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“They called it the line—but there was never anything straight about it. Just noise, hooks, and ghosts that forgot which side they were on.”

Description - Exterior

The killing floor lies at the black heart of the Stockyards—its brick shell scorched, steel catwalks rusted into spines against the gray sky. The entrance gate has long since been sheared off, and the back-loading bay is riddled with holes that no one patches. The large sliding door is stuck halfway open, like a jaw mid-scream. Dried blood still streaks the concrete ramp, and birds won’t land on the roof.

Description - Interior

Inside, the killing floor stretches wide and low—lined with rusted rail hooks, sluice drains, and shattered observation windows. The floor is sunken in the center and pitted from decades of gore and steam. A thick iron hoist system looms above, frozen in place, its chains tangled like nerves. The air is damp, heavy, and wrong—it smells like sweat, copper, and old prayers. Some days, the walls sweat. Some nights, the floor sings.

History

The killing floor was where thousands of animals were processed daily—efficient, brutal, and unflinching. When the Stockyards ran at full tilt, this room was constant motion: blades, blood, boots, steam. After the decline, the machines were left behind, but something else remained. Workers whispered about "echo kills," where screams bounced long after the shift ended. After the war, the Outfit took interest in the site—not for smuggling, but for disposal. Uncle Carm made it a silent part of his domain—off the books, off the map, off the record.

Owned By

Carmine “Uncle Carm” Lucchesi’s crew. Protected, never claimed. The kind of place that’s “nobody’s business”—which means it’s his.

Run By

Richie “Mans” Mancuso, when he needs it. Otherwise, no one. The place runs itself—or something does.

Employees

• No official staff. Fear Crew sends boys here on dares. Carm’s crew drops bodies they don’t want found.
• Marta Dell – Sometimes seen cleaning. No one hired her. She carries no tools. Just a rag and a humming voice.

Regulars

• Veil cults who believe this is a “thin point” between life and slaughter
• Blood whisperers who come to speak with what was lost
• Outfit cleanup crews looking for the perfect place to unmake a man
• Teenagers daring each other to spend the night. Most leave pale. One didn’t leave at all.

Notes

• The hooks move on their own during storms. The hoist resets at midnight even if unplugged.
• Whispers in the drain grates are sometimes in Latin, sometimes in a language no one recognizes.
• An outline—charred and human-sized—is burned into the floor under the observation booth. It hasn’t faded in 20 years.
• One corner of the room is always warm, even in January. It smells like fresh blood there. Always fresh.
• A crack beneath the hoist has grown since the last full moon. It hums. People who step over it feel it in their bones.
• The last city inspector to enter this building left with no teeth and no memory. He now sweeps a street in Pilsen and sings to rats.