[ Author: Amy Cross; Title: A Beast Well Tamed; Tags: The House of Jack the Ripper; Genre: horror ]
"Have you ever thought about what it would be like if there were three of you?"
Sitting a little way ahead of me on the beach, turned to one side and silhouetted against the glittering Cornish sea, Catherine hesitates for a moment after asking that rather strange question. She has seemed unusually pensive all day, and now I believe I detect a hint of hesitation in her voice. I cannot see her features, only the shape of her head against the sun-dappled water, but her mouth is open a little. I always used to think that an open mouth was a sign of unintelligence, but on that matter Catherine has very much changed my mind. Indeed, this remarkable woman could most likely convince me that the world is flat, such is my regard for her brilliance.
Suddenly she turns to me, causing her silhouette to change.
"Sometimes I think there are three of us," she continues. "Of each of us. There's the good one, there's the bad one, and then there's the one who holds it all together."
"That seems..."
My voice trails off. How am I supposed to respond to such a strange, whimsical comment? Catherine is very intelligent, but she is certainly prone to these occasional flights of rhetorical fancy. I have always been irritated by people who attempt to philosophize, yet Catherine is different. Indeed, her attempts to sound poetic always strike me as rather endearing, even if she seems to be struggling a little whenever she tries to make some deep and meaningful point.
"Three of me would be very inconvenient," I say finally, hoping to lighten the mood. "For one thing, I would have to spend thrice as much on food and clothing."
I wait for her to laugh, but she does not. Instead, the only sound comes from the shore, where the tide is coming in.
Holding a hand above my eyes, in an attempt to shield myself a little from the sunlight, I squint as I try to get a better look at Catherine's face. I can just about make out her eyes staring at me with great intensity. We have been married for only a few weeks, and already I feel as if I am peeling back layers of her character. Not all at once, of course, but one by one. Until I reach her center, I shall likely not feel that I know her fully.
"Sometimes it terrifies me the way people change," she says suddenly. "I don't know what's worse, the times when people suddenly change in a big way, or the little incremental changes that occur each day but which add up over the years. When I said that there might be three of us, you assumed that was absurd, that there could never be more than one. But what I meant was that I wonder whether there could be as few as three. Don't you feel pulled, Charles? Don't you feel pulled in a million directions at once, as if we are all shattered and we have only these flimsy bodies to hold us together?"
"Well I shall not change," I tell her. "Of that, you may be assured."
She pauses for a moment.
"Yes, you will," she says finally, forcing a smile that does not seem entirely genuine, as the light fades and I see her face a little better. "Everybody changes. Everybody eventually risks becoming something they do not want to be."
Behind her, another wave crashes against the shore.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
Morning sunlight streams through the window, catching the bubbles that fill the bath. And I'm sitting in that bath, listening to the calm sounds of the street outside while the smell of coffee drifts up from downstairs. Me – homeless Maddie Harper... I'm sitting here having a proper hot bath.
***
"These photos are fascinating," Jerry says, as I walk back into the kitchen with damp hair. "I'd guessed the layout of the place from the exterior, but some of the details..."
His voice trails off as he leans closer to the print-outs. He's actually using a magnifying glass to get a better look, but then I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. After all, this is a guy who – upon receiving a load of digital photos – immediately printed them all out so that he could see them better. He said something about his eyes not reacting well to computer screens, but I've got a sneaking suspicion that he just likes his old-fashioned methods.
The old notebooks are on a table nearby, waiting for him to take a look at them but already being inspected by two of his cats. I honestly haven't figured out what Jerry has more of, books or cats, but it must be a close-run thing.
"Thank you for letting me use your bath," I say after a moment. "I really needed that."
"I really needed it too," he mutters. "Anyone who has to go within twenty feet of you needed it. You stank like an unchanged litter tray."
"So do you want me to take more photos today?" I ask, seeing that the camera has finished charging.
I wait for a reply, but he seems engrossed in his work.
"There's coffee on the side," he says finally, absent-mindedly. "And food, too. Help yourself."
"I can't pay you," I remind him.
He waves me away, toward the counter, so I wander over. So far, Jerry has been extremely generous, to the extent that I'm starting to feel bad. The guy clearly doesn't have much money, although I guess he must spend a fortune on printer ink. As I stop and pour myself a cup of coffee, I spot a plate of buns standing next to different pots of jam, and I swear I feel my stomach start to rumble. I'm so hungry, I think I could eat every bun on that plate right now.
"Did you sleep well last night?" Jerry asks.
"Huh?" Momentarily dazed, I turn to him. "Oh, yeah. Thank you."
"In that house?"
"Sure."
"And you didn't feel anything... unusual?"
"Like what?"
He pauses, staring at me with a hint of disbelief in his eyes.
"Everybody who goes near that place," he continues finally, "mentions it in some form or another. A monumental sense of dread, of tingling fear in the gut, of absolute certainty that something terrible is about to happen."
"I didn't notice anything," I reply, before realizing that I probably sound a little flippant. "I mean, I was hungry and cold, and in pain, so maybe I was distracted. I guess maybe I didn't have time to think about anything else."
"Eat, girl," he says, gesturing toward the buns. "You look like you'll snap in half if the wind picks up. And don't think I didn't hear your stomach growling, because I did. You're probably halfway along to digesting yourself by now. Frankly, judging by the state of you, it's a miracle you haven't wasted away already. You're barely any more than skin and bones." He points at the buns again. "Eat, girl!"
He doesn't need to tell me again. As I head over to the plate and start cutting open one of the buns, it's all I can manage to keep from wolfing the whole lot down in one go. I want to retain some dignity, though, so I force myself to take a little time. After a moment I see that one of the buns looked to have been nibbled slightly, and I realize there are cat hairs on the plate. Still, the bun in my hand seems clean and untouched, and beggars can't be choosers.
"Why did you never go into the house yourself?" I ask. "I mean, if you were so keen on getting pictures of the interior, why didn't you just go in once?"
"I tried," he mutters, "but I couldn't. My legs are bad, for one thing. I'd never make it through that window. But even if I could, that house is not for the living. The dead have had its rooms to themselves for too long, there's no place for the living. The house..."
His voice trails off.
"You think it's that bad in there, huh?" I ask.
He takes a look at another print-out, before glancing at me.
"I know it's that bad," he says. "Sometimes, I even feel it when I'm in here, like it's reaching out to warn me to keep away. There's something in there, and – whatever it is – it doesn't want visitors."
"It's just a house," I point out, before taking a bite from the bun and then swallowing the whole thing. I take a moment to chew, and then I start putting butter and jam onto another. Screw the cat hairs, I need to eat. "It's empty, and there's not really anything to do in there. I mean, sure, it's dark and it's cold and some of the rooms are kind of creepy. There's a lot of stuff left behind by the people who lived there before, but that's all. It's not like there are all these crazy bumps or creaks. There's nothing scary about it."
As I say those words, I suddenly think back to the sound of the bell. This morning, all the cat food was still on the plate at the top of the stairs, but I've convinced myself that maybe the cat has been out for a few hours. It's not like I heard the bell during the night. For all I know, it's Jerry's cats that sometimes slink into the empty house and cause trouble, and they were too busy last night.
"You should really just go inside," I tell him. "I get that you find it creepy, but I bet you'd be okay once you were inside. Sometimes you just have to face your fears and..."
Pausing, I realize that it's a little crazy for someone my age to tell an old guy about facing fears.
"Well, you know what I mean," I add finally. "You've been building it up for so long, it can't be as bad as you think."
"And how would I get in anyway?" he asks. "Through that broken window? At my age?"
"There's a back door," I point out. "I bet I could get it unlocked, if you were willing to give it a go."
I wait for him to dismiss the idea, to tell me that it's nuts and that there's no way he'd ever set foot inside the house. Instead, however, he stares at me with a growing hint of fear in his eyes, and I realize after a few seconds that he's actually considering the possibility.
"I can open the back door for you," I continue. "I'm sure of it. If you want to come into the house, I can take you over there right now."
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"That thing is not your wife."
I cannot tell him that he is wrong. Instead, I simply watch the space at the bottom of the steps, waiting as the growling sound edges closer and closer. Waiting as the shuffling becomes a little louder.
Waiting for this creature, whatever it might be, to appear and -
Suddenly I see movement at the bottom of the steps. With a growing sense of horror, I watch as Catherine crawls into view. She is naked on her hands and knees, rasping and growling as she emerges from the darkness and reaches out to touch the bottom step. She seems confused, as if she does not quite understand what to do next, but then she raises her head and look directly at me. It is as if I am staring down into the face of a wild and untamed beast.
"That is not Catherine," I whisper, shocked by the hatred in her scowl, and by the ferocity of her snarl. "That is not my wife. It cannot, please... Please God, no..."
Even as I speak those words, she starts climbing up. She moves slowly and awkwardly, as if she lacks full control of her limbs, and she slips several times before finally making it to the second step. Even there, she seems unbalanced, and I believe I can hear the bones grinding in her shoulders. Suddenly she reaches a hand forward, as if she's trying to grasp me from all the way down there, and then she lets out another snarl. This time I see some form of black liquid dribbling from her mouth and running down her chin, spattering against the wooden step.
And then she tries again to haul herself up, before slipping and falling back down to the very bottom. She lets out a loud grunt as she lands.
For a fraction of a second, I consider going down to help her, but somehow I remain glued to the spot. In truth, as Catherine lets out another angry snarl, I believe I am actually afraid of her. Never in all my years did I ever think that this could be the case, but as I stare at this growling bundle of bones and meat – at this thing that masquerades as my dear Catherine – I feel certain that I am witnessing a creature of pure evil. And sure enough, as if to prove this point, she looks up and snarls at me again as more black liquid flows down her chin.
"Dear God," I whisper, "please -"
Before I can finish, Jack slams the door shut and turns the key in the lock. He then checks the door several times, forcing the key until it will turn no more, as if he worries that even the door itself might betray us and let that creature come up from the basement.
I stay completely still, listening to the sound of Catherine – no, not Catherine... the creature... still slipping and bumping against the bottom step. She sounds utterly crazed, as if she does not understand the simple process of walking up a set of stairs.
"What is she?" I say finally, staring at the closed door for a moment before hearing footsteps walking away behind me. Turning, I see that Jack is making his way to my study. "What have I done? For the love of God, what is happening in this house?"
He does not reply.
He simply goes into the study, and a moment later I hear the sound of books being furiously taken from the shelves.
"For the love of God," I continue, "what -"
And then I catch myself, as I realize that I have begun to invoke God in my desperate pleas for help. I am a man of science, of integrity, and never before did I lapse into religious nonsense. Yet now, in my darkest hour, some part of my mind compels me to say such foolish things. Truly, I do not believe I have ever before felt my very foundations crack. It is as if everything I have ever believed in, everything I have ever known to be true, is at risk.
Hurrying after Jack, I stop in the doorway and see that he is taking several of my medical textbooks to the desk. I have always believed that the answer to all of life's mysteries can be found in those books, yet now for the first time I have doubts.
"Those books are my property," I tell him, although in truth my voice is faltering and I am in no mood to step forward and stop him. "Please, be careful how you open them."
He is muttering something as he rushes through the pages. Most likely he is damaging the books with his coarse and dirty hands, but in my current frame of mind I cannot think to intervene. After a moment I turn and look over my shoulder, back toward the door that leads to the basement, and I cannot help but think of Catherine – or rather, of Catherine's body – still slipping and sliding and snarling down there in the shadows, still trying to get up the stairs.
Eventually she will reach the door.
It might take some time, but she will get there in the end.
And then what? Will she find a way through? And if she does not, what is to become of her then?
"It's not me!" I remember her whimpering just a short while ago, when a vision of her appeared in the bedroom mirror. "Charles, you have to realize, it's not me down there. Oh Charles, it's not me!"
"It's not her," I whisper, before turning to look once again at Jack. "That is not my wife."
"I have already told you that," he replies darkly, still looking through the textbooks.
"I mean she told me," I continue, barely able to believe that such absurd words are coming from my lips. For a moment my guard slips, and I allow myself to consider the possibility that somehow Catherine really did speak to me upstairs. "She told me herself, when she -"
"THIS IS ALL NONSENSE!" Jack shouts suddenly, pushing the books off the desk and then leaning against the desk. He seems furious and breathless, and after a moment he looks at me with fearful, angry eyes. "The answer to your wife's condition," he continues, "is not to be found in any of your medical texts."
"It might," I reply, stepping over and starting to gather the books up from the floor. My hands are shaking, and I quickly find that the spines of several of the books have been damaged. Perhaps my faith in these books is returning. "There is a great deal to take into account, but Catherine's condition must fall within the parameters of some recognized physical condition. It simply must. Why, to suggest otherwise would be to invoke..."
My voice trails off. For a moment, I am too horrified to even move, but finally I look up at Jack and see that he in turn is staring at me with a growing hint of fear in his eyes.
"It cannot be anything else," I continue, rather weakly. "Tell me you agree. You have to agree. I have merely made a mistake, but it is one that can be rectified if only I am able to determine the nature of that mistake."
I wait for him to tell me that I'm right, but he says nothing.
"The human body is like a machine," I explain, hoping to reach some kind of fitting understanding. "If a machine moves, we do not say that it possesses a soul. I have inadvertently triggered something in Catherine's body that gives her motive power, absent her actual mind. I have revived the body before I revived Catherine herself, so I simply have to bring her mind back and then she will be well again. Don't you understand? It makes perfect sense."
Again I wait, and again he says nothing.
"It makes sense!" I stammer, although I can hear the doubt in my own voice. "Really, this... I must say, really this is actually a great success, and..."
"Do you still cling to your science?" he asks suddenly, sounding as if he does not believe me at all. "After what you just saw down there, do you still believe the answer is in one of those books?"
"It must be," I reply, before setting the books on the desk and starting to take a look through them, to see which Jack brought over from the shelf. "In all my life," I continue, "I have never once come upon a condition that cannot be explained by established reason. Certainly there have been challenges, and moments when it seemed as if no answer would be forthcoming, but that simply meant that I had to work harder and for longer. It is this stringent determination, this adherence to science, that marks out a great man."
"It sounds like just another type of religion to me," Jack says darkly.
"You know nothing," I mutter. "Nothing at all."
I open the first of the books, simply at random, and start looking through what turns out to be a wholly unhelpful section on liver conditions. I turn to another page, about kidneys, then to a section on the nervous system. Indeed, with each fresh page I am confronted by yet more information that sheds no light on Catherine's current predicament.
"It's in here somewhere," I stammer. "It must be."
A moment later Jack steps past me, bumping my shoulder as he goes. I turn and watch as he storms out into the hallway, and then to my horror I see that he is going over to the basement door.
"What are you doing?" I ask. "Why -"
My throat seizes with fear as I see that he is unlocking the door, which he pulls open a moment later. Standing framed in the doorway, he stares down into the darkness, and I realize I can just about hear the sound of Catherine still snarling and struggling somewhere down there. I wait for Jack to say something, or to do something, yet he simply stands there and watches her.
"What do you see?" I ask, with tears in my eyes. "What is she doing?"
"Come and see for yourself."
I pause for a few seconds.
"I would rather not," I say finally. "I have much to do here, in my office. Can you not just tell me?"
I wait, but he says nothing.
"Tell me," I add, and now my voice trembles worse than ever. "Please, tell me what you see."
"She is still attempting to climb the steps," he replies, "but so far she is making no progress whatsoever. She is looking up at me, and I swear I have never seen such anger before, not even in the eyes of the mad dogs that live in the mud at the river's edge. I believe, Doctor Grazier, that sooner or later she will learn how better to climb, and then she will make her way up to this door."
"And then what?" I ask.
I wait for an answer, but he says nothing. Instead, he watches the steps for a moment longer before shutting the door and turning the key in the lock.
"She cannot get through there," I point out. "Not when it is locked. Can she?"
"I do not believe so," he mutters, and then he turns and walks out of sight. "Then again, this seems not to be a time for certainties."
"Where are you going?" I call after him.
"To think," he replies. "To find an answer."
I hear him leave the house, and then I look out the window just in time to see that he is walking toward the far end of the garden. I remain in place, watching as he stops on the grass, and finally he sits cross-legged and closes his eyes. It takes a moment longer for me to see that he has taken position directly beneath the knife that he hung the other day from the tree, and that he seems to be meditating. I am not sure how such inaction can possibly help the situation, especially for a beast such as Jack who is barely capable of proper thought. Still, I suppose it is good to get him out of the way for a while, so that I can get some proper work done.
Looking back down at the textbooks, I start searching through their pages. The answer is in here somewhere. Of that I am sure. I simply have to keep looking until it is found. I have to hold my faith in medical science, else I shall lose my mind.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"Hang on!" I call out, as I continue to struggle with the bolt on the back door. "I'll be out in just a moment!"
I thought this thing would be a little easier to open, but it seems to be completely rusted shut. Then again, I might be doing something wrong. I keep wiggling the handle, hoping to somehow force the bolt across, but I can tell that it's bumping against something pretty solid. I must have been at this for a good ten minutes now, and I'm starting to think that maybe I'm not going to have any luck. After everything I said to Jerry, maybe we're going to fail at the very first hurdle.
"Just wait a few more seconds!" I shout, so that he doesn't give up out in the garden and wander off. "I'll get it soon, I promise. I think it just hasn't been opened for a long time, that's all."
And then I spot a small metal latch that seems to be holding the bolt in place. I slide the latch aside, and suddenly the bolt comes all the way across. With a feeling of achievement, I finally manage to pull the door open, and I barely manage to keep from saying "Ta da" as I see Jerry waiting on the other side.
