He’d been there before. He sensed this instinctually, as he did everything else. In the same way, he knew that this place was very, very bad.
And very, very good.
The Old Man started toward the vision, with the same steady and relentless pace he had maintained throughout the night.
For the voice was coming from within it.
Since time was not important to him, he did not know how long it took to reach the place, but he eventually did. Only then did he halt his steady march.
He stood before its massive door, a strange and frightened knight having arrived at the destination of his quest.
He brought his hand up to knock, but before his aged knuckles could touch the cold wood, the door creaked open.
Warmth and light poured out into the night. And much more—the smiling face of a young, beautiful girl.
Her eyes met his; black against blue. Her tiny soft hand took his gnarled, old one and gently led him inside the Exeter.
The Exeter
What’s coming?
Solitude was giving way. Something approached. A shape, a feeling.
Confusion.
Very hot, yet very cold. Terrifying, yet pleasing.
Confusion.
Everything was spinning. And stopping. Spinning and stopping.
Why was this feeling familiar? What was this shape? What did it want?
Does it want me? Who is “me?” What is “me?”
Anticipation, dread.
Rapid passage through solid forms, then passage back. The desire to escape, the need to hide, deep down below. And the desire not to hide. The need to come out. To embrace.
A quandary. Clearly a quandary. But what is a quandary?
Confusion.
Only one clarity amidst all the hot, the cold, the fear, the joy—no escape.
Whatever was to happen, would happen. Was supposed to happen. Could not be stopped from happening.
20
Su Ling’s eyes shot open in the silence of deep night.
Wrong. Something terribly wrong.
“Alex!”
She shook the sleeping man almost violently, not yet noticing the frigid cold that enveloped the bedroom.
He came awake groggily.
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
“Who’s… ?”
“Anna’s gone. I feel it!”
She didn’t wait for him, jumping out of the bed and dashing across the apartment to her daughter’s empty room.
Su Ling uttered a cry and began a frantic search of the flat, opening closet doors, peering behind the couch, even—illogically—inside the refrigerator.
Cantrell was soon at her side, placing a robe around her against the pervasive cold that permeated the entire apartment.
“Anna!” she cried, her voice laced with panic.
Cantrell threw open the door and went out into the hall, his breath steaming before him. He started when he saw the towering linden in the foyer. Its green leaves and slender branches were now weighted with thousands of tiny icicles. In a strong wind that was coming from somewhere, they made an eerie tinkling noise.
There was a light below. Peering down, he saw the open doorway.
“Down here, Su! Come on!”
They raced down the stairs, staring in shock at what they saw.
Anna stood before the open door, dressed only in her pajamas, vulnerable to the snow and icy wind that swept in to envelop her. Outside, they saw the outline of a man.
Their hands were clasped together across the threshold.
“Get away from her!” Su Ling cried, rushing toward the door. “Leave her alone!”
Neither Anna nor the stranger seemed to hear. The two of them remained in a fixed position, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Su, wait!” Cantrell urged.
He’d seen the subtle tug of war going on at the doorway. The man—he could tell by now that he was quite tall and old—seemed to be resisting the girl’s pull, as if afraid to come inside.
Su Ling paused, picking up the same signal. They both watched the strange encounter.
At last, the old man surrendered. With one hesitant step, he crossed the threshold.
He was, indeed, tall and apparently quite old. He was thin, dressed shabbily in a snows-wept corduroy jacket and faded baseball cap. His ears and nose were bright red from the cold.
“Who are…?”
Cantrell hushed Su Ling, whispering in her ear: “Let it go, Su. Something’s happening here.”
She wanted to resist, her protective maternal instincts cried out for her to do so. But she relented. Su Ling, too, could sense something special. Anna’s attitude was clearly not one of fear, but of direction and purpose. And something about the old man finally convinced her that he was no threat.
With an enigmatic smile, Anna turned and began to lead the old man further inside, across the foyer, as if she were escorting an old friend. She paid no heed to the other adults in the room, nor the intense cold.
As Cantrell watched the strange procession, his eyes were attracted to the antique grandfather clock which stood beside the door. The hands stopped, then began to move counterclockwise. The clock’s gears made a soft whirring sound as they revolved, faster and faster.
The child led the old man unerringly across the room, stopping in front of the door that led to the conference room.
A wave of horror washed over Su Ling. The killing floor; that’s where she’s leading him.
Anna opened the door and tried to lead him inside. Again, the old man hesitated at the threshold, finally relenting as she continued to tug and coax, allowing her to lead him into the room.
Mirroring her actions, Cantrell took Su Ling’s hand and led her the same way. She, too, hesitated, but relented.
Cantrell switched on the light, revealing the conference room as they had always seen it—bathed in bright fluorescent light, the long walnut table and leather chairs neatly in place, the soft mountain landscapes in their proper places on the wall, a handful of documents on the table, where Cantrell had left them.
As the procession made its way inside, an air of expectation hung over them all. What were they doing here?
Anna stood silent, waiting. The old man had lost his bewildered expression, replaced now with one of approaching terror. And possibly recognition. It seemed as if he had been here before, as if he were experiencing a terrifying déjà vu. Their hands were still clasped together, as were those of Cantrell and Su Ling. The only sound was their soft breathing.
The change was subtle at first, barely noticeable. The long wall opposite them began to ripple, ever so slightly. As Cantrell watched it begin to change, he was reminded of heat mirages on the far horizon of lonely highways. It didn’t look quite real.
The cool, antiseptic air of the conference room was soon replaced by a clammy, steamy heat. Cantrell opened a button on his shirt, Su Ling wiping sweat from her brow. The girl and the old man seemed unaffected.
The mirage intensified, taking on a silvery shimmer. And then came the unmistakable scent of animals. It grew from a hint to a barnyard reek. And there was more to it than the scent of livestock. Mingled with the smell were human sweat, axle grease and something that smelled very much like rendering flesh.
Fresh blood.
Sounds began to break the silence; those of a factory in full operation—chains sliding along pulleys, the thrum of heavy machines and buzzing saws, the shouts and laughter of working men, knives being sharpened on stones.
The lowing of terrified cattle.
Cantrell and Su Ling stood, their backs to the wall, staring open-mouthed at the mirage as it began to slowly dissolve.