The Abattoir Concerto

My name is Hugo Pope and I am a collector of rarities.

It is a collection I have amassed over some time, and at considerable cost, and it is, quite rightly, regarded as among the most expansive in the world.

It is an eclectic mix of items: books, jewellery, artworks, medical specimens, even properties, and any number of less... quantifiable artefacts, but they all have one thing in common: each has a rather macabre story behind it. Some of my peers may find such a thing distasteful, but they don't see the beauty that can be found in the shadows if one is just prepared to look.

People often speak of the fruits of blood, sweat and tears — but how many of them ever really stop to think about what that phrase truly entails?

My most recent acquisition is also one of the rarest and one that has eluded me for many a year. I have always derived the greatest pleasure from the creative output of some of the world's most misunderstood minds.

I have a number of paintings on my walls by some of the most notorious death row inmates.

I have one of only four copies of the supposedly cursed novel, The Glass Missionary.

I even have a grainy but highly convincing copy of the infamous video, THeTortOise.

Yet the art that moves me most is, and always been, music. As such, I have taken great interest (bordering on the fanatical, if the truth be told) in collecting the compositions of those rare individuals who are not just prepared to accept their inner darkness, but to embrace it.

I first heard about The Abattoir Concerto at least 20 years ago. It was from a fellow collector, an Englishman named Julian Caul, who delightedly regaled me with all the ghoulish details of the piece's backstory in his parlour. 'You mean to tell me,' he gasped with mock surprise and poorly concealed glee, 'that you've never heard of Lucien Mortimer?'

I regarded him coolly over the top of my brandy glass, then nodded curtly, a begrudging confession of my ignorance.

'Well, well, old chap!' he cried, clapping his hands together as his heavy-lidded eyes widened in excitement. 'Do allow me to enlighten you.'

I had to repress the urge to roll my eyes as the incorrigible old ham basked in the moment, yet I listened on.

'Lucien Mortimer,' Caul began theatrically, 'was arguably the most successful butcher in the East End of London during the latter days of Queen Victoria's reign. He had not one, nor two, but no fewer than four large slaughterhouses, butchering hundreds of animal carcasses each day. His meat was very much sought after, not just by the poor common people of the East End, but by the nobility of London's more opulent suburbs. When it came to flesh, Mortimer was quite the artiste.'

Caul grinned at me in the flickering firelight, his lean visage all the more cadaverous in the eerie glow.

'But he was so much more than that. Rumors spread among the citizens of London that Mortimer was also an occultist. Word was that he had acquired a thirst for knowledge of an otherworldly bent, and, self-educated as he was, he read everything he could on the beings that more superstitious folk might dub 'demons'.

I shifted in my seat, intrigued by this development in his story while Caul continued.

'Word spread that Mortimer might even have communed with such beings and he soon gathered a flock of loyal followers. One can understand why,' Caul licked his lips in relish as he went on, 'Mortimer was a giant of a man. Some of the more nonsensical stories of the time claim he stood nearly 10 feet tall...'

I snorted in disbelief, a sound that drew an irritated glance from Caul.

'Of course, that was merely excited exaggeration. My own research suggests that he was actually a fraction over seven feet tall, which was almost unheard of in that day and age.'