Or rather, waiting all the way over by the gate, with a terrified look on his face. It's almost as if he's too scared to cross the threshold and actually come close to the house. After a moment, I see that he's actually got one hand on the gate itself, as if he's scared to let go.
"You can come in now," I tell him, standing in the doorway. "It's totally safe, I promise. I've checked all the rooms."
I wait, but after a moment I realize that he seems genuinely horrified by the idea. After I finally persuaded him to at least give this a try, I could tell that he wasn't convinced, but he seemed to at least be willing to make an effort. Then as we came around to the rear of the house, I could tell that he was becoming more and more nervous. Still, I figured I could help him get over this final little hurdle. He's been living next door for decades, obsessing over this house, and he's still never actually been inside. Now he's staring past me, toward the house's dark interior, as if he sees something terrifying.
I turn and look, but there's nothing. Just the dark, empty hallway and several doors leading into the rooms, plus the staircase rising high into the darkness of the upper floor.
"Come on," I say, making my way outside and heading over to where Jerry is waiting by the gate. Reaching out, I offer him my left hand. "I'll help you."
"Don't you feel it?" he asks, his voice trembling slightly as he stares past me toward the open, waiting doorway.
"It's a little cold," I admit.
"But don't you feel the house telling you to keep away?"
I almost make a joke, but I manage to hold back. After all, he looks genuinely terrified and it wouldn't be right to make fun of him. He's built this up so much, it's only natural that he's finding it hard now to get past a lifetime's worth of fears.
"Why don't you just come to the doorway?" I ask. "Then you can see how you feel once you've made it that far. Even if you only peer inside today, that'd be an improvement, wouldn't it? Then you can go a little further each time until eventually you'll get all the way into the hall. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll go upstairs, or into the basement. No pressure, but I really believe in you."
He immediately shakes his head, as if the idea is utterly horrifying.
"It's really just a house," I tell him yet again. "I know you've spent a lot of time wondering what's inside, but that's part of the problem. Imagination can be a powerful thing, and it can be difficult to see past illusions. Trust me, after everything that's happened to me over the past week, I really appreciate what it's like."
"I can feel it now," he replies, sounding a little breathless and panicked. "My throat is tightening, just being this close. There's a force reaching out, pushing me back, telling me that I have no business coming even this far. This force is so strong and so obvious, the only mystery is why you don't feel it. Something unnatural is in that house, something..."
He reaches his hands forward and moves them through the air, almost as if he thinks there's something right in front of him. There's one part of me that thinks he's taking this way too far, that he's getting a little deluded, but then there's another part of me that knows it must seem very real to him. After all, I hallucinated several times over the past few days, so I know how easy it is to believe in things that are conjured up by your own mind.
"If there was something bad in there," I say finally, "why wouldn't I feel it too?"
"Exactly," he replies, turning to me. "That is what I have been wondering too. Why don't you feel it?"
I reach down and take his hand in mine.
"Just to the door," I continue, offering a smile that I hope might make him feel at least slightly better. I give his hand a slight squeeze too. "I've spent three nights in the house now, and nothing bad has happened to me at all. Sure, I got a little scared once or twice, but I've never been a huge fan of the dark. The point is, I survived three nights, so I reckon you can totally survive a few minutes on the doorstep. What do you say, Jerry? Are you willing to give it a shot?"
He looks toward the house, and I can see the fear in his eyes. And then, just when I think he's about to give up and walk away, he nods.
"You're ready?" I ask.
He nods again. He's clearly still terrified, but maybe I've managed to help him find a little extra courage. And then, slowly, he lets go of the gate.
"Okay," I continue. "Let's take it steady."
I step forward, but he's still hesitant. Finally, however, he starts walking along with me, although I quickly feel him holding my hand tighter and by the time we get close to the back door I'm actually starting to find his grip a little painful. I don't say anything, though, since I really don't want to deter him from doing something that he clearly thinks is a huge deal.
"There we go," I say as we reach the back door. "How are you feeling?"
He's still gripping my hand, and when I turn to him I see that he's staring straight through the door and into the dark of the house. Following his gaze, I find that I can just about make out the kitchen and the hallway. To be honest, I can totally understand how the view is a little creepy.
"So," I continue, turning back to him, "do you feel like going inside today?"
"It's everywhere," he whispers.
"What is?"
"I know what it is now," he continues, his eyes widening with fear as tears start running down his face. "I've felt it, all these years, reaching out to me. I thought it was just noise, or a kind of static, but now I can actually hear it." He pauses, before turning to me with an expression of disbelief. "How can you not hear it?" he asks. "How can you not hear that scream? It's filling the entire house."
I wait for him to explain, but he seems almost frozen.
"I don't hear a scream," I tell him finally. "I don't hear anything."
"Somebody is screaming in there," he continues, taking a step back but still holding my hand. "I can hear it as clearly as I hear you. Clearer, even. I can hear it ringing out through the house, and I can hear it shaking the frame of the door."
"Huh."
I pause, before reaching over and touching the frame. I don't feel anything, of course, but I figure there's no need to say that to Jerry. The last thing I want is for him to think that I'm making fun of him.
"No more," he says suddenly, slipping his hand away from mine and taking a couple more steps back, almost as if the house is forcing him away. "No more, no more..."
"You don't want to try coming into the kitchen?"
"You must come with me," he continues, gesturing for me to follow him as he backs toward the gate. "Come, girl. You shouldn't be here."
"I'm fine, honestly."
"Just because you don't hear it, doesn't mean it isn't all around you. You're not safe in there. Nobody is!"
"And if I don't go back inside," I reply, "who's going to take all those other photos you want?" Reaching into my pocket, I take out the recharged digital camera. "I'm not doubting that you think you can hear something, but I don't hear it, so I figure maybe that means I'll be okay. I mean, that makes sense, right? If something in this house wanted to hurt me, it could have done it by now. That has to count for something."
I'm humoring him, of course, but I'm trying to do it in a nice way.
He stares at the house for a moment longer, looking up toward the windows above the door. He seems genuinely terrified, as if he's frightened to his core. Maybe he expects to see a ghostly face at one of the windows, or maybe he thinks he'll spot a shadow moving in one of the upstairs rooms. He's probably got all sorts of crazy ideas, and I wouldn't even be surprised if he managed to hallucinate something. He watches the windows for a moment longer, before finally turning to me again.
"You must come back to my house later," he says finally. "Before sundown, so I know that you're alright."
"Sure," I reply. "I can do that."
"You must come back!" he continues, sounding increasingly worried. "Promise me! If it gets to sundown and I haven't seen you, I'll think that something awful has happened!"
"I promise I'll come back," I tell him, "and it'll be way before sundown. And I'll have all the photos you want."
He stares at me for a moment, before muttering something under his breath as he turns and hurries to the gate. He seems desperate to get out of the garden, and as he disappears from view I can't help but realize that this house has really burrowed its way into his head. I don't think he's completely crazy, but it's pretty obvious that he's beyond obsessed with the house, and that he barely thinks about anything else. I just hope that maybe the photos, and the notebooks too, and even these little trips closer to the door, might help him see past his fears.
I honestly can't imagine what it's like to live in the shadow of such absolute, all-consuming fear.
Stepping back into the house, I take a moment to lock the back door and then I make my way through to the hallway. After everything Jerry has been saying, I can't help stopping for a few seconds and listening to the silence, and I have to admit that some of his words echo through my thoughts. The house is old and it is a little creepy, and it'd be so easy to start imagining bumps and knocks coming from the empty rooms. Finally, however, I force myself to remember that I don't believe in any of that ghost garbage, and that I just need to find some way to occupy my time today. I guess I can start by taking those photos.
At least I know I'm alone here.
"Gotcha!" a voice yells suddenly.
Startled, I'm about to turn around when a hand clamps tight over my mouth and I feel hot breath against the back of my neck. For a moment, sheer panic fills my chest.
"Somebody's screaming in here?" the voice continues, and now I realize with a rush of relief that I recognize her. "Who the hell is that old guy?"
Pulling away, I turn and see a face grinning at me, a face that's clearly very much amused by my state of shock.
"Alex!" I stammer, barely able to believe what I'm seeing right in front of me. "You came!"
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"Increased aggression can also be caused by damage to certain parts of the brain," I read out loud from one of the textbooks, "particularly the..."
My voice trails off for a moment, and then slowly I turn and look toward the basement door. For a few seconds I hear nothing, as if the entire house has fallen silent, but then I realize that I can perhaps hear a very faint bumping sound, as if Catherine is still struggling at the foot of the stairs.
No, not Catherine.
That thing, whatever it might be, is most certainly not my wife.
Suddenly the sound stops, and I am left in silence again.
Perhaps she is cured!
Perhaps her proper mind has somehow reasserted itself, and now everything is alright again! I wait, listening to the silence and feeling heartened by each second that passes without the sound of some growl or snarl or stumble. Indeed, after almost a minute like this, I cannot shake a rush of hope in my heart at the thought that the nightmare might finally be over. After all, Catherine has always been a very strong-willed woman, and it is certainly possible that she has simply taken back control of her body.
Getting to my feet, I head over to the doorway and listen, waiting in case -
Suddenly I hear another, loud bump, accompanied by a distant growl of anger.
My heart sinks.
For a moment there, I actually allowed myself to believe that the horror had ended, that Catherine had overcome her condition through sheer force of will. How foolish I am, and how desperate. Then again, perhaps it is possible that she might come to take back control of her own body, in which case time might be the only cure. Until that moment comes, however, I must continue to search for an answer in my books. Slowly, then, I turn and head back to the desk, where the books await my attention. I am so tired, I feel as if I might collapse at any moment, but I know I must keep going. I cannot afford to rest, to even close my eyes for a minute, until I have come to an answer.
Just as I am about to sit down, however, I happen to glance out the window. At which point, I see the most remarkable sight in the garden.
***
"What are you doing, man?" I ask, as I stop in front of Jack. "Have you lost your mind?"
He does not answer. Instead he remains on his knees, with his head bowed and his eyes closed, as if he is engaged in some form of religious study. I saw him apparently meditating earlier, and I assumed that was the limit of his superstition. Now, however, he seems almost to be praying. That cannot be the truth, though. A man such as Jack – so lowly and so craven – would never turn his mind to spiritual matters. How could he, when he is so unintelligent? Frankly, I am amazed he can even read and write.
"Answer me," I say after a moment, exasperated by his behavior. "I demand to know what you think you're doing!"
Again I wait, and again he does not reply.
How can some impoverished, pathetic little runt dare think he has the right to ignore one of his betters?
"Answer me!" I bark, determined to put him in his place.
Yet somehow, unfathomably, he says nothing.
Finally, infuriated and out of patience, I storm over to him and grab the fellow by his chin, forcing him to lift his head. And when that does not work, and his eyes remain closed, I force the lids open until there can be no doubt whatsoever that he sees me. I do not like touching the wretch, but in this moment I feel I have no choice.
"What are you doing?" I ask yet again, with pure anger in my voice. "My wife is in terrible danger, my house is filled with something I do not understand, and you choose to spend your time out here on your knees?"
"I am searching," he replies, very matter-of-factly.
"You are what?"
"I am searching," he continues, as if it is the most natural answer possible. "There are many religions in the world, Doctor Grazier, and many other forms of belief. I do not know all of them, not nearly, but over the years I have spoken to many men from many different walks of life. And women, too. People who have journeyed to London from all the continents, who have settled in poor dwellings and who have nothing to trade but their stories. From time to time I have performed services for some of them, receiving as payment only their wisdom and their knowledge. I am trying to remember whether any of them ever mentioned anything like this. Anything that might help to explain your wife's condition."
"What nonsense is this?" I whisper, letting go of his chin and taking a step back. "I did not have you down as quite this type of fool."
"Forgive me for saying this," he replies, "but it seems to me that medical science alone cannot explain what is happening. When I was down there in the basement, Sir, and I had my hand over your wife's mouth, I had a great deal of time in which to merely ponder the situation. I must confess, I began to consider possibilities that had previously seemed incredible. Some of my certainties crumbled, Sir, and I thought it would be wise to reconsider the various options."
"Reconsider the options?" I stammer incredulously. "What options?"
"Causes, Sir. Things that might explain what is happening to your wife."
I am just about to tell him that he is out of his mind, but then I realize that perhaps I should at least hear what he has to say. As wrong as he might be – as he will inevitably be – it might do me good to hear the ravings of a madman, if only so that my own thoughts might become more ordered as a result.
"Have you come to any conclusions?" I ask finally, even though the question seems so utterly foolish.
I wait, and now I see the fear in his eyes.
"Tell me," I continue, feeling a ripple of fear in my chest. "If you have anything to say, then say it."
"There are some superstitions that I had previously dismissed," he says cautiously. "Stories that even now seem insensible, yet which might contain grains of truth. Things I was told by people who have traveled the world far beyond London's border. Stories about..."
Again I wait, and again he seems incapable of getting the words out.
"Stories about what, man?" I ask, although I immediately wonder whether I want to hear.
"Stories about the dead," he replies, "and about what happens to them after their lives are over."
I shake my head. I have always known that other cultures have their superstitions, stories rooted in ignorance and credulity, but I had hoped that modern enlightenment might have pushed such stories to the margins. Instead, here I am standing in the garden of my own home, in one of the most civilized cities in human history, listening to more of this prattling nonsense.
"These are stories about the spirits of the dead," Jack continues, clearly believing every word, "and about their bodies. There are so many different stories, Doctor Grazier, and most of them conflict heavily with one another. I am not a fool, not am I an unduly credulous man. I know that a great many of these stories are mere fairy-tales. Yet as I stood in your basement, with my hand over your wife's mouth, I began to think about whether some of these stories might contained different version of some fundamental truth. I began to meditate in the basement, even with my hand over your wife's mouth, and I am continuing that meditation now."
Again, I shake my head.
"Ludicrous," I mutter under my breath.
"That is not your wife in the basement," he says. "It just isn't, Doctor Grazier. You know that, I can see it in your eyes. It is your wife's body, animated by some force, but her soul is elsewhere. I fear the two might never be reunited."
"You don't know what you're talking about," I tell him.
"Indeed I do not," he replies, "which is why my meditation must continue. I shall need to check your journals as well, if that is acceptable. There is so much to draw together, so much I must consider. It will all, surely, take a great deal of time, but I am fearful that we have perhaps done something in this house that we should have left well alone. The creature that even now attempts to climb those steps from the basement, the thing that -"
"The answer is in medicine!" I snap, barely able to string a sentence together as I feel a flash of anger. "Only a truly feeble mind would fall back upon primitive superstitions."
"I hope you are right," he says with a hint of fear in his voice. "Truly, I do. I hope you are right and that I am the greatest fool in all the world."
"That is indeed the case," I mutter, before turning to head back inside. "There is no point trying to explain any of this to you. Clearly you are like all simple-minded idiots. At the slightest hint of trouble, you turn away from rational thinking and resort to primitive superstitions. I would tell you to be ashamed, yet I doubt you are even capable of such a thing."
"You spoke of God earlier," he replies.
"I did what?"
"You spoke of God. Three times, I believe. I noted this at the time, Doctor Grazier, because I was so very surprised. Such utterances seemed to mark a break in your character, a change from -"
"How dare you?" I snap, slapping him hard on the side of the face.
"I am sorry," he mutters.
"You would do well to attend to your own needs and fears," I sneer, "and leave me to worry about my own. I will not be lectured by such a primitive creature, especially not one that I have invited into my own home. And I shall certainly not explain a few simple slips of the tongue."
"Of course," he says, bowing his head. "I should not have mentioned what I heard. I am sorry."
Once I am back inside the house, however, I stop for a moment in the hallway and listen to the silence all around. I am still clinging to the hope that Catherine has reasserted herself, but I know that I cannot afford to assume that this is the case. Finally, even though I know that I should simply go back to my books, I cannot help making my way to the basement door and turning the key.
I hesitate for a moment, listening for any hint of movement on the other side, and then I carefully pull the door open a little way.
A shudder passes through my chest as soon as I see that Catherine is now around one third of the way up the steps, clinging desperately to the wood as if she fears she will slip at any moment. I stare at her for a few seconds, and then suddenly she looks up at me and lets out another hideous snarl. In the process, she loses her grip and falls back down the steps, collapsing in a heap at the bottom. For a moment she seems less like a human and more like a collection of limbs that cannot determine how they might work together. She struggles desperately until finally she manages somehow to grip the bottom step once again. I watch as she starts to climb again, and then I shut the door and turn the key in the lock.
I am trembling with fear. I must go back to my notebooks, but first there is one other possibility that I must try. Even though, deep down, I am ashamed of such thoughts.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"Of course I came," Alex says, stepping past me and heading over to the bottom of the stairs, where she stops for a moment and looks up at the dark landing. "That a-hole Simon told me you'd brought my stuff here. Can you believe he threw me out of that place?"
"Alex -"
"Hello!" she calls out, cupping her hands around her mouth and looking up toward the top of the stairs. "Anyone here? Any ghosts hanging around, thinking about haunting us? That'd be kinda lame, so you might as well just come out!"
"You shouldn't shout like that," I tell her.
"Why not?"
"It just -"
"Hello!" she yells again, even louder than before. "My name is Alex and this is my friend Maddie. If there are any ghosts here, we come in peace but we'd really love to see you! Don't be shy. Come out and rattle your chains a bit!"
She waits again, and then she starts laughing as she turns to me.
"There," she says, "how's that for challenging the dead? The silly old man said there's some kind of presence here, so I figured we should invite any spirits to come and say hello. Do you think your new pal could hear me from all the way over in his house?"
"I hope not," I mutter.
"I thought I told you never to come in here," she adds, turning to me. "Seriously, Maddie, I told you several times. This house is supposed to be totally out of bounds. Like, no-one's supposed to ever come in here, not for any reason."
