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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Sprung from Grief” Down in the Dirt, v184 (the June 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Lockdown’s Over the Down in the Dirt May-August 2021 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Deadmeat

Mike Rader

    The name “Gansevoort” means nothing to most people today. Even if you live in New York City, chances are you’ve never ventured down to the street that bears the name. Long before the Civil War, a fort stood there. In those days, Greenwich Village was a vacation spot.
    The Hudson River Railroad replaced the fort with freight yards. Come the 1870s, the old freight yard gave way to two hundred fifty slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants. They sprawled over the district, rubbing shoulders with cigarmakers, auto repairers, marine suppliers, printers. It all came to an end when supermarkets and containers changed the way food was distributed. By the 1970s, the old meatpacking district became a magnet for seedy clubs and enterprises of ill repute. Nowadays gentrification is the order of the day, although — sometimes — the past and the present do collide...

....

    The realtor stood with his client in the derelict meat plant. Enough light filtered in through a broken window above the street door. “Like I said, Mike, it’s the perfect space for your new restaurant. High-end dining, industrial chic decor, couldn’t be better. And this district’s all the rage, right?”
    Mike Pearman nodded cautiously at the tubby realtor. “Sure, Sid, you’re absolutely right. But first we have to settle terms.” Pearman had developed two fine dining restaurants in other old buildings. The slightly decadent architecture lent each venue a sense of uniqueness. “You said we’d share the building with three fashion boutiques and apartments upstairs.”
    “That’s what they’re planning,” Sid Chase the realtor confirmed. “The developer will lease you most of the ground floor. The apartments upstairs will sell for top dollar in this area.” He grinned and slapped Pearman on the back. “The new Chelsea!”
    Pearman snapped off shots on his cell phone. “I’ve got to get my designer down here fast. If I sign that lease, I’ll want to open within eight months.”
    “Sure, no problem,” Chase promised. “The developer will start basic works next month.”
    Pearman pointed to a solid iron door that sealed the entrance to another part of the rambling building. “So what’s over there?”
    Chase squinted into the darkness of the abandoned meatworks. “The old cold room. You want to see inside? It should be unlocked.”
    Pearman crossed to the door. “It looks kind of historic. Maybe my designer will want to keep it.”
    Chase tugged on a sturdy lever but the door did not budge. “Must be jammed.”
    Pearman took a closer look. “No sign of rust,” he said. “Let me try, Sid.”
    He gripped the lever with all his strength and pulled.
    The door shuddered but remain shut.
    Pearman shrugged and stepped aside. “Make sure it’s open next time. I’d really like to see what’s in there.”
    Without warning the lever jiggled. Then it shook. Some force on the other side of the door was manipulating it.
    Chase scowled. “Maybe some street bum got in there
—”
    Words died in his throat as the huge door opened a crack.
    The sliver of a shadowy face peered out. Bright reddish flesh, matted blond hair worn long, a broken nose.
    “What are you doing here?” demanded a booming voice. “You got permission?”
    Something in the man’s accent struck Pearman as unusual. It sounded Scandinavian. Not like any street bum he’d ever encountered.
    Chase glared back at the face. “I don’t need it. I represent the developer of this building. Seems you’re the one who needs to explain himself. How did you get in?”
    The crack widened. The man on the other side was massive; he wore an ancient leather apron and knee-high work boots. Both appeared splattered with blood.
    “I am Olav Nielsen. I am working here.”
    Chase laughed, a disbelieving sound. “Nobody’s worked here for years, pal.”
    “I have. Started in 1892.”
    “Very funny.” Chase stepped forward. “We want to see inside.”
    “Why?” the mysterious figure blocked his path.
    “Because I’ll need it for my restaurant,” Pearman said.
    “You want to start a restaurant here?” The big man rocked with laughter. “You’ll need a good supply of meat, eh?”
    His giant fist flicked the lever and hauled the massive door open.
    A cold pitch-black space greeted Chase and Spearman.
    They stepped inside cautiously. A foul stench immediately assailed them. Nielsen pulled a cord. A bare light bulb flickered into life overhead.
    Meat hooks hung from tracks in the ceiling.
    Chase froze. Pearman let out an agonized cry.
    From every hook hung a body.
    Men and women, a couple of kids.
    And their clothing ranged from the last century to the twenty-first.
    Two police patrolmen were suspended beside each other, minus their legs.
    Along an opposite wall body parts were neatly swinging on more hooks. Limbs, ribs, torsos, stripped of flesh. Huge baskets beneath them contained scarlet chunks of hearts, lungs, livers, intestines.
    “Well, my friends, now you have seen inside ... ”
    Nielsen slammed the door shut and wedged the lever into place. He crossed to a long wooden bench and clamped his fist around a sinister chopper.
    “Which of you will be first to cross to the other side?”
    Chase tasted death rush up his throat.
    Pearman tasted only fury.
    He seized a cleaver from the bench beside him. Shouted, “News flash, pal. I don’t believe in the supernatural.”
    He leaped at the startled butcher. The blade sliced through the air. Nielsen’s head left its neck, bounced once, and rolled across the floor. The giant’s body crashed backward. The whole space seemed to change dynamic. The deadly cleaver fell from Pearman’s grasp. And in that instant he came to believe in the supernatural.
    One decapitated corpse sprawled on the ground. But all the butchered bodies on hooks, all the bloodied body parts, all the human offal in baskets, all the choppers and implements were gone. Not a splash of blood or a morsel of deadmeat remained.
    Chase gaped around, then stared at the lifeless butcher. “Mike, what are we going to tell the cops?”

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