. “Fucking awesome, dude. You’re really on tonight.”

“Okay,” Cross responded, his voice back to its normal businesslike tone. “Let’s get this gear upstairs. Time is money, folks.”

As he watched his people begin to lug their equipment up the stairs, he turned to Cantrell and Su Ling.

“What do you think so far?”

“I wouldn’t turn the channel,” an obviously impressed Su Ling replied.

Cantrell said nothing.

Upstairs, the crew’s first stop was the empty suite that had once been home to Stuart Brown.

Cross positioned himself in front of the fireplace. He gave a quick summary of the whole story—Brown’s liquidation of millions of dollars; his storage of said money in hundreds of coffee cans; ultimately, the madness that drove him to burn the entire fortune.

He closed with this line: “Nobody has seen Stuart Brown since that fateful evening. He is rumored to be wandering the streets of the city, homeless, penniless, a broken derelict. We call him the first victim of the Exeter.”

Next stop was the Sloanes’ flat.

Cross began this shoot seated at what he called “the table of death.” He provided horrific details of the steak knife that protruded from the chest of the unfortunate Bill Sloane. He sounded almost gleeful describing the murder, and the incoherent, delusional murderess.

“Janice Sloane had no memory of the crime. She is currently charged with first degree murder. Not surprisingly, her attorney informs us that she will plead not guilty by reason of insanity.”

He turned away from the table and faced the camera in another close-up.

“We call this once happily married couple the second and third victims of the Exeter.”

As Wingnut once more cried “cut!” Cantrell shook his head in disbelief.

Next on Cross’s list was Derek Taylor.

“A popular young man, wealthy, good-looking, a man who moved in all the right circles—Derek Taylor. Just months ago, the young Mr. Taylor hosted a housewarming party in this very flat. Many of the city’s most desirable young singles flocked here. They drank, listened to music, danced into the wee hours of the morning. Everyone had a great time, except for Mr. Taylor.”

Cross turned to face the empty space where Taylor’s bed had once stood.

“These walls have only recently been repainted,” he continued. “But had you been here a few short months ago, you would have seen a massive amount of blood, and other matter too horrible to describe, splattered everywhere”

He swept his arms theatrically across the room.

“For Derek Taylor, having only moments before made love to one of the beautiful young people who came to his party, blew his brains out on this very spot. There was no suicide note, no indications of depression or desperation. Only the sudden, undeniable truth of a fatal gunshot.”

Cross again moved in for his close-up.

“Derek Taylor—the Exeter’s fourth victim.”

At last, the host, the assistant director and the assorted crew lumbered to the place where Sharon Knaster had once resided.

“Dr. Knaster, a prominent psychiatrist, on one fateful evening, found herself teetering on the railing of this precarious balcony. She stood upon this tiny railing for an ungodly five minutes, swaying back and forth in the night wind, mere millimeters away from certain death.

“Somehow, in an act of mercy we do not yet understand, the house let her live. In what must have been a titanic effort, she fell toward the inside, and life, instead of toward the outside, and death.”

He turned away from the balcony and stepped back into the room, moving in close to the camera.

“Though she lives, Dr. Knaster, whose whereabouts at this time are unknown, is nevertheless the fifth victim of the Exeter.”

The camera pulled back as Cross walked further inside the empty apartment.

“What in this building drove these people to such terrible extremes? A skeptic might tell you that it’s all coincidence, mere happenstance of fate.”

He paused again for effect.

“You and I, my friends, know better. When we return, Night Crossing will seek out the truth of this wretched place.”

“Cut!”

Wingnut removed his headpiece and smiled at his star mystic.

“Best fucking show of the year, boss.”

It was coffee break time on the set.

Cross took a sip and bit the rim of his Styrofoam cup as he turned to his spiritual assistants.

“Okay guys, what did you get?”

The assistants stepped forward, stared silently at each other, as if prodding the other to speak.

Greg broke the ice.

“Nothing, Mr. C. Zilch. Nada.”

Cross did not look concerned. He turned to the young lady.

“Lisa? Same with you?”

She nodded, her disappointment obvious.

The mystic took another sip of his piping Starbucks. Before he spoke, he regarded Cantrell, Su Ling and the young girl a few yards away. They were paying close attention to him, and he lowered his voice to a near whisper.

“Here’s the deal, guys: we’re gonna have to improvise, okay? What’s the best visual in the place? The spookiest room?”

“It’s got to be the basement,” Greg responded.

“There’s a really creepy room just beneath the conference room,” Lisa added. “Very dark, concrete and cobwebs, with a long ramp leading somewhere upstairs.”

“We can have fun with it,” Greg chimed in. “It’s the perfect backdrop for you.”