"I needed to go somewhere," I tell her. "Things were getting kind of crazy."
"Huh." She looks me up and down for a moment, as if she's inspecting me. "I figured you wouldn't go to one of the shelters," she adds finally. "Me neither. There's no way I'm letting myself get shepherded into some kind of camp. They're still on about that, you know. I had to keep looking over my shoulder on the way here. It's like anything the government does. They pretend it's for our benefit, and maybe it helps in one small way, but then they're figuring out other ways to totally screw us over."
"The killer's still out there?" I ask.
She nods.
"Have more people died?" I add.
"Yeah, I think there was one the night before last. It's getting pretty nuts, people are really losing their minds and getting totally paranoid. Who'd have thought it, huh? Some loser starts copying Jack the Ripper, and the entire nation loses its collective shit."
"I saw some news reports the other day," I reply. "There were people smashing things up."
"So have you really been hanging about here all by yourself?" she asks, stepping past me and looking down the steps that lead into the basement. "That's actually pretty impressive, Maddie. I didn't know you had the balls to do something like that, especially after I told you how creepy this place is. Who was that old guy, by the way? Did you make friends with, like, some kind of old mental patient?"
"That was Jerry."
"He's not getting you to do stuff for money, is he?"
"Of course not."
"He looked a little pervy," she adds. "I wouldn't put it past him."
"He lives next door," I tell her. "He's a nice guy."
"That's how they lure you in!"
"He's not like that," I say with a sigh. "Not everyone's out to get us, Alex. Some people genuinely just want to help."
"Well, he sounded insane," she replies. "Absolutely, clinically insane. But kinda funny too, I guess. All that talk of being scared of the house..."
Her voice trails off for a moment.
"I can dig that," she adds. "I feel it too."
"You do?" I ask.
She turns to me. "Hell, yeah. Don't you?"
"It just feels like a house," I reply. "It's cold, and it's dark, but -"
"This isn't the first time I've ever been in here," she says, interrupting me. "I came in a few years ago, when I was having a bad time. I climbed through the broken window. I only stayed for a few hours, 'cause the place seriously gave me the creeps, but those hours were enough for me to realize that something isn't right about this house. That's how I knew to warn you away, but like you said, desperate times call for desperate measures and when I got your note, I realized I might as well come along. I can still feel it now, though. It's like a kind of panic that hangs in the air, and it gets into you. It's like pure fear."
"So you weren't too scared to come inside?" I ask.
"Well," she says with a faint smile, "back then, I wasn't used to living in fear. It was new to me. Now I am used to it, after all the stuff that's happened, so I guess maybe I'm a little immune. Or maybe I don't really care anymore. It's hard to say. By the way, I was poking about earlier before I heard you come back, and I was wondering. Why is there a bowl of cat food at the top of the stairs?"
***
"This is unreal," Alex says a few minutes later, once I've led her down into the basement. "Why did I not know about this?"
She has a flashlight with her, and she shines the beam around until she spots the slab in the center of the room. Heading over, she runs a hand across the slab for a moment before climbing on and settling down on her back.
"Maybe you shouldn't do that," I point out.
"Why not?"
She places the flashlight next to her waist, before crossing her arms over her chest and closing her eyes.
"Do you think this was, like, a morgue or something?" she asks. "They probably put dead bodies down here, back in the day. Like actual dead bodies of people who'd only just died. Tell me that doesn't give you the willies."
"I think it might have been an operating theater."
"No way. It totally feels like a morgue. It's just got that, like, morgue feel. I know that might seem hard to believe, but trust me, I'm really good at picking up on these things. I've got top notch instincts."
"There's equipment here," I tell her, heading over to the counter and picking up a few of the scalpels and knives, before making my way to the slab and stopping next to her. "See?" I add, holding the blades up. "Apparently this house used to belong to a doctor named Charles Grazier. I talked to Jerry, the guy from next door, and he thinks Grazier carried out procedures down here. Maybe on his wife."
"Seriously?" Opening her eyes, she stares at the knives for a moment before snatching one from my hand. "These are actually pretty cool. I might nab a few before we leave. You never know when you might need a knife on the streets of London. I used to know a girl named Ophelia who told me I shouldn't be so quick to draw, but sometimes you've got no choice." She pauses, and then she grins at me. "Are you planning something, Maddie?"
"Planning something?" I ask.
"The way you're standing there." She passes the knife back to me. "It almost looks like you're about to plunge one of them into me. Did I ever tell you? I've always thought I'd make a kick-ass heroine in some low budget horror flick. You know, the kind of girl who gets tied up and tortured but eventually makes it out alive somehow. I've always felt like I've got a bit of that in me. And a house like this would totally make a good setting."
She looks down at the knives in my hands.
"Are you sure you're not planning anything?" she adds. "You're not gonna suddenly snap on me, are you, and go full-on psycho? 'Cause people do that sometimes, and I've heard it's often the quiet ones." She stares at me for a moment. "You are a quiet one, Maddie. Sometimes I genuinely don't know what's going on in that head of yours. Are you constantly holding back the urge to kill?"
"Of course not," I reply, setting them down on the edge of the slab.
"No?" She sits up. "Pity."
She pauses for a moment, looking around with a hint of wonder in her eyes. I've known Alex long enough to realize that she's planning something. In fact, I can see very faint, very mischievous smile starting to spread across her lips.
"What?" I ask.
She grins at me.
"What?" I continue. "Alex, what are you doing?"
She doesn't reply.
She simply continues to grin.
"Maybe we should go back upstairs," I say finally. "I mean, we need to come up with a plan and -"
Suddenly she screams, so loud that I instinctively clamp my hands over my ears.
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"Are you here?" I ask, standing in the doorway and looking into the bedroom. "Catherine, are you -"
Taking a deep breath, I cannot help but feel utterly foolish. Is this how far I have fallen? Am I really standing here, speaking into an empty room and listening for a response? Just a few days ago, I would have considered such action to be beneath me, to be a sign of deplorable constitutional weakness. Indeed, were I to witness another man acting like this, I would have severe doubts about his sanity. At the same time, desperation drives me to try this, so I take a step forward and keep my eyes fixed on the bed. If there is still a chance, then at least nobody can see me as I try this one final, desperate option.
"Are you here?" I ask again. "Catherine, if you are, you must let me know."
I wait.
Silence.
"You are not in the basement room," I continue. "I know that, Catherine. Please, do not fear that I see that monstrous creature and confuse it for you. My darling, something has gone dreadfully wrong but I have already made great advances. I feel you are closer than ever, so you must simply hold your faith in my abilities. It might take a day, or two, but a man has never been so motivated as I am now. And when I have you back with me, all this suffering will fall away."
Again, silence.
"Catherine? I love you."
She does not reply.
Perhaps she cannot.
I keep telling myself that when I briefly saw her last night, she was but a vision conjured up by my troubled mind. Indeed, that explanation makes perfect sense, yet I cannot help wondering whether there is a little more to the situation. I know that Catherine's spirit – or soul, or whatever else one might call it – cannot be here, separated in some manner from her body and lingering in the air like a fine mist, yet I cannot help replaying last night's vision over and over. And each time I think back to the sight of her, my belief is strengthened just a little.
What if she is aware of what is happening?
What if she is observing me even now, and bemoaning the fact that I have failed so miserably?
Indeed, in a sense I am committing the same sin that I observed in Jack earlier. I am allowing myself to consider the same superstitious nonsense. I can only console myself with the thought that I am doing this for better, more rational and scientific reasons, rather than regressing to primitive beliefs. I know that Catherine's spirit is not in this room, but I must prove this fact to myself before I go back to my books. I am a strong man and I do not fear the facing of my demons. And the tears in my eyes are due merely to overwork.
I am a strong man. I shall not falter.
"Please," I whisper, as I turn and slowly look around the room, "show yourself. If you can hear me, Catherine, do not leave me standing lost like this. Have mercy."
I stare at the bed for a moment longer, remembering the sight of her sobbing yesterday. She cried out to me, her voice filled with the most unimaginable anguish, and I truly cannot bear to contemplate the possibility that my dear wife is suffering in such a way. At the same time, she told me most specifically that the creature in the basement is not her, and I cannot understand how she could say such a thing unless...
Is this how it starts?
Is this how brilliant minds are brought down by primitive fears?
"I am Doctor Charles Grazier," I whisper, "distinguished member of no less than five London societies. I am respected by my peers and regarded as one of the finest surgeons of my generation. I am..."
My voice trails off.
"I am Doctor Charles Grazier," I stammer, trying again, but still the words fail me.
Somehow, deep down, I still have doubts.
I am about to turn and leave the room, when my gaze falls upon the mirror. It was the mirror that showed me the image of Catherine, so I make my way over and kneel down so that I can see a little better. Now I am able to make out the reflection of the empty bed, and there are tears in my eyes as I wait in case some figure might appear. My heart is beating so fast, I fear I might faint, and I cannot deny that I am searching the emptiness of the bed for any slight hint that my darling Catherine might materialize. I am torn, simultaneously believing that she will, and that she cannot, appear. In my mind's eye, I am already imagining some lurid puff of smoke that might deliver her, although I quickly remind myself that such things exist only in parlor tricks for the uneducated.
"Please," I whisper. "Catherine, my darling, if you can show me a sign, you must do so now."
Yet the silence continues, and mocks me.
She is so plainly, and so clearly, not here.
I have been duped. Indeed, in the course of just a few seconds I feel my body swell with anger as I realize that Jack's infantile prattle has seeped into my ears and turned my brain to mush. I allowed superstition to override my good senses, and I actually considered the possibility that Catherine's ghost might be lingering up here in the bedroom. Filled with an urgent need to express this fury, I look around the room for a moment before spotting a vase on the dresser. Catherine never liked that vase anyway, so I hurry over and seize it with my shaking hands. I examine the pattern for a moment, trying to calm myself, but in fact the opposite happens. My rage burns bright in a fiery flash, and I hesitate for only a moment before turning and throwing the cursed vase at the opposite wall.
As I do so, I let out a cry of rage that is most unlike me.
The vase shatters upon impact, yet I feel no better as the pieces fall to the floor. If anything, I feel more furious, and after a moment I realize that I can rid myself of this sensation in only one way.
"Jack," I mutter, as I start thinking of all the different forms of punishment at my disposal. "This is his fault. Without his interference, I would have succeeded by now. Everything was perfectly alright until Jack appeared. I would be with Catherine in whatever place comes after this world."
I hesitate for a moment, before opening the dresser draw and rooting through for something I can use as a weapon. Finding nothing, I hurry out of the room and storm downstairs, heading straight for my office. Once I am at my desk, I look through the various drawers until I find my largest letter-opener. All my good knives are down in the basement, which means I cannot get to them at present, but the letter-opener will be more than adequate. I can slice the blade into one side of Jack's throat and cut his carotid artery, and then I shall watch his miserable, weak, poor blood run from his body.
And then, all of a sudden, the rage passes.
I see the truth now.
If it was wrong of me to take on primitive superstitions, it would be equally wrong of me to succumb to primitive rage. There will come a time when I must dispose of Jack, but only after he has outlived all possible usefulness. For while he might be intellectually inferior even to a gnat, he is a large man and I might yet have need of more body parts from the streets. A farmer would not kill a horse simply because he was irritated by its stupidity, not when he still needed its strength to pull a cart. For all his faults, Jack is still a useful brute.
Looking out the window, I see that he is still meditating in the garden.
Fine.
Let him be a fool, if that is what he wants. Let him pretend that he is capable of serious thought, that he can actually help in any way other than as a beast.
For all I care, he can meditate until next I need him. After all, he is nothing more than a tool to be used as and when I see fit. In this regard, he is of no greater value than a scalpel or a saw, although I greatly look forward to the moment when he can be discarded. For a moment, all I can think about is how it will feel to cut the buffoon's throat, and how I shall enjoy seeing the fear and shock in his eyes as the last life slips from his body. Indeed, I run the idea through my mind over and over, almost salivating at the prospect of killing such a disgusting brute. I might even leave his body out for the ravens, in order to add some poetry to his final moments. That, after all, is the final end he claims to see for himself.
I must work. I cannot afford to falter.
Hurrying to the desk, I sit down and get back to work. I am so exhausted, my eyes keep trying to close of their own accord, but I refuse to sleep. My hands are sweaty as I turn from page to page, and I have begun to whisper to myself under my breath. Such things matter not, however, and I must focus solely on the task at hand.
"I am Doctor Charles Grazier," I whisper, slurring my words slightly but determined to remind myself of my strengths. "I am a distinguished member of no less than five London societies. I am respected by my peers and regarded as one of the finest surgeons of my generation. I am Doctor Charles Grazier, I am a distinguished member of no less than five London societies..."
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"Relax!" she laughs, finally ending her scream and scooching off the slab. She pats my shoulder. "It was just a bit of fun. I was messing with you. Anyway, didn't your pal from next door say he could hear a scream? I was helping out."
"It was very loud," I point out, as she saunters over to the far end of the basement and looks at the symbols carved into the stone wall. "And it wasn't really very funny."
"What are these?" she asks.
"I don't know. I saw them, but they don't make much sense to me."
"They must've made sense to someone," she continues, reaching out and running a hand across the wall. "Once, a long time ago, someone must have had a very good reason to put these here. Maybe they're meant to be some kind of message."
"That's what I thought," I reply, heading over to join her. "There are some more on the stairs."
"There are?" She furrows her brow. "Huh. That's weird. I guess I just didn't notice last time."
I pause for a moment, looking at the symbols and trying to figure out what they could mean. I suppose it's possible that they were carved by some kind of madman, but deep down I feel sure that someone sometime must have had a good reason. Maybe Doctor Charles Grazier carved the symbols, although that also feels wrong somehow. It's almost as if there's someone else, someone who was here many years ago but who was forgotten by history. I stare at the symbols for a moment longer, before turning to Alex.
"You said you came here before," I remind her.
"Nothing happened."
"But you were here for at least a few hours, right?"
"Yeah, well, I was kinda high," she explains. "It wasn't until I sobered up that I realized where I was, and then I bolted as fast as I could. Believe me, I didn't want to stick around." She pauses for a moment, before turning and looking back across the basement. "I really didn't explore very much. Not like you. I just passed out upstairs and then I woke up in the morning, and I noped right out of here. Frankly, I'm impressed that I came inside at all, even when I was out of my mind. I felt this real sense of dread about the place."
"We should go," I tell her.
"You're right. Let's take a look upstairs."
"I don't mean go upstairs. I mean go, full stop. We should get out of here. I was only waiting around until you showed up anyway."
"Let's not be hasty," she replies.
"Hasty?" I can barely believe what I'm hearing. "You're the one who warned me about this house."
"And do you feel it?" she asks.
"Feel what?" I reply, a little uncomfortably.
"The dread. The fear." She hesitates. "The overwhelming sense of doom that makes most people keep well away."
"I don't feel anything like that," I tell her, thinking back to the things Jerry said to me earlier.
"Neither do I," she replies. "Not anymore. Weird, huh? So given that, we might as well stick around until things have calmed down outside. I mean, in case you hadn't noticed, the city's still kind of in a state of lock-down 'cause of some maniac. If we go back out there, sooner or later we'll get picked up and taken to one of those camps. I really don't want my parents to show up and find me, and I know you're terrified of the same thing."
"Sure, but -"
"Imagine Mummy and Daddy pointed at you, and telling the people at the shelter that you're their daughter."
"No," I reply, feeling a sense of panic in my chest.
"Imagine the look of pure joy on their faces."
"Alex -"
"Imagine them thinking they've got their little girl back at last. 'Cause they would be happy, wouldn't they? There'd be loads of hugs and kisses, and promises that things would be different this time. Promises that they understand why you ran away, and that they'll fix everything, and that there'll be no more pain or fear. They might even mean it, too, but do you really think they'd be able to follow through? Do you really have that much faith in them?"
I take a deep breath, struggling to hold back tears.
"Imagine them taking you home," she adds.
"I wouldn't let them."
"You couldn't stop them, Maddie," she points out. "You're still not old enough. You'd be taken home, and nothing would have changed. Well, maybe one thing. They'd know to keep an eye on you, so it'd be much harder for you to escape again. Besides, you once told me how hard it was for you to run away, how you spent months trying to summon the courage. I reckon you'd be back to square one, and you'd have to find that courage all over again. It'd be a nightmare, Maddie, and I'm honestly not sure you'd be strong enough. Is that what you want?"
"You know I don't," I reply. "I can't let that happen."
"Which is why we have to keep our heads down. Because frankly I'm scared for you." She places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm worried that if you went home, you'd decide there's only one way to get out permanently."
"I wouldn't do that!" I say firmly.
"I'm sure everyone thinks the same," she replies. "Until something changes."
I want to argue with her, but I guess I know she's right. Going back out onto the streets isn't an option, not while the police are so keen to gather everyone up. It'd only be a matter of time before we got picked up and processed, and the rest would probably go more or less the way Alex described. A shudder passes through my chest, and I'm starting to feel a little nauseous.
"And this place is kind of cool," she adds, stepping past me and heading over to the center of the basement, before stopping next to the slab and turning to look around. "It's old, and I like old places. Old places have history, and history has soul. I like soul."
"But -"
"You worry too much," she continues, interrupting me. "I've told you that, like, a million times. You're always assuming the worst, Maddie, and sooner or later you're going to have to lighten up a little. In fact, right now I think would be a really good chance for you to -"
Suddenly she turns and looks over her shoulder, toward the door that leads back up to the main part of the house.
"What is it?" I ask, feeling a flicker of fear in my chest. I wait for her to answer, but she's still just staring at the door. "Alex? What's wrong?"
