Chapter 4: The Abattoir

Chapter 4: The Abattoir

The walk from the ghostly main street to the edge of town was the longest five minutes of Travis’s life. The rustling of the unnaturally tall corn was a constant, sibilant whisper on either side, a sound that felt like a thousand hushed voices sharing a secret he was about to learn. Ahead, the barn and silo rose against the jaundiced sky, dark and imposing. The silo was streaked with what looked like rust, but the reddish-brown color was too deep, too organic.

Grace walked so close to him their shoulders brushed. The hand that had gripped his arm now nervously fidgeted with the silver locket at her throat, her knuckles white. He could feel her trembling, a constant, low-frequency vibration of terror. The shared horror of the turning scarecrow had forged a silent pact between them; they were the only two who truly understood the nature of the trap they were in.

As they approached the massive barn, its great wooden doors slightly ajar, a figure emerged from the shadows of the entrance. It was an old man, his back stooped with age, clad in clean denim overalls and a plaid shirt. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but they gathered around a warm, grandfatherly smile. His white hair was thin, and his eyes, a pale, watery blue, seemed to crinkle with genuine delight.

“Welcome, children, welcome!” he called out, his voice raspy but kind. He wiped his hands on a cloth tucked into his belt—his hands, Travis noted with a flicker of unease, were immaculately clean. “We are so honored to have you here at Mercy Farms. Mrs. ClearField, you’ve brought a fine-looking crop this year.”

Mrs. ClearField beamed, stepping forward to shake the old man’s hand. “They’re very eager to learn, Jebediah. Thank you again for the invitation.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” Jebediah said, his smile never wavering. He gestured towards the dark opening of the barn. “Please, come on in out of the… well, out of the air. The tour starts right inside the main stable.”

The students, cowed by fear but reassured by the old man’s gentle demeanor, shuffled forward. The promise of a normal, structured activity, even a boring one, was a powerful lure after the madness of the journey.

Travis hesitated at the threshold. A wave of thick, cloying air washed over him, and he recoiled. It was a farm smell, but underneath the expected scents of hay and earth was something else. A sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of his throat. Coppery and sweet. The smell of a slaughterhouse.

“What is that smell?” Grace whispered beside him, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Old iron, maybe?” Travis offered, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. He knew what it was. Every hockey player knew the scent of a split lip or a bloody nose. This was that, magnified a thousand times.

They stepped inside. The stable was cavernous, the ceiling lost in deep shadows far above. Sunlight lanced through gaps in the wooden walls, illuminating swirling dust motes. The floor was covered in straw, but in the dim light, Travis could see dark, damp patches staining it almost black. Empty stalls lined the walls, their doors hanging open like broken teeth.

Jebediah led the class towards the center of the vast space. “Now, this barn was built by the town’s founders,” he began, his voice echoing slightly. “Built to last. Built to serve its purpose, year after year.”

Mrs. ClearField stood beside him, her hands clasped, a look of serene, almost holy anticipation on her face. Her part in this was done. She had delivered them.

Travis felt a primal scream building in his chest. It’s a trap. Get out. He instinctively reached for Grace’s arm, his fingers brushing her sleeve.

It was too late.

WHAM!

The massive wooden doors slammed shut behind them, plunging the stable into near-total darkness. The sound was like a gunshot, a thunderclap of finality that echoed off the high ceiling. A girl screamed, her cry cut short.

A moment of suffocating, black silence.

Then, a single, bare bulb suspended from a wire high above flickered to life, buzzing loudly. It cast a sickly, yellow glare over the scene, painting everything in grotesque light and shadow.

Jebediah stood in the center of the room, but he was transformed. The warm, grandfatherly smile was gone, replaced by a mask of cold, pitiless indifference. His watery blue eyes were flat and dead.

“The Lord of the Furrows is hungry,” he stated, his voice no longer raspy but clear and strong. “The harvest is plenty.”

From the shadowed mouths of the empty stalls, figures emerged. They were silent men and women, dressed in the same practical farm clothes as Jebediah. Their faces were blank, their movements economical and unhurried. They were not frenzied killers; they were workers, and this was their job.

In their hands, they carried tools. A long-tined pitchfork. A heavy, curved sickle. A rusty-headed post maul. A wicked-looking hay hook.

Mark, the jock who had challenged Mrs. ClearField on the bus, was the first to react. “What the hell is this?” he yelled, taking a step forward.

A man with a pitchfork met his advance. There was no war cry, no shout. Just a smooth, practiced thrust. The tines punched through Mark’s chest with a sickening, wet thud. His eyes went wide with shock, a gurgle of blood spilling from his lips. The man twisted the implement and pulled it free. Mark collapsed onto the blood-soaked straw without another sound.

The slaughter began.

Screams erupted, a symphony of pure, animal terror. The students scattered like panicked birds, running in every direction, only to be met by the silent, efficient killers. A girl with bright pink hair was caught by a man with a sickle; the blade flashed in the yellow light, and she fell. A boy tried to climb the wall of a stall and was pulled down by a woman wielding a hay hook.

It was brutal. It was methodical. It wasn’t a massacre; it was a culling. An organized, ritualized extermination.

The world dissolved into a blur of motion, screams, and the wet, percussive sounds of impacts. Travis was frozen for a single, horrifying second, his mind unable to process the sheer scale of the carnage. Then, adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded his system. He saw Grace standing beside him, her body rigid, her green eyes wide and unseeing, a single, silent tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. She was locked in shock.

His hockey training, the instinct to protect the goal, to shield a teammate, took over. He grabbed her arm, yanking her so hard she stumbled. “Grace, move! Now!”

The command broke her paralysis. Her head snapped towards him, her eyes focusing. The sight of his face, his terror mirroring her own, seemed to ground her in the nightmare.

“Travis…” she gasped, her voice a thread.

“Don’t look! Just run!” he screamed, pulling her with him. They scrambled away from the center of the stable, slipping on the slick straw. He could feel the vibrations through the soles of his shoes as bodies fell. The coppery smell was overwhelming now, a thick fog of death in the air. The abattoir was open for business.

The main doors were impossible, guarded by Jebediah himself, who stood watching the proceedings with the detached air of a foreman. Travis scanned the walls frantically, his eyes darting through the chaos. There. On the far side of the barn, half-hidden behind a stack of rotting bales of hay.

A smaller door. A back exit.

It was their only chance.