Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

He watched as the victim was pulled forward then wrapped in long chains. Its body was raised and rudely swung away into the darkness beyond his vision.

Now it’s my turn.

The pressure from behind pushed him into the chute. He felt its walls press against his body on both sides. He smelled the emptied bowels of those who had gone before, felt his own betray him.

It’s so cold here.

He looked into the cavernous darkness, feeling something metallic pressing against his temple.

For the briefest of moments, he glimpsed the terrified face of a young boy, watching him.

The blow fell. There was no pain. Then darkness.

When Cross reached the top of the stairs, he did not rise to his feet, or open the door to the conference room.

He simply fell over, as if he’d been struck by an invisible force.

“Okay,” Wingnut said at last. “That’s a cut.”

The three cameramen that were filming the scene pushed stop.

“Fantastic job, boss!” Wingnut cried to the man at the top of the ramp. “You were great. We got unbelievable footage.”

Spontaneously, the crew broke out in applause. Smiles were on every face, high fives punctuated the air.

There was no response from Cross.

The applause slowly died away.

Cantrell was the first at Cross’s side.

The mystic’s face was ashen. His mouth gaped open in a horrific rictus. His legs were curled up to his chest in a fetal position.

Cantrell turned back toward the storage room and looked down at the crowd of crewmen below. They were all silent, staring back with blank expressions.

“He’s dead.”

The female reporter stood before what was by now a familiar television landmark—the grand entrance to the Exeter. She wore a parka and gloves, for it was snowing and cold, and spoke into the mike that was clipped to her lapel:

“Four days after the untimely death of television mystic Steven Cross here at the upscale lofts known as the Exeter, we have the answer at last.”

The next face to fill the screen was a balding man identified by the crawling words beneath his image as the county coroner.

“The cause of death was a massive coronary,” the obviously uncomfortable man said. “Although the victim, in this case Mr. Cross, was a relatively young man of 55 and appeared in fine health, such coronaries commonly strike without warning and with devastating effect. It is my opinion that he died very quickly of natural causes.”

The view returned to the snow-frosted newswoman.

“The chief of police announced today that foul play is not suspected in this case, and a criminal investigation is unlikely.”

She paused and turned toward a small group of people clustered near the entrance.

“Not everyone agrees with the official assessment,” she continued. “Here at the site of Cross’s death, in addition to fans of the popular host of Night Crossing, are those who believe that supernatural forces might have been at work.”

She paused, taking a quick look at the notebook in her hand.

“Cross’s death is only the latest in a string of tragedies at this location, all of which we have reported in recent months. The uncanny nature of those occurrences, coupled with the deadly results, have given rise to numerous theories, ranging from criminal conspiracy to demonic possession. The death of the television mystic is sure to add to those claims.”

The camera panned to a handful of shivering people, some of them holding signs with such messages as: “The devil lives here!” and “The Exeter = Evil.”

The reporter resumed her report:

“Whatever the cause, it is clear that Cross’s death will leave a huge void. Among those gathered here tonight are devoted fans and believers. Standing next to me is Mary Ann Fulton of Cleveland, who traveled many hours to be here.”

She turned to the young woman at her side.

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“Cross was my hero,” the woman replied in a shaky voice. “He had the courage to bring the supernatural into people’s living rooms. It’s because of him that I believe, and that I no longer fear death.”

Tears began to flow from the woman’s eyes. “Now here I am, paying my last respects to him. I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life.”

She deteriorated into sobs, the reporter resuming her monologue:

“Three days ago, there were dozens of such fans here. As you can see, there are only a few left.”

The camera did a quick cutaway shot of the sparse crowd and a collection of flowers and Christmas wreaths, now stiff and wilted with the cold, the wreaths steadily disappearing under the falling snow.

“Perhaps it’s the cold that’s driving them away. Perhaps their grief is just too much to bear. Whatever the cause, it’s clear that while Steven Cross might be gone, he won’t soon be forgotten.”

Su Ling pointed the remote at the TV and turned it off.

“She’s right,” Cantrell said, looking out the window. “They filmed that three hours ago. They’re all gone now. There’s nobody left.”

“Thank God,” Su Ling said quietly.

She looked at him hopefully. “Do you think it’s over? Will they come back?”

“I doubt it.”

The crowd was different this time. The energy was different. When the press and public gathered after the Sloanes and Derek Taylor, there had been a carnival frenzy. Why was it different this time?

He wasn’t sure. For the first day or two, the carnival atmosphere was certainly there, but it faded quickly. It grew somber and quiet. Even the reporters seemed hard pressed to sustain their interest.

It was almost as if, despite the celebrity of its latest victim, people were tiring of the Exeter. No, more than that. As if they were beginning to sense the place… to dread it.

They left not because of boredom, but because of repulsion.

And fear.

Even Detective Maudlin had displayed a cagey aversion. He’d already warned them to leave the place themselves, the last time something like this had happened. He repeated the warning to Cantrell the day after Cross’s death:

“You won’t leave, will you, you stubborn son of a bitch?”

“No,” Cantrell answered.

“Then God help you.”

After a few days, the snow stopped.

Cantrell looked out of the living room window over the bleak winter scene below.

Three feet of snow blanketed the desolate streets surrounding the Exeter. The air was cold, the skies gray and solemn, the traffic virtually nonexistent. Not a single footprint, animal or human, marred the snow-covered sidewalk and parking lot.

The press had withdrawn, the Cross loyalists finally departed, leaving behind only a few frozen wreaths, candles and a handful of handwritten cards and notes.

The Exeter was once more left in restless— but blissful —isolation.

Cantrell sighed, drawing a curtain over the scene. He made his way down to Su Ling’s apartment, barely noticing the vaguely cockeyed slant of the ornate staircase, the shadows that were somehow wrong.

As Su Ling opened the door, he immediately saw the look on her face. He also saw, on the other side of the room, her computer screen blinking off.

“What’s wrong?”

“I saw it, Alex.”

“Saw what?”

“Cross’s death. It was on the Internet. Somebody must have gotten a pirate copy of the tape.”

“Oh Jesus, Su, why in the hell did you… ”

“I had to see it, Alex, that’s all. And I’m sorry I did. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”

He took her in his arms and held her tight.

“I was hoping that you’d never have to see that. I’ll never forget it either.”