"Did you hear that?" she replies, still not looking at me.
"Hear what?"
She mutters something else under her breath, before heading over to the door and bounding up the stairs. I wait for her to come back and tell me she's joking, or that it's just the house settling or something like that, but then I realize I can hear her heading up the main staircase too, going all the way up to the top floor of the house.
"Hey!" I call out. "Alex! Where are you going? What did you hear?"
When she still doesn't answer, I have no choice but to set off after her.
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"Have you ever thought what it would be like if there were three of you?"
Blinking, I turn and see that Catherine is standing at the shore. The water is glittering brightly in the late-afternoon sun, turning my wife into merely a dark silhouette. From the general shape of her, however, I can just about tell that she seems to be staring this way. The whole scene seems so beautiful and peaceful, yet at the same time exceedingly familiar. We must have been here before.
"Have I ever thought what?" I ask, playing for time. In truth, I heard the question perfectly, but I always worry when Catherine gets into one of her philosophical moods. It is always so difficult for me to keep up.
"Never mind," she says, taking a step toward me. "I do not wish to trouble you."
It is only now that I realize her dress has become almost entirely transparent. The sun-kissed sea is shining through the fabric, leaving only the silhouette of her body. The whole thing strikes me as almost obscene, and I quickly turn and look around. There is no sign of anybody else on this long, remote stretch of beach, but still I worry that Catherine might be spotted by a stranger. After all, with the dress revealing the shape of her naked body, it would be quite improper for any other man to pass this way.
"What are you thinking, Charles?"
I turn back to her. I cannot shake a sense of concern, as if deep down I feel that I should not be here.
"It is getting late," I point out, "and a little chilly. We should perhaps retire to the..."
To where?
Are we staying at a hotel? We must be, but I don't quite recall. Indeed, I am not even sure that I remember how we ended up here at the beach today. My mind is usually so clear, yet at this moment my thoughts are filled with a kind of fog. I must backtrack and determine my actions today, yet even this seems impossible. It is almost as if I barely remember who I am.
"I am Doctor Charles Grazier," I say out loud, trying to steady my nerves. "I am a distinguished member of no less than five London societies, I am respected by -"
"I'm always cold," Catherine says suddenly.
"You are?" I turn to her. "You should have told me."
"I've been cold since the other day," she continues. "Really, I've been cold for longer, since I first became ill. Oh, you gave me blankets, Charles, and you looked after me so very well. No wife could ask for better care. Yet my body was breaking down and there was nothing that anybody could have done. Even when my bones were burning, my flesh was cold."
"Ill?" I am about to ask what she means by this, and to tell her that she never mentioned feeling ill, but then I realize that those words have stirred some other memory in the back of my mind. "You were ill," I whisper. "You..."
My voice trails off as I see that something is moving beneath the fabric of her dress. Looking down at the silhouette of her waist, I see several small wriggling shapes moving down her skin, and then one of them falls to the ground. Before I can say anything, several more of the shapes drop from her waist on the other side, and then I realize that more are crawling along her arms. It is as if hundreds and hundreds of small creatures are swarming all over her body.
"Catherine," I whisper, "what..."
Suddenly I realize what they must be. For a moment I feared they might be worms of some kind, but now I know that they are something even worse. As they continue to fall from her body, I see more and more of them wriggling on the pebbles.
"Maggots..."
"Aren't there three of me now, Charles?" she asks, stepping closer across the beach. "There's the one in the bedroom, just a lingering voice. There's the one in the basement, rotten and moist. And there's the other one, the one in your head that's just cruel, cruel, cruel. Which is the real one, do you think? All of them? None of them? Or just one?"
"Catherine, no..."
Yet as she gets closer, I am finally able to discern her face, and I realize with a profound sense of horror that most of her flesh has been eaten away, particularly around her cheeks. Great hollow gaps exist between extant strings of yellowed flesh, and her eyes look putrid and swollen, as if they are about to burst. I have seen such awful injuries before, of course, but only on dead bodies in hospital mortuaries. It is quite impossible for anybody to be walking about and talking when they are in such a terrible state.
Taking a step back, I hold my hands up in an attempt to ward her off.
"Catherine, please," I stammer, "whatever is wrong with you?"
"Aren't you coming to me, Charles?" she gurgles, spraying blood from her mouth in the process. A foul stench is filling the air too, as if something rotten is wafting from the back of her throat. "I've been waiting and waiting, and I'm so lonely and cold. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be with me forever? We were so happy in life. Perhaps we can be just as happy in death."
"I'm bringing you to me," I tell her, with tears already streaming down my face. "My darling, I -"
"You were supposed to join me!" she gasps. "I've been waiting! What have you done?"
"I've made mistakes," I explain, taking another step back and then another. "I've made advances that were beyond the dreams of other men. There have been terrible errors, Catherine, and moments when I have been ready to give up, but I have forged ahead regardless. I am so close now, I am on the verge of success. I have been tested, I have done things I never thought possible, I have even -"
"Look at me!" she screams, trying to grab my arm.
I step back, but this time I trip against a rock. Unable to steady myself in time, I fall back and land hard on the beach, and I instinctively put my hands up as Catherine towers over me. And then, as she leans closer, all I can do is put my hands over my face and turn away, letting out a whimpering cry as I feel her cold, dead hands brushing across the front of my shirt and up to my neck.
"Look at me," she groans, her voice accompanied by the foulest stench. "Look what you have done to me!"
"I am doing all that I can!" I shout, shaking with fear. "Catherine, you must trust me!"
Sobbing, I do not dare gaze upon this horror, yet I can feel her clutching at my body. As her dead fingers start clawing at my face, I lean my head back and scream, but already Catherine is digging her sharp nails through my skin and gouging my flesh, dragging the meat from my skull. I know this nightmare must end at any moment, but then seconds later I feel her teeth biting hard into my throat, squeezing tight until blood starts running down from the wound. There is blood in my mouth, too, and finally I start trying to push Catherine away. I am too weak, however, so all I can do is shudder as Catherine claws and claws at me.
"You did this!" she gurgles, spraying more blood against my face as one of her fingertips slices into my left eye. "You did this to me, Charles!"
If this were a dream, the pain would not be so intense, and I would not feel the blood so keenly. Somehow it is not a dream. Somehow it is all real, and I am a -
Suddenly I am broken from this reverie by the sound of somebody banging on my front door. The image of Catherine's rotten form lingers for a few more seconds, before vanishing when I open my eyes. And then, just as I think I am saved, I blink and see her once again. Opening my eyes for a second time, I stare at the bookcase opposite the desk, and slowly I feel myself becoming more anchored in the waking world.
I hesitate, still shaking and breathless from the dream, and when I look around the study I realize that I must have fallen asleep right here at my desk. I need to recompose my thoughts, but the banging is becoming more and more furious and finally I get to my feet and hurry across the hallway. I reach for the handle on the front door, but then I hesitate again. I cannot let anybody into the house, not given current events, so it might be wiser to wait and pretend that I am not here. Why, if anybody saw me in my current state, they would surely conclude that something is dreadfully wrong.
And then I hear footsteps hurrying around the side of the house, and I realize that this individual means to enter by the back door. Filled with horror, I suffer a vision of the police storming inside, but then I hear a second set of footsteps, accompanied by the plaintive cry of a familiar voice.
"There you are!" Thomas Culpepper shouts, storming into the hallway with Delilah right behind him. "Why did you not answer the door, Grazier? And where is that wretched manservant of yours?"
"Please," Delilah sobs, pulling on his arm as if she means to lead him out of the house. "Thomas, don't..."
"My wife's honor is at stake!" Thomas tells me firmly, filled with a level of anger I have never before seen in his face. "I will have my satisfaction this day, Charles. So help me, I shall not leave this house until that manservant of yours has paid for what he did to Delilah!"
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
By the time I catch up to Alex, she's all the way up at the top of the main staircase, standing next to the bowl of cat food and looking at the doors to the three bedrooms.
"Alex?" I ask. "Hey, what's wrong?"
I wait for her to explain her strange behavior, but she seems mesmerized by the door that leads into the front bedroom. This is probably just her pulling another dumb stunt, although Alex can be pretty unpredictable. And as I step around her and look at her face, I see a faraway look in her eyes, as if something has genuinely caught her attention.
Almost as if she's scared.
"Can you cut the creepy stuff?" I continue. "Alex, it's going to get really annoying if you keep trying to prank me like this."
"I heard something," she replies, her voice tight with fear.
If she's play-acting, she's doing a very good job.
"What do you mean?" I ask. "Like, a bell?"
I wait, but she doesn't answer.
"Alex?" I continue. "Did you hear a bell? If it was a bell, I think there's a -"
"It wasn't a bell," she says suddenly, still staring at the open door. "I heard something."
"What was it?"
"Didn't you hear it too?"
"I didn't hear anything."
She turns to me. "Are you sure?"
"Can you just tell me what you heard?" I ask, as I feel a faint trembling fear in my chest. I'm still trying to persuade myself that this is a joke, but she's doing a really good job of making me worried. "Alex, what did it sound like?"
I wait for her to answer, but she looks genuinely scared. After a moment I turn and look at the open doorway, but all I see is the bare bed and the dresser. There's blatantly nobody there, but at the same time I can't deny that Alex's behavior is starting to seriously freak me out. I remember thinking I sensed a presence on that bed the other night, as if somebody was staring at me; I don't feel the same thing now, but that seems to be exactly where Alex is looking.
"I heard someone talking," she says suddenly. "Are you sure you're alone in here?"
"Of course I'm sure," I reply, trying not to let her hear the fear in my voice. "What kind of -"
"It was a woman," she continues, interrupting me. "I swear to God, Maddie, I heard a woman's voice coming from up here. I couldn't tell what she was saying, but I definitely heard her. She sounded scared, or upset, something like that. And I'm certain it was coming from that room." She turns and looks over at the doorway again. "Maybe even from that bed."
She turns to me.
"Have you seen or heard anything weird in this house?" she asks.
"No," I reply, although to be honest I'm starting to feel a little freaked-out. "I mean... No. Just a bell, but that was -"
"A bell?"
"Like on a cat's collar. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what it was."
"How can you be sure?"
"I can't," I admit, "but Jerry has lots of cats and I'm pretty sure one of them just wandered in. That's all."
"We might not be alone in this place, Maddie!"
"You can't seriously be -"
"This isn't good," she continues, shaking her head. "It's not good at all. Why didn't you mention this before? I told you this place was creepy, but I didn't think you'd actually been experiencing supernatural occurrences. You should have warned me, Maddie!"
"I haven't been experiencing anything," I tell her with a sigh. "It's just a few bumps. There's a cat here, and -"
"Have you seen a cat?"
"No, but that doesn't mean anything."
"And has any cat eaten from that dish?"
I look down at the untouched bowl for a moment, before turning back to her.
"No," I say, "but there's no such thing as ghosts, and -"
Before I can finish, a loud bump shakes the open door behind Alex, as if it was hit from behind. We both look over as the door swings shut, and we watch as it bangs against the frame and then creaks back open. I wait for a cat to finally appear, or at least to hear a plaintive meow, but now the house is completely silent again until Alex finally turns to me.
"If there's no such thing as ghosts," she says, her voice thick with tension, "then what the hell was that?"
"That was the wind," I reply uncertainly, "or -"
"Bull."
"No, seriously, this is an old house and it's natural for it to make noises now and again."
"Bull, Maddie."
"Just because we don't know what it was, doesn't mean it has to have been a ghost."
"Then go take a look."
I open my mouth to tell her that there's no need, but then I realize that I really can't back down, not now. Looking over at the open door, I feel a tightening knot of fear in my chest, but I know I've got no choice. I have to go into that room and look behind the door, which shouldn't be a problem so long as I believe everything I've just been saying.
There's no such thing as ghosts, and I'm going to prove that.
"Fine," I mutter, stepping past Alex but slowing a little as I get closer to the door.
Ahead, the gloomy room is waiting, and I can't help looking at the metal-framed bed.
"You don't have to do this," Alex says behind me, and she doesn't sound at all like she's enjoying this. She sounds really scared. "Seriously, Maddie, maybe we should just leave this thing well alone. If there's something here -"
"There's nothing here," I reply, but a moment later I swallow hard as I reach the door.
There's no rational reason to be scared. I have to remember that. This is just some kind of primitive fear, and I shouldn't fall for these things so easily.
"It's just a room," I say out loud, hoping to sound confident and unworried. "There's nothing in there."
I still hesitate for a few seconds, before finally stepping into the room and then pulling the door to take a look behind.
"See? There's no -"
Suddenly a voice cries out, and I scream as something lunges at me. Clattering back against the bare wooden floor, I instinctively turn to crawl away, but then I freeze as I realize I can hear raucous laughter. Looking up, I'm horrified to see that Alex is doubled over as she continues to laugh, and Nick – having leapt out from behind the door – is also cracking up.
"Gotcha!" Nick guffaws breathlessly. "Wow, Maddie! You should see your face right now! It's hilarious!"
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"Did you know that he touched her leg?" Culpepper asks as we stand in my study. His face is a picture of fury, such as I have never before seen in such a mild-mannered man. "He touched her bare leg! Her skin!"
"He was helping me," Delilah sobs. "Please, Thomas, I only told you because I wanted to be honest. I never thought you'd fly into such a rage!"
"Be quiet!" he sneers, turning to her. "You have said enough already."
"I showed you the wound," she whimpers. "You're making a great deal out of nothing."
"If you say one more word," he continues, "I shall -"
"Thomas!" She grabs his arm again. "Please, let us just -"
Before she can finish, he raises his right hand and slaps her hard about the face, causing her to let out a shocked gasp as she takes a step back. She almost loses her footing, managing to hold herself up only because she bumps against the bookcase. Sobbing, she puts a hand on her cheek, as if to cover the scene of her shame.
"Do not make me do that again!" Culpepper says firmly. "In your condition, you would do well to think of the child you are carrying!"
She mutters an apology, as her husband turns back to me with the fury in his eyes undimmed.
"Charles," he continues, a little breathlessly, "I know you are a good man, but evidently in this regard you have made some kind of dreadful mistake. I can only presume that Catherine's illness clouds your judgment. This is perfectly understandable, at least to some degree, but the matter cannot be allowed to persist. You have taken a beast into your home, and you must flush him out at once! You must send him back to the sewers of London's less reputable boroughs!"
I open my mouth to tell him that I shall take care of the matter, but at that moment I hear a faint bumping sound coming from the basement door. I look over, terrified that the sound might return and that I shall have to come up with an excuse for my visitors, but fortunately the house remains silent. When I turn back to Culpepper, I see that he apparently heard nothing at all. Evidently he is so angry that he has scant time for any other matter.
"Your wife came into my home uninvited," I tell him cautiously, as Delilah sits and puts her hands over her face, covering her sobs. "I returned home and found her sitting with Jack. Had she followed proper courtesies, none of this would have happened."
"You blame Delilah?" Culpepper asks incredulously. "You blame my elegant wife for the actions of your oafish manservant?"
"He merely touched her leg," I point out, "while he was assisting her. In the context, it was not such a terrible act. Indeed, things could have been a great deal worse."
"Are you defending him?"
"I suppose I am," I reply, surprising myself. "Thomas, this is not a good time. Your wife is in hysterics, and you should be taking her home and keeping her calm, especially when she is carrying a child. You certainly should not be striking her."
"Do not tell me what to do with my wife!" he snaps.
"You are -"
Before I can finish, I hear loud footsteps thudding this way, and I turn just in time to see Jack hurrying into the room. Ignoring us all, he heads straight around to my desk, where he sets a book down and starts looking furiously through its pages. He seems to be muttering something under his breath, although I cannot make out any of the words. A moment later I turn to Culpepper and see the shock in his eyes. He's watching Jack with a kind of horrified stare, of the type that one might ordinarily reserve for a beast that has dragged itself up from the pits of hell.
"Do you allow this?" he asks after a moment. "Charles, the brute is at your desk, looking through one of your books! Is he even capable of reading? Surely you will not allow him to -"
"Can you be quiet, please?" Jack snaps. "You're distracting me with your incessant whine!"
Culpepper lets out a shocked gasp.
"This really is not a good time," I say with a sigh. "Can we all -"
"He touched my wife's leg!" Culpepper says yet again, before storming over to the desk and staring at Jack. "You touched my wife's leg! Do you have no sense of proper behavior, man?"
He waits for an answer, but Jack merely turns to the next page in the book.
"Speak!" Culpepper shouts. "Or do you think you are above explaining yourself? Are you completely unaware of your status as a pitiful common man?"
Again he waits, and again Jack ignores him.
"You will answer me!" Culpepper continues, grabbing the book and pulling it away, only for Jack to grab it back and slam it forcefully against the desk.
"Leave me alone!" Jack sneers at him, with enough ferocity that Culpepper takes a step back. "Your constant babbling whine is causing my head to hurt! Nothing you say is important, nothing you say can help anybody in this room, so please try to keep your infernal mouth shut!"
"Did you hear that?" Culpepper turns to me, his face drained of color. "Did you hear what your manservant just said?"
"I heard," I reply, "and I think it would be best for everyone if you were to leave."
"Are you insane? Have you completely taken leave of your senses, Charles?"
"I cannot explain right now," I tell him. "Thomas, please, your wife is crying and she needs to be taken home. Do not answer one unfortunate situation by creating another. I shall discipline Jack in an appropriate manner, but your wife needs rest."
"I will not leave," he blusters, "until I have received an apology from both of you!"
I cannot help sighing. The man is becoming tiresome. And then, as I blink, I am momentarily shown a vision of Catherine's rotten body still lumbering toward me across a beach. The image vanishes as soon as I open my eyes, yet it leaves me somewhat shaken.
