Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

The Crazy Cat clock’s reassuring tick-tock continued unbroken in the next room.

“Su, you were in Saigon as a little girl… is that what actually happened to you?”

Her face clouded over.

“No, but it was very similar. I’ll never forget that day. It was crazy, Alex. There were people everywhere, desperate to find a way out. My parents and I were trying to get to the embassy. My father, who worked for the Americans, was assured a place on one of the evacuation helicopters. But the streets were chaotic. I was separated from them.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven. I can’t begin to tell you how terrified I was. I wandered around in the crowds for most of that day, crying, begging for someone to help me, praying that my father would rescue me. Finally, a man—I think he was a taxi driver—saw me and asked what was wrong. I told him that I had to get to the embassy to find my parents. God bless him, he took me there.”

“And your parents?”

“I found them, thank heaven, and was able to get on the helicopter with them.”

“And did you fall out?”

“No. None of that ever happened. But I remember being afraid of it. The door was open and the helicopter was shaking, there were so many people on it. But no, that never happened.”

“How strange. So it was… some sort of exaggeration of your memory, a distortion of what really happened. Does that make sense?”

She looked at the ceiling, thinking on what he had just said.

“I suppose… but why did it change what actually happened? I don’t understand that. Tell me about your experience, whatever you want to call it. We both know that nothing like that ever happened to you.”

“No, it didn’t. It was more like a nightmare. It definitely wasn’t a reflection of anything based in reality.”

Cantrell paused, putting a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes.

“Wait a minute, Su. Isn’t that what dreams and nightmares really are? Metaphors… projections of what’s troubling us down deep… ?”

She stopped him.

“Or fear. That’s what these experiences have in common. Think about it. They’re all about fear.”

He was beginning to understand.

“So, your fear was about falling out of a helicopter?”

She smiled.

“Yes, but that’s just part of it. You said it was a metaphor, Alex, and I think you’re right. For me, my deepest fear was projected. Abandonment. It’s all about that. It began on that day I got lost in Saigon, but it’s been with me all this time. I went through the same feeling—the same terror —when I lost my husband. And I go through it every day with Anna. I hate myself for thinking it, but I feel abandoned by her as well, when she can’t speak or react to anything I say or do. And it came up again with you, when you told me to leave and said that you’d stay here by yourself.”

“I had no idea… ”

“Don’t blame yourself for anything, Alex. You did nothing wrong. I don’t think I realized all of this for what it was until just a few minutes ago. What just happened has put everything together.”

They were both quiet for a moment, each reliving their own private terror.

Cantrell elaborated on his experience, providing details that he’d omitted from the original, panic-quickened telling. When the building began to self-destruct, he believed that it was destroying its outer skin; literally shedding every improvement, every vision, he had tried to impose on the old building. As if it resented it, hated it. As if it wanted to hurt him personally, in an insane act of vengeance.

“But it didn’t stop there, Su. The building was intent on destroying itself, as if to spite me.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“Why would the building do that, Alex? Why would it kill itself?”

“The building had nothing to do with it. It was me; my thoughts, my fears… ”

“What are you afraid of, Alex?”

He looked down at the floor, swallowed slowly, and met her gaze.

“Failure. That’s what I’ve always feared, from back when I was a little kid trying to please my dad. Trying to please my boss. The critics, the financiers, the press, the clients, the public— myself . No, not really trying to please, trying to avert failure, to prove myself.”

“And the Exeter… ”

“It was my greatest challenge. It represented me. If this failed, then everything I stood for, my entire life , would be like that vision of the floor chewing everything up.”

He paused to take a deep breath, glancing suspiciously at the surrounding walls.

“It wasn’t the Exeter destroying itself, Su. It wa s me, destroying myself. That’s my greatest fear.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“You’re not a failure, Alex, and you know it. And I’m not a little child standing terrified on the roof of an embassy in 1975. But you’re right, I’m sure of it; this is all about fear, about us… ”

She pointed her finger at him, her expression dawning with sudden comprehension.

“Think about this: Maybe everything that’s happened here was all tied into the same thing. The victims of this place acted the way they did because they were confronted with their worst fears, just like we were. Maybe what happened to them was as terrifying, as real , as what you and I just went through.”

“Then why didn’t our experiences kill us, or drive us mad like the rest? Only Sharon and us made it. Why?”

She bit her lip. “Maybe it had something to do with Sharon’s intellect, and in our case, with us being together. And I mean together , not like the Sloanes. We helped each other, trusted each other. And we love each other, Alex. There has to be power in that… ”

He nodded. “And if it happens again… if the clock stops… ”

“Then we’ll still have each other.”

They kissed, grimacing at the aches and pains that riddled their bodies. But they weren’t finished talking yet.

“So we’re on the right track,” Cantrell said. “This place is acting as some sort of… negative amplifier. But why? ”

“What about Cross?” Su Ling offered.

“What about him?”

“You saw it up close, Alex, and I saw it on the video; how he acted, how he sounded, when it happened to him. As if he were an animal , waiting to take that last walk up the ramp to the killing floor… ”

“I’m not following you.”

“Think about it: This place was a slaughterhouse. Thousands upon thousands of animals were killed here. How much accumulated fear do you think these walls have absorbed?”

“My God… ”

“Look, we can’t know what was in Cross’s mind. We don’t know what his fears were, but maybe he really did have a talent for seeing things that other people can’t. Maybe it was more than he could take.”

“So, it’s like all the cattle, all the hogs, that were killed in this building, are somehow still here, haunting the place?”

“No,” she said with a patient smile. “It’s not the animals or their spirits, Alex. It’s the fear they left behind. That’s what’s haunting the Exeter.”

“If that’s all true, then what about what we saw tonight? What about that boy who ran across the room? That was a ghost if I’ve ever seen one.”

Su Ling’s features lit up with sudden understanding.

“My God, Alex, we forgot! Anna’s pictures. That’s what we were doing when all of this began.”

They helped each other off the floor and limped as quickly as they could to Anna’s room.

They carried the ponderous stack of paper on tiptoe, in order not to wake the child. The only sound in the room was Anna’s soft breathing, and the rhythmic ticking of the Crazy Cat clock.