“No. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen. I hate to say this, but my worst fear right now is that nothing will. And if that happens, Su, we’ll both be packing up. In my case, I’ll probably be headed to the poor house. And you . . . ”
“Will be right next to you, wherever that may be. Have no doubts about that, Mr. Cantrell.”
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
.
=§=§=§=
15
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.
“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.