"I have the right to an apology," Culpepper continues, evidently unaware of my discomfort, "and I intend to pursue that right!" Clutching his lapels, he steps toward me and puffs his chest out, as if he is filled with a sense of his own importance. "Charles, you might be temporarily dispossessed of your senses, and you might not see the seriousness of the situation, but my wife has been besmirched by the beast you invited into your home. This requires redress, and frankly I am astounded that you cannot understand this for yourself. How would you feel if it was Catherine's leg that had been touched? Would you accept such an awful thing?"
"Touching her leg is a crime," I reply, "yet striking her about the face is good manners?"
"Do you question me?" Culpepper roars. "Delilah is my wife and I shall deal with her however I see fit!"
"Be quiet!" Jack hisses.
"And now he talks to me in such an awful manner," Culpepper adds, keeping his eyes fixed on me but pointing toward Jack. "Why, it is as if he believes that he is my equal. What kind of ideas have you allowed to get into his head?"
"Be quiet!" Jack roars, still looking through the book.
"That is intolerable!" Culpepper continues. "You have become almost a parody of yourself, Charles! By allowing this brute into your house, you risk destroying your own reputation! When I tell the others at the club, they're going to ask some very serious questions about your behavior, and I'm afraid I shall not know how to defend you! My wife is sobbing because of this brute, and it is your actions that have allowed the situation to occur! I intend to -"
"BE QUIET!" Jack shouts, slamming his fist against the table. "I am trying to read! Do not speak one more word, or I shall be forced to make you stay quiet!"
"Please," Delilah sobs, "can't we just leave?"
"It is perfectly deplorable," Culpepper continues, "that this situation is allowed to persist. My wife's leg remains sullied by the hands of that monsters, and frankly Charles I am shocked that you continue to just stand there doing absolutely nothing. Delilah's honor has been challenged and I expect better from you!"
Behind him, Jack sighs and steps around the desk, coming this way.
"Perhaps I shall go to the club," Culpepper tells me, evidently oblivious to Jack's approach, despite the thudding footsteps that are getting ever closer, "and inform the others of what has happened. How do you like that idea, Charles? All of polite society shall know of the beast in your home, and believe me, they will question your sanity. Why, I rather think that I must ensure that all of polite society is informed of your awful -"
Suddenly Jack takes hold of Culpepper's head from behind and twists it violently, snapping the man's neck in an instant before letting go and leaving his body to crumple to the floor, where he lands quite dead at my feet. Delilah lets out a horrified gasp and faints against the side of the chair. Jack storms back to the desk and starts looking once again through the book. I stare down at the corpse on the floor, unable to avert my gaze from its eyes. In death, Culpepper wears an expression of faint, unfinished surprise.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"It was just a joke," Alex says with a sigh as she follows me down the stairs. "Maddie, where did your sense of humor go?"
"That was not a joke," I mutter, fuming with anger but somehow managing to keep from screaming at her. "I can't believe you think it was funny."
"Maddie..."
She tries to grab my arm, but I pull away. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I make my way to the center of the hallway before stopping as I realize that I have nowhere to go. I could leave the house, but then I'd be back out on the streets. I basically have no choice but to stay here, even though right now I want nothing to do with Alex or Nick. If they think scaring the life out of me is funny, then I can't even begin to imagine what they might pull next.
"Maddie, listen," Alex continues, starting to sound genuinely contrite now. She touches my arm from behind, and this time I turn to her. "Maddie, I'm sorry, okay? I had no idea that you'd get so scared. Nick and I thought it'd be a fun little prank, but obviously we misjudged the situation. And I guess I can see that we were dumb. I swear, it won't happen again."
"You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Nick came up with the idea and I went along with it. I shouldn't have done that, Maddie. Please, can you forgive me?"
I'm still shaking, and to be honest I'm absolutely furious, but at the same time I can't stay mad at Alex. She's my only friend, and maybe she's right that I've become a little too serious. Besides, it was dumb of me to even entertain the possibility that there might be a ghost upstairs. I should never have fallen for their 'joke' in the first place.
"I'll get over it," I tell her cautiously. "Just tell him not to do anything like that again, okay? It's going to get really tired, really fast. What's he even doing here?"
"Nick and I have been sorta tagging along together," she replies.
"Since when?"
"Since a day or two ago."
"But... why?"
"Why? Why not? It's not like there are many people to choose from out there." She shrugs. "Anyway, what's the big deal?"
I open my mouth to tell her that I really don't like Nick, but then I hear footsteps above and I look up just in time to see that he's at the top of the stairs. He's looking through an old book, and after a moment I realize that he's found one of the notebooks from the hatch in the bedroom. I guess I didn't give them all to Jerry after all. I must have missed a few. I know I have no right to feel this way, that the house isn't my domain, but somehow it feels wrong to have him here. It's almost as if he's an intruder.
"Now this," Nick says with a smile, as he continues to flick through the notebook, "is some quality stuff."
***
"It's just a bunch of notebooks," I point out, as Alex and Nick sit poring over the pages at the desk in one of the downstairs rooms. "I promised I'd give them to the guy next door."
"Got yourself a boyfriend, have you?" Nick asks, without looking at me.
"He's researching the house's history."
He smirks. "Sounds like a fun fella."
"Just don't damage them, okay?" I continue with a sigh. "I want to give them to him later."
"Why doesn't he just come in and get them himself?"
"He doesn't like the house."
He casts a glance at me. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"He doesn't want to come in."
"The old guy's scared," Alex explains, as she grabs another notebook. "I heard him earlier. She practically had to drag him to the door, and then he chickened out."
"He has some fears, that's all," I tell them. "There's nothing wrong with that, but I promised I'd give him the notebooks."
"If I'm holding them," Nick mutters, as he turns to another page, "then I reckon they're mine, aren't they? These are some sick pictures. It's like some psycho was doodling things he wanted to do to people."
He tilts one of the books so that Alex can see.
"Look!" he continues. "There's even one about cutting open a woman's belly."
Alex squints as she looks closer at the book.
"Delilah..." She hesitates, clearly struggling to decipher the old-fashioned handwriting. "Something something, and then a name. I think it says Delilah Colepepper, or Culpepper, or something like that."
"I've heard that name before," I reply, heading around the desk and taking a look at the page. I'm just in time to see a crude sketch of a naked woman, before Nick turns the book away from me as if I'm not allowed to see.
"Suddenly interested, are you?" he asks.
For a moment, I try to remember where I've heard a name like Delilah Culpepper before, and then I realize that Matt Wallace mentioned it when he was telling me about the alley. That's a pretty huge coincidence, especially since some of the other drawings had already reminded me of the woman I hallucinated. Whoever this Delilah Culpepper woman was, she just keeps on showing up. Still, coincidences do happen, and I'm not about to start believing in paranoid theories. That way lies real madness.
"There are kidneys and livers and things being transplanted in these pictures," Nick mutters. "This is some Jack the Ripper level stuff. Did they even do transplants back when these pictures were drawn?"
"It's medical," I explain. "It was all above board. There was a doctor who lived here, his named was Charles Grazier."
"Oh yeah?" Nick replies, turning to me with a grin. "Maybe he also went by the name of Jack the Ripper!"
"That's absurd," I point out.
"Why?"
"It just is."
"But why, Maddie?" He's clearly enjoying taunting me. "These pictures are savage."
"I'm pretty sure that if he was Jack the Ripper, Jerry would have -"
"You can't deny that it's possible," he continues, interrupting me. "Man, there's a lot of Jack the Ripper in the air right now. It's totally insane how there were those murders, and then we come to this house. It's almost like something got woken up."
Rolling my eyes, I look over at Alex and wait for her to acknowledge that Nick's out of his mind, but instead she seems engrossed in one of the other notebooks. She's muttering to herself under her breath as she reads, and I honestly don't think I've ever seen Alex so interested in a book before. In fact, I definitely remember her saying a few times that she doesn't even like reading. Something about too many words and pages.
"I'll tell you one thing," Nick says after a moment. "Whoever drew these pictures, they had a pretty sick imagination. Doctor or not, they really seem to have had an eye for disgusting imagery." He turns to another page. "I mean, in this one, some poor bitch is getting her guts scooped out, and then there's one that looks like..."
His voice trails off, and he stares at the page for a few seconds before tilting the book toward me.
"That's a fetus!" he proclaims.
"You don't know that," I reply, although I have to admit that he might be right. The drawing does look like a very early-stage fetus.
"Maybe the doctor here was performing back-room abortions," Nick continues. "Either that, or he was experimenting on them. It's pretty crazy to think of all the sick stuff that must have gone on in this place. It'd be a miracle if there aren't ghosts here."
"Shouldn't we be thinking about leaving?" I ask, hoping against hope that Alex will agree with me. "Alex?"
She mumbles something, but I can't make out a word of what she says.
"There's some valuable stuff here," Nick points out. "Earrings, necklaces, stuff like that. Plus these books. It looks like nobody's been here for years. We oughta take this house apart from top to bottom and make sure we get it all. We could get some serious cash. Even if we split it three ways, we'll still all come out on top."
"We can't steal," I tell him.
"We're not stealing," he replies. "You can't steal if there's nobody to steal from. We'll just be taking stuff that's been abandoned. Stuff's supposed to be used. If you ask me, it's criminal not to take it all and use it properly. If I was an earring, I'd want to be hanging from someone's ear. Anyway, it's not like this joint seems to belong to anyone anymore."
"It must belong to someone," I point out. "The stuff here belongs to someone too."
"And you're seriously not tempted to take anything?"
I'm about to tell him that of course I wouldn't do that, that I'm not a thief, but then I remember that I did take one thing. I guess I don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to moral things. And as Nick continues to stare at me, I can't help wondering whether somehow he knows that I did something wrong, that as a thief he can recognize someone who's just like him. It's almost as if he's looking right into my soul and seeing the stain.
"This place is pretty cool," he says finally, looking back down at the notebooks. "The way I see it, we need to take our time figuring out what used to happen here. And it's not like we've got anywhere else to be, right?"
"I'm going to check something out," I mumble, turning and heading to the door. Right now, I feel like I'm in the cross-hairs. I need to get out of this room for a few minutes.
"Don't go too far!" Nick calls after me. "The fun's only just beginning, Maddie! We're gonna make this house give up all its secrets!"
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"In the name of all that is merciful and good," I mutter under my breath, as I drag Thomas Culpepper feet-first from the study and out into the hall, "when will this madness end?"
Stopping for a moment, I realize that I have no idea where to put this unexpected corpse. The man is quite dead, of that I am certain, yet I cannot exactly toss him out onto the street. I hesitate for a few more seconds, looking around, before spotting the door to the basement. That would be the obvious place to put the man, at least for now, yet there is also the small matter of Catherine.
Realizing that I cannot hear anything from the other side of the door, I drag Culpepper over and then stop again. This time I'm just about able to make out a faint scratching sound that seems to be coming from some distance down the steps. I had not intended to open this door just yet, not until I have a better idea of Catherine's condition, but right now I fear I must take matters into my own hands before the entire situation spirals out of control.
Letting go of the corpse's feet, I remove the key from my pocket and then I unlock the basement door. Then, taking great care lest there be a surprise on the other side, I pull the door open just a crack and stare down into the darkness.
My heart skips a beat as soon as I see Catherine down at the bottom of the steps. She's still trying to crawl up, still filled with furious desperation, but she seems to have made absolutely no progress. A moment later she looks up at me and snarls, as if the mere sight of my face is enough to fill her with hatred. Certainly my Catherine would never look at me in such a manner. I instinctively start to shut the door, before forcing myself to keep it open as I realize that I really must find some place to put Culpepper, at least temporarily.
After all, if another unexpected visitor arrives at the house, I will surely be undone.
"This is just for a short while," I explain, somewhat superfluously, as I take hold of the man's legs once again and haul him through to the top of the steps. "I shall come up with a better plan shortly. Please rest assured that I mean no indignity to your person."
I take a moment to arrange Culpepper, in an attempt to balance him on the steps, but his body is heavy and I do not find it easy to maneuver him. I keep working, and then – just as I am about to call Jack for help – I lose my grip on the corpse's shoulder and he begins to slip.
"No!" I cry out, attempting to grab him again, but I'm too late.
I watch in horror as the lifeless body bumps down the steps, clattering into the darkness before it lands directly against Catherine and flattens her against the cold stone floor. The impact is so great, and so sudden, I cannot help but worry that Catherine's already damaged body might have been irreversibly broken. After a moment, however, I hear a faint snarling sound, and I watch as Catherine struggles to clamber out from beneath Culpepper's corpse.
"I'm sorry!" I tell her. "I did not mean to do that! I only -"
Before I can finish, she leans closer to his face and bites hard on his cheek. I can scarcely believe what I am seeing, but then I hear a tearing sound and I realize that she is indeed attempting to rip away some of the man's skin and flesh. Blood bursts down the side of Culpepper's face as Catherine twists her head to one side, and I am shocked to see stringy meat ripping away from the side of the man's skull as more blood runs down Catherine's chin. I had already seen her as a savage beast, but now the image is complete. She looks like a true monster.
"Dear God," I whisper, invoking a deity in whom I do not believe, "what madness is this?"
I watch for a moment longer, but then suddenly I am overcome by a terrible sense of nausea. Barely even capable of thinking properly, I step back and slam the door shut before starting to turn the key in the lock. My hands are shaking so violently, however, that I am unable to grip the key properly. Only after several failed attempts am I finally able – more through luck than any other factor – to get the key turned, and then I drop to my knees. As I do so, I realize I can still hear a kind of low splitting sound coming from down at the bottom of the steps, and I am quite certain that Catherine continues to feast upon the dead man's body. My hands are still shaking, and after a moment I realize that I can hear a strange, unnatural wailing sound coming from nearby.
I look around, trying to locate the source of this sound, before suddenly I am struck by the most awful realization of all.
It is me.
I am crying out, and I cannot stop myself.
How have I come to this, and how can my Catherine have been reduced to such a state?
The wailing continues, until I reach up and physically force my mouth shut. Even now, a desperate hum emerges from the back of my throat, and it takes several more seconds before I am able to quieten myself entirely. And now, with my hands still clamped against my mouth, I find that I am quite incapable of rational thought. Indeed, I move my hands on the sides of my head as I feel a huge pressure starting to build. At first, I fear that I might never be capable of thought again, but then the pressure subsides and I am left simply with a rumbling pain. I lean forward, with my hands still on my head, until my forehead bumps against the wall, and then I let out a more uncharacteristic and animal-like groan of sorrow. I have begun to wail and sob again. At the same time, I can still hear the sound of chewing coming from down in the basement.
"It cannot end like this," I whisper, trying to find some hope from somewhere. "She can be revived. She must be revived. That cannot be Catherine down there, she would not do something like this."
And yet the sound continues, and it is as if Catherine is not only chewing through Culpepper's body, she is also eating into my own mind. I cannot listen for a moment longer, yet I still cannot tear myself away. Letting out another animalistic whine, I roll onto my side, still clutching the sides of my head. It is as if all my thoughts are crashing together, as if permanent damage is being done to my mind. For a few seconds, I am absolutely convinced that even if this terrible sensation passes, I shall never be myself again.
Finally, somehow, I stumble to my feet and make my way back across the hallway, before stopping again as I reach the door that leads into the study. I feel utterly, utterly drained, as if every bone in my body is trying to pull me down to the floor.
Delilah Culpepper is still unconscious, although Jack has moved her to the reclining chair by the window and he is tending to her with a surprising degree of tenderness. For a few seconds, I can only stare at the scene as I feel all my certainties fall away. Now, with a heavy heart, I can truly contemplate the impossible.
"Tell me," I say to him finally, my voice trembling with fear. "Jack, you must tell me."
He looks over at me. "Tell you what, Sir?"
"What you were talking about before," I continue. "Stories of the dead. Tell me. I fear I am finally ready to listen. I fear I have finally fallen that far, because..."
My voice trails off for a moment. If feel as if – by even contemplating these words – I risk betraying everything I have valued during my life. Science. Medicine. Rational thought. All these qualities and more have been the bedrock of my work, yet now that bedrock is crumbling and I feel superstition coursing through my veins. Perhaps this is weakness, perhaps it is strength, but either way... I need to know more. I need to at least face the possibility that medical science cannot explain this wretched situation.
"Whatever has become of Catherine," I say after a moment, "I am no longer certain that it can be explained by conventional medical science. There. I have spoken words that strike horror into my heart."
"Sir -"
"TELL ME!" I scream, momentarily dispossessed of my senses before quickly recovering my composure. Taking a stumbling step forward, I almost slip and fall, only just managing to steady myself against the door. "For the love of God, man," I continue breathlessly, "tell me what you know. Or what you think you know."
For the love of God?
Did I really say that?
I am Doctor Charles Grazier, I am a distinguished member of no less than five...
No less than...
London...
What am I? What have I become? Have I become mad?
Jack takes a moment to check Delilah once more, before getting to his feet and making his way back over to the desk. He seems fearful, even scared, and I watch as he opens one of the books and reveals a set of handwritten notes that he has made on some of the blank pages. Ordinarily I would be furious that he used my books, but on this occasion I merely walk over to the desk's other side and look down at the scrawled, barely-legible words. Jack's handwriting is obscene, and it is quite clear that he lacks any sort of education whatsoever, yet at this moment I am willing to try anything.
"I pray that I am wrong," he says after a moment, his voice heavy with fear. "I pray that I am a fool, and that these ideas are mere foolish notions. I pray that -"
"Enough of that nonsense," I reply, interrupting him. "You do not need to set the scene with foreboding prattle. Tell me what you think is happening here."
He stares at the pages for a few seconds, before turning to another, revealing a set of symbols that he has jotted down. He looks down at these symbols, as if they possess some meaning that he understands. A moment later he runs a fingertip over them, as if to feel the ink that dries these scratched shapes to the page.
"I am starting to believe," he says finally, "that by attempting to bring your wife back, we have inadvertently stumbled upon something that should have remained in the shadows. Something that some men sense at times, but that no man grasps in its entirety, and that otherwise remains hidden from the lives of mortals. We, however, have somehow drawn back the veil and exposed some hidden aspect of life itself. Of death."
He pauses, and then he looks at me.
"We have gone too far, Doctor Grazier. We have gone farther, perhaps, than is permitted for mere mortals."
"But what does that mean?" I ask, with fresh tears in my eyes. "Tell me in plain English, man."
"I fear," he continues, "that our actions in this house have attracted the attention of something that has been dead for a very long time. Tell me, Doctor Grazier... Have you heard the story of the souls that refuse to die?"
And while once I would have told him to be quiet, now I merely wait for him to explain more.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
They're laughing like schoolkids.
Sitting up in one of the house's bedrooms, I can't help flinching as I hear Alex and Nick giggling down in the study. When Alex arrived, I thought everything was going to be okay, and that she and I would be able to come up with some kind of plan. Even though she was being a little irritating, for a few minutes I genuinely thought that we'd be okay. Then Nick showed up as well and the whole thing fell to pieces. For the first time, I'm starting to wonder whether I was better off on my own. I mean, sure, I struggled to stay out there on the streets while the police were hunting for a killer, but London won't be in that state forever.
Once the killer has been caught, maybe I should cut the cord and set off without Alex.
"No way!" I hear her call out suddenly, followed by the sound of her and Nick running across the hallway. Then there's a bump, as if one of them just slammed against a wall.
"Get back here!" Nick yells. "You are so dead!"
"Yeah?" she giggles. "What're you gonna do about it?"
"Get real, bitch! You're going down!"
She says something back to him, but all I hear is them rushing down into the basement. They're making so much noise, I almost feel as if somebody should apologize to this old, quiet, proud house. Even now that they're all the way in the basement – two whole storeys below me – I can still hear them laughing and messing around. It's starting to seem as if Nick is changing Alex in some pretty serious ways, and helping her let rip with her less responsible side. Meanwhile I'm up here, feeling like some grumpy a-hole who resents other people having fun. I really hate feeling this way, but -
Suddenly I hear something brushing past me, just over my left shoulder. I turn, thinking that somehow Alex or Nick managed to sneak up here, but there's no sign of anyone. I definitely heard a sound, however, and now I sit in complete silence as I wait for it to return. As the seconds tick past, however, I hear only more giggles from down in the basement, and I start telling myself that the supposed 'brushing sound' was really either a figment of my imagination or something completely innocuous. I've let Alex and Nick get to me, and they've made me jumpy, but I have to hold onto at least some of my sanity.
And then I hear the sound again, accompanied by what I swear is the sound of somebody walking up the house's main staircase.
I remain completely still for a moment, before getting to my feet and hurrying to the door. Just as I look out toward the stairs, however, the sound comes to an abrupt stop. My heart is pounding, but deep down I already know that somehow Alex and Nick are trying to trick me again. I've already fallen for their stupid games twice today, and there's no way I'm going to give them yet another laugh. As I wait in the doorway, however, I realize I can still hear them laughing and messing around in the basement.
Or can I?
The more I listen, the more I realize that they could easily be faking the noise. Maybe they're playing a recording, using it to distract me while they sneak up to embarrass me again. In fact, that'd explain why they're being so obnoxiously loud. That's exactly the kind of thing I can imagine them doing, and I'm really not in the mood to be the butt of another stupid joke.
"I know you're just trying to mess with me," I say finally, convinced that they're hiding somewhere nearby and snickering. "Can you just knock it off? Three times in one day is kind of overkill, don't you think?"
I wait.
No reply.
"I'm sure you can have fun some other way," I continue, looking at the other open doorways as I try to figure out where they've gone. I hate sounding like the responsible one here. "I'm really tired and I just want to figure out what to do next. I don't mind you messing around, but can you leave me out of it?"
I turn to go back into the bedroom, but then I glance back toward the top of the stairs.
"And try not to make so much noise," I add. "I'm -"
Before I can finish, there's a loud bump right next to me, as if somebody stumbled against the wall. I step back instinctively, and this time I can absolutely see that there's nobody here. I peer into the nearest room, to check the wall's other side, but still I don't see anyone. Okay, this is a little spooky, but I guess that just means Alex and Nick are making an extra effort. If they can see me right now, they're probably struggling to keep from laughing out loud. I bet they think they've got me good.
"Just stop it guys," I mutter, turning and heading back into the room, then sitting on the end of the bed as I try to act like I'm totally not freaked out or annoyed. Putting my head in my hands, I sit in silence for a moment, trying to focus my thoughts.
And then someone touches me.
Startled, I sit back as I feel a hand brushing against my wrist. The sensation lingers for a few seconds, even as I stare straight ahead into empty space, and then I feel several fingertips slipping away from the palm of my hand. I try to tell myself that I'm imagining the whole thing, but a moment later the fingertips return, this time on the side of my face.
"Who is that?" I stammer, swallowing hard. I swear, I can actually feel a hand touching my cheek. "What do you want?"
The sensation fades, before quickly returning on the other side of my face.
I instinctively pull back, clambering across the bed and then stumbling off the other side. As I do so, however, I feel a faint twinge of pain in the wound on my waist. That's the first time the wound has caused me any trouble since yesterday, and a moment later I realize that there's a very faint taste of peaches in my mouth.
Backing against the wall, I look around the empty room, but there's definitely no sign of anyone. A few seconds later, however, I hear a faint creaking sound from the floor, as if somebody stepped on one of the old wooden boards. I wait, convinced that at any moment an explanation is going to leap out at me, but then another board creaks and then another, moving slowly across the room as if -
Suddenly the hatch in the floor lifts up, swinging open as if some invisible force wants to see inside. I stare, too horrified to move, until finally the hatch door falls forward and slams shut.
"Who's there?" I whisper.
This has to be a trick.
Damn it, why can I taste peaches?
"Okay, you're going way too far this time," I say out loud, feeling angry and ridiculous at the same time. I'm probably giving them exactly what they want, but I refuse to act like some dumb little kid. "Cut it out!" I yell. "Why do you even care, anyway? Why do you get off on freaking me out?"
I wait, but a moment later I spot my reflection in the faded, dirty mirror on the dresser. I look completely terrified, like some kind of idiotic girl who can't even keep her head together. I hate seeing myself like that, so I start making my way across the room, heading toward the open doorway. I don't even know where I'm going, but I definitely don't want to spend another moment in this room being mocked by a pair of a-holes who won't even show their faces. As I reach the door, I glance at a framed photo on the wall, and I see my reflection as -
Suddenly I freeze, spotting not only my own reflection in the glass but also another face just behind me. For a moment, I can only stare in horror at the sight of an older man whose eyes look to have been torn and cut. Just as I'm trying to convince myself that this is a trick of the light, the man steps toward me and I spin around.
There's nobody there, but there was. I swear, there was a man standing right behind me. And now the taste of peaches is gone, as I look around the room and wait in case the face returns.
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"They are present in every religion," Jack explains, as he turns to another page in the notebook. "Every culture, every belief system. Sometimes prominently, sometimes not. Sometimes just in passing. Sometimes different groups even agree upon a name for them. Ghosts, demons, ghouls... Sometimes it is said that one feels the air chill in their presence, or that one notices an unusual taste in the mouth, or that one hears faint cries. So many variations exist, but there is one factor that is common to all versions of the story."
I wait for him to continue, but he seems genuinely awestruck by his own words.
"And what is that?" I ask finally. "What is this common thread?"
"It is the idea that while most souls move on to some other place, some turn back from the darkness and try to return to the light. They try to scratch and claw their way home, determined to find a way back to life. There is no way for them to succeed, of course, not in the natural order of things, yet still they persist. And occasionally, very occasionally, circumstances conspire to grant them an opening. A chance. And when that chance comes, sometimes one of these dead things is able to wriggle back through. And sometimes, even more rarely, the living become aware of them."
"This is nonsense," I reply. "It is superstition gone mad."
"It might be a clue to what has happened."
"I believe in rational things."
"I believe in what I see."
"I believe in science!" I stammer.
"THIS IS SCIENCE!" he roars, slamming his fist against the desk. "If what I am saying is even remotely correct, then it is absolutely a product of the scientific process! I am not claiming, Doctor Grazier, that your wife's body has become reanimated due to some magical hocus pocus, or by fairy dust dropped by a wizard who flew past on the back of a dragon! I am saying that there is a scientific process that we do not understand, that we are not even aware of, and that somehow this is what has allowed some other soul to crawl by its fingernails into your dead wife's body! Believe me, the idea sounds as impossible to me as it does to you, yet still I cannot dismiss it entirely."
"You are taking this too far," I reply, exasperated by his ideas. Yet for a moment I cannot help staring down at the symbols he has drawn in the notebook. Everything he has told me sounds like madness, yet there is clearly method to this madness, and a kind of logic. I feel as if I am torn between two possibilities, and that at any moment I might yet tip over into such ridiculous beliefs.
"They are markers," he explains. "The symbols you see on this page. They create boundaries that the dead cannot cross."
"Says who?"
"People who have studied these things."
"There is nothing to study."
"And yet they have persisted," he replies, "and they have found methods that seem to work."
"What kind of fool would believe in such things?"
"This fool," he adds. "Perhaps fear compels me, but I find myself thinking more and more that these symbols can help us. I mean to put them about the house, Doctor Grazier, so that your wife... So that that thing can be in some manner contained."
"The basement door is locked," I remind him.
"She will only grow in strength, Doctor Grazier. We must contain her while I determine the best method to destroy her, and then -"
"No!"
"Sir, she -"
"I did not conduct so much work to bring her back, only for you to dispatch her again!"
"That thing is not your wife!" he shouts.
I know that he is right, yet at the same time I have not given up hope that it might become her. I am trapped in the heart of the most dreadful chaos, yet I truly believe that I shall find a way out of that chaos. If I can just gain some time to think, I am certain that my goal of resurrecting Catherine might yet be achieved. I can tolerate setback after setback, and disaster after disaster, so long as I am able to retain some sense of hope. And hope can only survive while Catherine's physical form remains extant. She cannot be destroyed.
Before I can say any of this, however, I hear a faint groaning sound coming from the far side of the room, and I turn just in time to see that Delilah Culpepper is beginning to stir.
"Did she see?" Jack asks. "What I did to her husband, I mean. Did she see it all?"
"Of course she did," I reply. "Why else do you think she fainted?"
"And will she remember?"
I turn to him, and I actually believe that there is a hint of shame in his eyes. Regret, even. It is remarkable how even the dullest and most ape-like face can appear to have such complex emotions, even though I am certain Jack possesses only very basic urges.
"Of course she will remember," I tell him, enjoying the flicker of pain in his eyes. "She will remember every moment."
"I should have been more restrained," he continues. "I should have held back my anger, but the man who so intolerably irritating and his ceaseless babble was keeping me from my work. Nevertheless, I acted more like a beast than a man." He pauses, watching as Delilah continues to let out a series of groans. "She will surely see me as a monster now. How could she ever see me otherwise?"
I am about to tell him that he must put such things out of his mind, but then I glance at the woman again and realize that perhaps she might be useful after all. Indeed, while Delilah Culpepper has always seemed to be a thin and pointless creature, I am suddenly minded to believe that she could be the answer to my predicament. She carries something that I need.
"Leave the room," I whisper after a moment.
"I beg your pardon?" Jack asks.
I turn to him. "Leave the room. Let me speak to her alone when she wakes."
"But -"
"You do not want her to faint again, do you?"
"Of course not, but -"
"I am sure you can find something else to do," I continue. "Jack, I only have Delilah's best interests at heart." Realizing that he still needs to be convinced, I decide to strengthen my hand. "Let me speak to her," I add. "Let me try to explain things, so that perhaps she will be more disposed to your presence. All is not lost, if you dream of her friendship. I might be able to help, but for that to happen you must not be here when she wakes."
"You would do that for me?" he asks.
"Of course," I reply with a smile.
"I shall work on the symbols," he says, picking up one of the notebooks and heading toward the doorway. Just as he is about to leave the room, however, he stops and turns back to me. "Tell her... Tell her that I am not a beast, nor a brute, nor a monster. Tell her that I regret my actions, and that I can only beg her forgiveness."
"Of course," I say again. "Now leave us and shut the door, so that I might speak to her alone."
He does as he's told, and I'm left to walk over to the reclining chair and sit down, just as Delilah's eyes begin to open.
"Where am I?" she whispers, still sounding rather groggy. "What happened?"
"You will remember in a moment," I tell her, although after a moment I am unable to keep from looking down at her belly and thinking of the very young child that resides inside her. "Do not worry, my dear," I continue, as an idea begins to form in my mind and as a smile crosses my lips. "Everything is going to be quite alright."
"But what happened?" she asks, and then I see a hint of horror in her eyes. After a moment, she turns and looks toward the spot where her husband's lifeless body fell. "Oh," she whispers, clearly overcome by shock, "my dear Thomas..."
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"I'm fine," I say for the third or fourth time, as I sit at Jerry's kitchen table and watch some of his cats eating their food. "I just got freaked out for a few minutes. I'm sorry I came over in such a panic."
"You saw somebody behind you," Jerry replies, setting a cup of tea on the table for me. "Somebody who wasn't supposed to be there. That's enough to upset anyone."
"There was no-one behind me."
"But you saw them."
"Sometimes people see things."
"You doubt your own eyes?"
"I know that people can react to stress in strange ways."
"Have you hallucinated before?"
"Kind of," I reply. "Maybe. I think so."
"And you think that's all this was? A figment of your imagination?"
"I'm worried I might be losing my mind," I tell him. "Seriously, I think a combination of the house and Alex and Nick has managed to drive me completely crazy. I never thought I was so easily spooked, but it's as if that place really got to me." I pause for a moment. Now that I've calmed down a little since rushing out of the house, I'm starting to realize more and more that I must have had some kind of panic attack. "It'd help," I add finally, "if my so-called friend didn't seem to enjoy scaring me like that. She's put me completely on edge."
"Your friend sounds like a trouble-maker," Jerry says, gasping a little as he walks stiffly back to the kitchen counter. "I don't like trouble-makers. Life is full of enough difficulty as it is, without people going around making it worse." He picks up his cup of tea, holding it carefully in trembling hands, and then he glances back at me. "I wouldn't be so quick to assume, however, that everything you experienced was a trick."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I told you that I've been studying that house," he continues, with a hint of fear in his voice. "The face you saw in the reflection... I am wondering whether it might be who I think it is."
***
"That's him," I whisper, feeling a shudder pass through my chest as I stare at the photocopy in my hands. "Yeah, that's definitely him, but who is he?"
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Who is he? How did I see him just now?"
He pauses, before taking the photocopy from my hands and staring down at it for a moment.
"This," he says finally, "is, or was, Doctor Charles Grazier, the man I think I told you about before."
"But I saw a photo in the house," I tell him. "Charles Grazier was..."
My voice trails off as I realize that maybe I've overlooked something. Looking at the photocopy again, I realize that whereas the man in this image is older and fuller in the face, the man in the photo back inside the house was younger and more lively-looking, with a keen and energetic smile. The difference between their expressions is so great that even now – while I'm trying really hard – it takes a moment before I can accept that they're the same man.
"He looks so different," I whisper, "but... I can see it now."
I pause again, before letting out a sigh of relief.
"It's obvious, then," I continue. "I hallucinated him. I'd already seen a photo of him, so it's not weird that my brain threw him back at me."
"You'd seen him when he was younger," Jerry points out, "not when he was an older man. How did your brain manage to age him thirty years?"
"I don't know," I reply, "maybe the light was different or..."
My voice trails off, and I know that I probably sound a little desperate. Still, that's preferable to actually believing that the ghost of this Charles Grazier guy was right there with me in the room.
"I saw another photo," I tell him, remembering the second picture in the house. "He was older in that one. Maybe my brain took that picture and just added something to it."
"Do you have a strong stomach?" Jerry asks.
"I guess."
"Then I shall show you yet another photograph of him," he says, reaching into one of his other folders and rifling through the pages, "one that I obtained by dubious means thanks to a source in the police archive building. I'm not supposed to have some of this paperwork, but it's not as if I'm hurting anyone. Those idiots keep hold of anything and everything, they just like having power. Fortunately I've been around for long enough to make a few connections."
He takes a moment to leaf through some more pages, and then he takes out another photocopy, this time showing a pair of trousers on a table, along with some kind of bulky shape that's taking up most of the image. The whole thing seems like a mess of blacks and grays.
Just as I'm about to ask what I'm seeing, however, the picture suddenly comes into perspective.
"Who's that?" I ask, realizing that I'm looking at a dead body on a mortuary slab. Or at least, what's left of a body.
"Who do you think?" Jerry asks. "It's Doctor Charles Grazier, after he jumped from the window and landed on the spiked railings." He points at the neck area. "See the face?"
"Not really," I reply, squinting to get a better look.
"Of course not. The spike went in through his belly and tore him open all the way to the top of his head. They say he was only identified by his clothing. What a way to go, eh? Spilled out all across the street in front of everyone, like a sack of offal. According to a contemporary newspaper report, several people fainted when they saw the bloody mess, and some people even say you can still see a hint of red staining the pavement outside the house. I don't know about that, I haven't seen it myself, but the man's death was a true shock for the entire neighborhood. It's said that he was a proud and arrogant man, a man who believed wholeheartedly in his own talents. Why do you think such a man would suddenly decide one day to kill himself?"
"I don't know," I mutter, "but I guess people have their reasons. Maybe he had doubts that he never revealed to anyone. It was the nineteenth century, right? I guess men had to keep their feelings to themselves, and maybe his fears or his grief just came out one day."
"His wife's body was never found."
"So maybe that drove him over the edge. He missed her, so he wanted to go and join her."
"There are other links I've been making," Jerry continues, setting the photocopy down and then taking some more photos from his folder. This time there are two faces on the image, and I find myself staring down at a middle-aged man and woman. "Doctor Thomas Culpepper," he adds, "and his wife Delilah."
"Delilah?" I whisper, taking the photocopy from him and looking more closely at the woman's face. "That name keeps coming up."
"In what way?"
"There are some notebooks I haven't brought over yet," I explain, "and in one of them, there's a sketch of a woman with her belly open and the name Delilah Culpepper scribbled nearby." I pause, wondering how much I should admit, before realizing that at this point I might as well be completely honest. "I recognize it because I'd already heard it once before, when I was talking to... a friend."
"Around the time of Doctor Charles Grazier's suicide," Jerry reply, "his former colleague Doctor Thomas Culpepper disappeared. Vanished completely, off the face of the planet, with no trace left behind. Quite unusual for such a distinguished man. And you'll remember that Catherine Grazier vanished too."
"But Delilah didn't vanish," I point out. "She was found murdered quite a way from here."
"In Gregson Way," he replies. "Yes, I know. These coincidences are really piling up, aren't they? There was even talk for a while that Delilah Culpepper was another victim of Jack the Ripper, but the style of the killing didn't match. Whoever murdered her, he didn't take any of her organs. What he did take, however, was her unborn baby."
I shudder as I think back to the sight of the woman in the alley. I know she was just a hallucination, but it's still creepy to think that somehow the idea of her wormed its way into my mind and came out in such a bizarre, freakish vision. And now, as I stare at the old photo, I can't help remembering the woman's anguished voice as she screamed at me. I can still hear her words echoing in my thoughts.
"WHERE IS HE?"
"This doesn't mean anything," I say cautiously, turning to Jerry. "That house is just a house."
"You don't believe that," he replies. "I see it in your eyes."
"Of course I believe it."
He shakes his head.
"I don't believe in ghosts!" I say firmly.
"I think you do. Deep down."
"Of course I don't. I spent long enough in that house for a ghost to show itself. Just because I saw a few weird things, that doesn't mean the place is haunted. It's nothing more than an old, neglected house that nobody cares about anymore."
"I have spare bedrooms," he says. "I think it would be better if you stayed here tonight."
"That's really kind of you, but -"
"There are things I can't tell you," he adds earnestly. "Things that I suspect, but that I can't quite speak of, not yet. You'd think that I'm crazy, if you don't already, but I've been researching that house for all of my adult life and I'm finally starting to understand some of the things that happened there. I thought the ghosts were dormant, but something must have woken them, and you could be in terrible danger. Please, don't ask me to explain, but accept my offer. Don't spend another night at that place!"
"I already told you," I reply, "I don't believe in ghosts."
"And I already told you," he says firmly, "that your voice says one thing, and your eyes say another. You have nothing to prove to anyone, my dear. Please, just trust me. Do not spend another night there. It's not safe!"
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"I must confess," I say to Delilah finally, after we have sat in silence for some time, "I expected a different reaction from you. You are far calmer than one would expect of a lady in such circumstances."
As she stares at the window, there are hints of tears in her eyes. But only hints. I had assumed that she would weep and moan, that she would become inconsolable and that I would have to calm her down, but instead she seems lost in thought now that she remembers the moment of her husband's death. Is it possible that Delilah Culpepper, despite her fragile appearance, possesses a more formidable constitution? I can scarcely believe that anyone – let alone a woman – could react in such a manner.
I blink, and in that half-second of darkness I once again see Catherine stumbling toward me on the beach, rotten and putrid. The image vanishes as soon as I open my eyes, but for a few seconds I am struck by a violent fear.
"Would it have been quick?" Delilah asks, turning to me.
"Your husband's death?" I pause, before nodding. "He would barely have known it was happening."
"And Jack..."
She flinches, as if the mere mention of his name has had some terrible impact.
"And it was Jack who killed him?" she adds. "I know I saw it happen, but still I can't quite believe that it's true."
"Try to understand," I reply, "that Jack is a beast from the streets. Perhaps he fooled you by affecting the air of a gentleman, but nothing can change his true nature. He is a thing, the product no doubt of equally wretched parents. I imagine he grew up in the most terrible squalor. He is a criminal, I am sure, and I would not like to know how many people have died at his hands." I pause, aware that she must wonder why I allowed such a creature into my home. There is, really, only one possible lie I can tell. "I thought I could reform him," I explain. "In this, I was terribly, tragically mistaken."
"You must think I am so cold," she continues finally. "Oh, Doctor Grazier, you must think I am the most awful person in the world. I should be in floods of tears at news of my husband's death, I should be inconsolable with grief. You must wonder why I am not."
"The question had crossed my mind," I admit, and then I blink again, and again I see Catherine lunging at me. I must try not to blink.
"Do you recall when you came home the other day," she asks, "and chanced upon Jack tending to the wound on my knee?"
"Indeed. A most surprising scenario."
"He barely touched me. In truth, Doctor Grazier, he was very careful and delicate. His hands were not the hands of a beast, but of a kind and gentle man." She pauses, and now there are more tears in her eyes. "It was the most tender moment I have ever felt in my life. I suppose my husband hardened me over the years. Thomas was not a bad man, Doctor Grazier, not most of the time. However, when he had been drinking, he could..."
Her voice trails off.
"Was he violent?" I ask.
She pauses, before nodding.
"I can scarcely believe it," I tell her, struggling to keep from blinking, even though I can feel my eyes watering. If I blink, I shall surely see Catherine on the beach again, coming toward me.
"Nor I." Delilah sniffs back more tears. "He could be so charming when he was not under the influence of alcohol, yet after a night at the club he might come home and clatter about for hours. It was on one such night that he bumped against me at the top of the stairs and sent me tumbling down. I don't suppose you know, Doctor Grazier, that I was with child once before, about two years ago?"
"I did not know that."
"The child was lost when I fell," she explains, as she places a hand on her belly. "And so help me God, I changed in that moment. I tried so hard to forgive Thomas, but I never could. I was no longer able to stand his touch, though of course this only made him angrier and made his touch more harsh. I feigned a certain degree of contentment in public, but I felt dead to the world, at least until the other day when Jack touched my leg. I know I most likely sound utterly foolish, but in that moment Jack awakened something. Oh Doctor Grazier, is it wrong of me to feel such things?"
I pause for a moment, before nodding.
"Yes," I tell her. "Yes, it is quite wrong and unnatural. You should be ashamed of yourself."
She lowers her head, and I am sure that my words have cut through to her.
Still, she seems to be a more unusual woman than I had ever realized. In the past, whenever I met her in the street with her husband, she would be mostly quiet save for some outbursts of over-exuberance. Now I find that she possesses some degree of depth, and that she is thoughtful, and that for a woman she seems unusually perceptive and self-critical. These qualities can be troublesome in a wife, of course, and I am starting to realize that Culpepper must have had his hands full. Perhaps I am starting to understand why he used to strike her.
"It's a boy, you know," she says suddenly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"In here." She places a hand across her belly, drawing my gaze. "I know. I don't know how I know. I just do. Tell me, do you think a mother's intuition can perhaps give her some insight into such things?"
"Of course not," I reply. "There is no such instinct."
"But there might be."
"There is no science to support just a thing."
"And yet I feel it."
"That is an illusion," I tell her. "You wish it to be so, and therefore you imagine various symptoms. In truth, the child is connected to you merely by a single cord that runs into its belly. There can be no emotional connection, no instinct, whatsoever."
"You seem so certain," she says meekly, setting her other hand on her belly as if she thinks she might feel something. She is of course far too early in her pregnancy to show, let alone to feel the child's kicks.
I open my mouth to explain why I am right, but suddenly I am very much aware that my eyes feel dusty. I have been careful not to blink for several minutes now, and this has left me with an extremely unpleasant sensation. Indeed, as I sit here now, I have to fight constantly to resist the urge to close my eyes for even a second.
"Are you alright?" Delilah asks.
"Of course," I reply. "Why do you ask?"
"Your eyes..."
She hesitates, and a moment later I lose my focus and make the mistake of blinking. I see Catherine, of course, as if the dream is leaking into this real world. And she is getting closer.
"Might I speak to him?" Delilah asks suddenly.
"To whom?"
"To... him..."
At first, I assume she cannot possibly mean Jack, but then it occurs to me that I have once again under-estimated her. Perhaps, in some pathetic way, she actually believes that Jack has value.
"That is out of the question," I tell her.
"Only for a moment."
"To say what?"
"That would be private between the two of us." She hesitates, and I believe she might even be blushing. "I know I am not reacting properly," she adds, "but I wish to speak to Jack alone."
"He is from the street," I point out, "and just an hour or so ago he killed your husband in cold blood."
"I know." Again, she looks down at her hands. "I know, I know. It's just that for some reason I feel drawn to him. I should like to hear him explain why he did what he did, so that I might better understand. I think I should like very much to hear the explanation in his own words, and in his own voice."
As she says those words, it is I who reach a better understanding. She might not be willing to admit so much, not openly, but I believe Delilah Culpepper is actually pleased that her husband is dead. She knows she cannot celebrate, but at the same time she can only do so much to hide her true feelings. The whole situation is quite extraordinary, and for a moment I am minded to wonder whether Delilah is in fact a very deep and thoughtful woman. She cannot be, of course, but this is certainly the impression she gives.
"You must wait here," I tell her.
"I should like to get some air."
"And you shall in due course, but please... Just wait here for a short while."
She hesitates, as if she means to argue with me, but then she nods obediently.
Getting to my feet, I take a moment to adjust my shirt before heading over to the closed door. The room is so utterly silent, save for the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath my feet, and this silence compels me to wonder whether I might say a few more things to the woman, just to set her mind at ease. When I glance back at her, however, I realize that it makes no difference whether or not she is at ease. All that matters is that she remains here until I am ready for her. And barring one or two complications, I shall be ready for her very soon.
After a moment, as she begins to sob, I cannot help but look once again at her belly. Perhaps that awful dream earlier was a sign, a way for my mind to show me the way. I cannot give up yet, and the final solution to this nightmare is growing in soft tissue before me. All that remains is for me to extract that solution and prepare it for Catherine.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"Where the hell have you been?" Alex yells excitedly, rushing over to me before I've even got to my feet after climbing through the broken window. "Maddie, this craziness just got really real!"
"Actually -"
"We've hit the jackpot!" she adds, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me hard. "This is so unreal, my head is spinning!"
"What's wrong?" I ask, pulling away. "Alex, can you just calm down and tell me what happened?"
"This way!"
Grabbing my arm, she starts pulling me toward the door on the far side of the hallway, but I quickly slip free.
"Maddie, you have to see this!" she continues, trying again to grab my arm. "You won't believe what we've discovered! It's like the craziest, most insane thing ever, and the best part is that I think it might actually be our ticket off the streets! When you see what Nick and I have found, and what we've figured out, this whole house is actually gonna start making sense. He was joking earlier, but now I think he's actually right!"
She grabs my arm again, and again I pull free.
"Maddie, seriously!"
"I need to talk to you," I tell her. "Alex, the guy next door has offered to -"
"It's Jack the Ripper!" she blurts out.
I stare at her, and I honestly think she might have lost her mind.
"What?" I ask finally, before realizing that this is just another of Alex's dumb ideas. "Listen, the -"
"We've found it all!" she continues. "I know this is gonna sound totally nuts, but Nick and I have found a whole ton of stuff. It doesn't make any sense at all, until you take one tiny leap into the unknown and realize that there's a possibility that ties it all together! We're sitting on some grade-A shit here, Maddie!"
Grabbing my arm for a third time, she starts dragging me toward the study. This time, I can't quite twist free.
"Alex..."
"It's gonna blow your mind!"
"I don't want my mind blown," I tell her, glancing briefly – and with a flash of fear – toward the staircase that leads up into the darker upper floor of the house. "Alex, I just need to tell you that I'm -"
"Get your ass in here, dummy!"
With that, she grabs my arm and manhandles me through the doorway. I open my mouth to tell her that I don't even want to be here, but then I see that Nick is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scores of open notebooks as well as various other pieces of paper. And when he looks at me, I see a sense of absolute awe.
"Tell her!" Alex says, stopping behind me. "Tell her, Nick! Show her!"
"Do you know what this place is?" Nick asks, his voice trembling slightly.
"It's a house," I reply, although I already know that's not going to be the right answer. "It's just a big, empty house."
Reaching down, he picks up one of the framed photographs from upstairs, and then he holds it out so that I can see the happy, smiling couple. Or at least, I'd be able to see them if his hand wasn't shaking.
"This guy," he says cautiously, "is -"
"Charles Grazier," I reply, interrupting him. "Sure, I know. He's the doctor who used to live here."
"He was Jack the Ripper."
I wait for him to start laughing, but he seems deadly serious.
"Charles Grazier," he continues after a moment, "was Jack the Ripper. The Jack the Ripper."
"Isn't this intense?" Alex says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We're geniuses. We figured out something that no-one else, not even the police, could ever get right. They've had over a hundred years to work out the guy's real name, and we did it in, like, less than twenty-four hours."
"What makes you think Doctor Grazier was Jack the Ripper?" I ask, trying to sound like I'm taking them seriously even though the whole idea is totally ludicrous.
"I need to do some research to be certain," Nick replies. "This is one of those times I actually wish I had a smartphone. I'll have to go out later and nick one from somewhere, just to pin down a few details, but I'm already pretty much there. The basic profile fits, Maddie. This Grazier guy was a doctor, a surgeon, and it's obvious that he was into doing stuff at home. I mean, he's basically got a full-on operating theater down there in the basement."
"Maybe he just liked working from here," I point out.
"It was more than that," he says, before holding up one of the notebooks. "These are his ideas, all written down and explained. He was carrying out some kind of research, and he needed body parts to do it. My theory is that he operated on women here at the house, but that sometimes he went out and ripped organs out of prostitutes he found in the street. The police always said that they thought Jack the Ripper might be some kind of trained surgeon, and they were right. Now we just need to figure out why he was doing all these operations, 'cause I don't think he was simply insane. I think he was trying to achieve something specific."
"You're making a lot of assumptions," I point out.
"And then there are these," he adds, setting the notebook down and picking up an old, fragile-looking piece of paper from a nearby pile. "These are the proof, Maddie. Whatever else you might think, you cannot argue with these little beauties."
"They're the letters," Alex whispers in my ear.
"What letters?" I ask.
"The ones that were sent to the police," Nick explains. "Taunting letters, telling the cops how they'd never catch him. You must have seen movies about Jack the Ripper. He was always sending letters in, sometimes he even gave them tips about who he was gonna kill next. He was like the original Zodiac. Jack the Ripper was the first killer who properly made fun of the cops for not being able to catch him."
"Why would he even do that?" I ask. "You make it sound like he wanted to get caught."
"That's a good question," he replies, turning the piece of paper so that I can see the blood-stained page. "It does seem a little theatrical, but then maybe he just liked having fun. Some of these letters are early drafts of the famous 'From Hell' letter, like he had to do it several times before he felt it was ready. Or maybe he was kinda crazy after all, in a little way. I don't know, it's almost like one guy had two completely different sides, but we can figure out the details later. Right now, Maddie, you've got to face facts. We solved one of the biggest mysteries in history. We found the true identity of Jack the Ripper!"
"We're gonna be rich," Alex says.
I turn to her.
"We are!" she continues, her eyes bright with excitement. "Maddie, we're gonna be rolling in it! I'm gonna buy a goddamn gold-plated mansion and a Ferrari and a swimming pool and all that shit! None of us will ever have to sit freezing on the street again!"
"We..."
My voice trails off, as I start to realize that maybe they're onto something after all. I mean, the idea is totally crazy, and both Alex and Nick seem to be running far too easily with the whole Jack the Ripper thing, but I can't deny that there are a lot of coincidences starting to pile up here. In fact, as I stare down at the photo of Charles Grazier and his wife, I can't help wondering whether I really am looking at the face of Britain's most notorious serial killer.
"We should call someone," I say finally. "We have to call the police. We have to tell people. Whether it's right or wrong, we have to get an outside opinion."
"Not so fast," Alex says, gripping my arms from behind and leaning close to my ear. I swear, I can hear the anticipation in her voice. "We can't let anyone steal this from us, Maddie. We have to be smart and figure out what to do. Right now, the three of us are the only people in the world who know. Right now, Jack the Ripper is all ours!"
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
"Leave? But where shall I go?"
"Just across the city for a few hours," I tell Jack as we stand in the garden, out of Delilah's earshot. "I have some items that I need you to fetch. I would go myself, but I have far too much work to get done here."
"But -"
"I also wish you to bring more information about the unnatural phenomena you mentioned earlier."
"But Delilah -"
"She does not want to see you at this moment."
"Did she say that?" he asks plaintively, clearly disappointed. "Did she use those very words?"
"She did," I reply. "You must understand, she loved her husband very much. Whatever foolish notions you allowed yourself to pursue, you must realize they were quite wrong. An elegant lady such as Delilah Culpepper would never see you as anything more than a brute. And that was true before you killed her husband. Now, she would spit on your face if she saw you. Why, it is a miracle that I persuaded her not to call for the police yet."
"Of course," he says, shaking his head. "How could I have believed that she might think differently?"
"At this moment," I continue, "she sits in my study, plotting furiously to gain revenge. She wants you dead."
"Perhaps she is right to think that way."
"I need time to make her see otherwise," I tell him. I hesitate, before placing a hand on his shoulder. I do not wish to touch the man, of course, but perhaps at this moment it would be wise to make him think that I am on his side. "Go and fetch the things I need. Take your time, do not come back for an hour or two. I promise that by then, I will have made Delilah see sense. She is in shock, but she might yet be persuaded to see you in a more gallant light. All is not lost, Jack. You must simply trust me. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you might be able to touch her leg again."
"Her leg?" He furrows his brow. "Her leg is not my concern at this moment."
"You know what I mean," I say with a sigh. "I mean that the whole mess can be salvaged, but only if you go away for a few hours."
"And the basement?" he asks. "What shall we do with the thing in the basement?"
"Upon your return, I shall listen to your suggestions," I lie, "and do whatever you think best. Do you understand now? You must trust me in this matter, and in return I shall trust you in others. That is only fair, is it not? Perhaps then you can write some more of those awful letters to the newspapers. That was your intention when you first came here, was it not? It might be good for you to remember that."
"Of course," he replies, clearly exhausted by all that has happened. "You are right, Doctor Grazier. I should never have doubted you." He hesitates, staring at me. "Are your eyes alright, Sir? They -"
"My eyes are fine!" I snap.
As if to prove him wrong, I blink, but of course I immediately I see Catherine again. With each blink, she is getting closer to me across the shore. I must act before she reaches me.
"If they are irritated," he says, "I -"
"Think not of my eyes," I say firmly, "and instead attend to your own tasks. I have told you what you must do, Jack. Now get out of here and do it!"
He pauses, and then he nods.
"Of course," he says, turning to leave. "Please, tell Delilah that I am sorry for what happened. Tell her that if I could take back my rash actions, I would. I know it will be scant consolation for her, but please let her know that I am sickened by my rashness."
As he slopes away, heading toward the gate, I cannot help but feel desperately sorry for the brute. He has surprised me by imitating the ways of high society, although he has never risen above a mere imitation. Now, as he leaves, he has no way of knowing that by the time he returns, his poor dear Delilah will be no more, and that he himself shall swiftly join her in the grave. Then, finally, this madness will be over and life can go back to normal.
And then I blink, and I see Catherine reaching for me, and I realize that there is no time to spare.
***
"He left? But where did he go?"
"Who can say?" I reply, as I sit next to Delilah and hold her trembling hands. "A creature such as Jack most likely skulks back to the sewers. I doubt he'll ever trouble you again."
"And he did not even want to say goodbye?"
"In all honesty, my dear, I doubt he even remembered you. I believe his brain is not fully developed, which means that he cannot retain very much information. You must not take this personally. It is merely his nature. I do understand your confusion, though. He was able to fool many people."
She stares at me for a moment, and I dare say I can see more and more tears welling in her eyes until finally she lets out a sob and buries her head in her hands. Great convulsing fits shake her shoulders, and the sobbing sound quickly gives way to a series of whimpering moans.
"There there," I say, patting her gently on the shoulder. "You have been through so much. Certainly more than any woman might reasonably be expected to endure."
"What will the police say?"
"The police?"
"When they come to take Thomas away." She turns to me. "Oh, but where is he? Did you take him to one of the other rooms?"
"Of course."
"Might I see him?"
"I think that would be unwise."
"But I must!"
She gets to her feet, but I quickly put pressure on her shoulder and force her back down onto the chair.
"He would not want you to see him as he is presently," I tell her. The urge to blink is relentless, but I believe I have finally mastered my eyelids. They might sing to me of their desire to close, they might make my eyes feel as if heavy scratches are criss-crossing the surface, but I shall not yield.
Not until my work is done.
"Night after night," Delilah says after a moment, "I imagined what it would be like if Thomas left my life. I do not mean that I wanted him dead, merely that I wished so very much to live without his presence. These thoughts did not crystallize in my mind until that day with Jack, but as soon as he touched my leg I was filled with some kind of passion that I have never felt before, and I -"
"Speak of this no more," I say, interrupting her. "It does none of us any good."
Looking past her, I see that the afternoon sky is beginning to darken. If I want this nightmare to be over by daybreak tomorrow, I do not have much time.
"Look out there," I continue, pointing toward the window. "Does the natural world not fill you with wonder? Are you not moved to tears by the colors of the clouds, or by the sunlight that even now catches against the glass?"
"It all seems to hopeless," she replies, still not turning to look.
"Then try," I say, gently touching her chin and tilting her head until she is facing the window. "Just try for a moment. Try to feel some sense of calm in your soul. Feast upon the sight of nature's miracles."
She tries to turn back to me, but I hold her chin until I feel her relax a little, and then I let go. She looks toward the window, while I reach into my pocket and quickly take out the cloth and small bottle that I retrieved from my desk earlier.
Still my eyelids sing of their desire to close. I fancy I almost hear their voices.
While Delilah is facing away from me, I tip some liquid from the bottle, soaking the cloth. Then I set the bottle aside, before hesitating for a moment. I have done far worse things, of course, and I have committed deeds that required a greater degree of bravery. Never, however, to somebody I already knew. Delilah Culpepper might not be the most vital woman in the world, but I find it hard to believe that I have arrived at this dreadful moment.
Suddenly she starts turning to me.
Panicking, I immediately place the cloth over her face.
She starts struggling, but I hold her tight and keep the cloth pressed against her nose and mouth. I can hear her desperately trying to breathe, and I know that with each gasp she's drawing more and more of the mixture into her body. Already I can feel her struggle starting to subside, and finally she slumps back against me. I keep the cloth in place for a few more seconds, just to be absolutely certain that its job is done, and then I move it aside as I gently let Delilah's unconscious body settle against the reclining chair. She is so light, and possessed of such a delicate frame, that the burden is scarcely much greater than when one moves an injured bird.
"You have new life within you," I tell her, moving some stray strands of hair from across her face. "I need that life for someone else. For someone important."
For someone I would see now, if I dared close my eyes.
Suddenly filled with the sense that I am about to blink, I turn and stagger to my desk. I know that if my eyes close for even a fraction of a second, I shall see Catherine coming at me on the beach, and I cannot allow that to happen. After all, each time she seems to come a little closer, and I cannot shake a superstitious fear that when she gets to me I might be overtaken by some terrible consequence. The idea is absurd, but it has taken root in my mind and I am not certain that I can refrain from blinking, at least not for long enough to complete the task at hand.
Clearly, there is only one logical course of action available to me.
I open the desk drawer and search frantically until I find my silver letter-opener and then, without even stopping to plan the procedure, I reach up and start slicing through the lid on my left eye. If the cursed things are gone, then blinking will be impossible.
"There!" I gasp, pulling the eyelid away and letting it fall onto the desk, where it lands amid drips of blood. The pain is intense, yet it is a type of pain that I notice without truly feeling. Perhaps the righteousness of my cause is enough to offset any meager discomfort. "Traitor!" I stammer, still staring at the eyelid. "Betrayer! You shall not fool me!"
And then I start working on the other eyelid, slicing as fast as I can manage until it too comes away in my bloodied fingers.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"Charles Grazier's wife disappeared," I tell Nick as I set the photo on the desk next to him. "I was talking to Jerry, the guy next door, and he told me what he'd managed to find out so far. Catherine Grazier just vanished right around the time of his death."
"He probably murdered her," he replies.
"But they look like they were really in love," I point out, still staring at the photo.
"Get real, Maddie. I'm sure everything was sweetness and roses for a while, but if the bitch found out that her husband was Jack the Ripper, do you seriously think shit wouldn't go down? He probably had to kill her, to stop her blabbing to everyone. If you want to get all romantic about it, he probably shed a tear or two at the time, but he did what had to be done. To be honest, I kind of respect a guy who doesn't beat around the bush."
"It still doesn't feel right," I reply, before glancing across the study toward the open door. "How much longer is Alex going to be?"
"Don't worry about her," he replies, "she can take care of herself. She's checking out the other rooms in case there's anything we missed. To be honest, she was bugging me earlier. I get that she's excited, but it's a bit soon to be fantasizing about gold-plated Ferraris and all that jazz."
"I think I might go and help her."
"No." He grabs my arm for a moment, before letting go slowly. "Stay here with me. It's cool working like this. Like, no offense to Alex, but she's not always the sharpest tool in the belt. You're different, Maddie. I feel like it's really good to have your help."
Looking at the old notebooks, I reach down and start flicking through the pages. I really, really want to get out of here, but I guess maybe I should help Nick a little. After a moment I come to a section in one of the notebooks where the handwriting is completely different.
"It's almost like two people," I mutter. "It's like we're missing someone."
"He probably went totally Jekyll and Hyde," Nick replies. "Hey, that's an idea! Maybe Jekyll and Hyde were based on this guy!"
"I think Jekyll and Hyde came out before Jack the Ripper."
"No, I'm pretty sure you're wrong. I think it was after."
"Whatever." I flick through some more pages, seeing a huge amount of scribbled notes, some of which includes the symbols that I found on the step in the hallway. "It really does seem like someone else wrote this section. Do you think it's possible that Doctor Grazier had an accomplice?"
"No chance. Jack the Ripper would have worked alone."
"But -"
"Think about it, Maddie. The guy was a total loner, he was basically a serial-killing version of Batman in nineteenth century England. Don't go come up with crazy ideas that he had his own Robin, though. His handwriting just changed, that's all. He probably went totally mad at the end."
"He committed suicide," I reply. "He jumped out of one of the upstairs windows and landed on the spiked railings out front."
"Sick!" Nick says with a laugh. "I would so love to see something like that! But it kind of proves my point that he lost his marbles."
"We're still missing something," I point out. "His motivation still doesn't make sense."
"But you agree that we're right, don't you?"
I want to tell him that we need to be cautious, but at the same time I can't deny that there's some very convincing evidence right here on the desk. Sure, I'm still having to make a few leaps and assumptions, but I can see the bare outline of a compelling argument, and I definitely wouldn't bet money on Nick being wrong.
"We really need to tell someone about this," I say finally. "There are experts out there, people who've studied this their whole lives. We need to get them involved so that they can go through all this stuff and figure out the truth."
"And we'll totally do that," he replies, before reaching out and touching my wrist again, "but only after we've worked out how to safeguard our investment."
"Investment?"
"Our time. Our good work here." He pauses, staring at me in silence as if he's lost in thought. "There's going to be a huge amount of money in this, Maddie," he adds after a moment. "Book rights, film rights, talk-show appearances, and a million other things. Hell, you deserve your share, 'cause you're the reason we ended up here, and you're contributing right now to it all. And without being immodest, I deserve my share 'cause I'm the one who really put all the pieces together. But Alex?"
He glances toward the door, as if he's worried about us being overheard, and then he turns back to me.
"She hasn't really done anything," he adds, noticeably lowering his voice to barely more than a whisper. "Instead of splitting the whole thing three ways, we could just cut her out and walk off with more for the two of us. Honestly, I reckon that's the only fair way to go about it."
Shocked, I realize that he's serious. And then, slowly, he moves his hand down over my wrist and starts slipping his fingers between mine.
"We make a good team, Maddie," he continues. "I've always liked you, you know. Alex tries to hide you away from people. She wants a little puppy dog who follows her around, but I know you're better than that. When this all blows up and we're getting attention for our discovery, I really want to experience that with you. Not with Alex, though. She's totally immature and crazy. Sometimes she even makes me do bad things."
"Like what?" I ask, trying to pull my hand away but quickly finding that he's persistent.
"She gets into my head," he explains earnestly. "I'm a good guy, Maddie, I swear. I'm not perfect, but I'm not the asshole I've been lately. But whenever I'm with Alex, she finds a way to bring out my worst side. All the stuff before at that Simon guy's house... I'd never have done any of that if Alex hadn't been goading me on. She was out there, you know, smashing things up in one of those masks. I need to get away from her, I need a better influence." He pauses again, staring deep into my eyes. "I think you'd be a good influence, Maddie. I think you could really help me. And I'd help you, in return. We'd make a pretty good team."
I want to slip my hand away from his, but I'm actually starting to feel bad for him. And then, suddenly, he pulls his hand free.
"Forget it," he mutters. "I shouldn't blame Alex. It's not like she's got mind-control powers. I should stand up to her more."
"It can be hard," I tell him.
"Do you ever think about ditching her?" he asks.
I open my mouth to tell him that I don't, but then I realize that he's right. I have thought about leaving Alex behind, although it never occurred to me that someone could guess that. Especially someone like Nick.
"We're all in this together," I point out finally, trying to be non-committal. "Alex is part of it too."
I wait for a reply, but he puts his head in his hands and sighs. Figuring that maybe I should just leave him alone for a while, I'm about to turn and leave the room when suddenly I realize that he's sniffing a lot, and then I spot a few tears falling onto the desk. Finally, not really knowing what else to do, I place a hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay," I continue. "Hey, don't get upset. Everything's going to be fine."
Sniffing again, he turns to me with tear-filled eyes.
"You're a good person, Maddie," he says with a faint, sad smile. "I wish I could be more like you."
"I'm no saint," I tell him.
"I bet you've never done anything truly bad. Not like me."
I hesitate for a moment, as more tears run down his cheeks.
"I stole some stuff from here," I tell him finally, and in a strange way it actually feels good to get the truth out. "Just some jewelry from upstairs, but I still did it, so I guess I'm a thief now. I feel bad about it all the time, and I wish I could take it back, but at the same time I really needed the money. So I guess I'm not as perfect as you thought, huh? I've got my rough edges, just like everyone else."
"On the contrary," he replies with a smile, "you've actually just impressed me a little bit more."
He pauses, before getting to his feet. And then, before I have a chance to react, he leans closer and kisses me. I know I should pull away, but somehow I let the kiss linger for a few seconds before finally turning my face. He tries to kiss me again, and this time I step back.
"I'd like to do that some more," he tells me.
"I should go and find Alex," I reply, not even managing to look him in the eye as I turn and head out of the room. I mumble something about checking to see that Alex is okay, but I'm pretty sure that I'm already blushing like crazy.
"Come back down soon, yeah?" Nick calls after me. "I like you, Maddie. I think we've got big things ahead of us. Mega things!"
As I head up the stairs, I can't help thinking that I'm a complete idiot. I mean, how stupid can I get? I should never have let that happen, and now I can't even think straight. I'm in such a loop, I somehow manage to knock the bowl of cat food at the top of the stairs, spilling the meat everywhere. As I crouch down to scoop it back up, I feel as if I'm burning with embarrassment. I'm not good around other people, I make dumb decisions, and I'm better off alone.
And then, hearing a sniffing sound nearby, I turn and look into one of the bedrooms, and suddenly I freeze as I see Alex kneeling on the floor with blood dripping from her hands.
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
Carefully pulling the basement door open just a little, I peer down the steps and feel an immediate shudder as I spot Thomas Culpepper's remains on the concrete floor at the bottom.
Or at least, part of his remains.
In truth, all I can really make out so far is what looks like a human spine that has been torn out from beneath the fabric of his clothes. There's meat glistening on the bone, but not much, and it is almost as if Culpepper's corpse has been stripped by some kind of wild animal. His legs are at impossible angles to one another, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness I am able to see a thick, smeared trail of blood leading away from the stairs and deeper into the basement. It is as if Catherine – or rather, the thing in Catherine's body – was driven insane by the prospect of fresh meat. Thomas Culpepper has been almost entirely consumed.
Good.
That is what I had hoped.
That, at least, gives me a chance.
With a fire-poker in each hand, I start making my way down the steps. I know which of them creak, of course, so I am able to remain very quiet as I get closer to the bottom. Now that I can see Culpepper's remains properly, I realize that his body seems to have been torn and chewed through ragged gaps in the fabric of his suit. His spine, meanwhile, pokes out above the rest of the mess. After a moment, spotting the remains of a forearm, I pick the tattered limb up by one end and grimace as soon as I see the torn muscle that still just about clings to the bone.
My Catherine would never do anything like this.
This is the final proof, if proof were needed, that there is not one scintilla of Catherine in that creature. She must be elsewhere, waiting for me to bring her back to the world.
I want nothing more than to turn around and retreat up the stairs, but I know I must keep going into the main part of the basement. I have to gain access to my tools, and to the operating table, and this mean that I must find a way to clear the creature out of the way. I should have sent Jack down to do this, but alas I did not realize this before he left, and I cannot possibly wait until he comes back.
Fortunately I have come up with an idea, and the tattered corpse of Thomas Culpepper suggests that my plan has a good chance of working. Besides, I am poised to turn and run if I feel that I am in danger, and I am confident that I could easily reach the top of the steps before the creature could ever get to me.
Nevertheless, as I edge away from the steps and raise the gas lantern so that I can see the basement properly, I feel an utterly terrible sense of fear tightening in my chest. Tears, meanwhile, are streaming down my face as I stare into the darkness. If I still had my eyelids, I would surely have blinked by now. Instead, I merely have tracks of blood that run down the sides of my face, while my untempered eyes themselves feel filled with the most horrific scratches of dust and other particles.
And then I see her.
Catherine is in the far corner, naked and covered in blood, curled tight as she chews on some part of the corpse that she dragged away. The lantern shakes in my hand, causing the shadows to swing wildly, and Catherine quickly turns and hisses at me. As she does so, I see blood all over her chin, and I realize that it is Thomas Culpepper's head that rests in her hands. Or what is left of his head, at least. For I can see that his skull has been almost entirely picked clean.
Catherine hisses again, but I do not let this deter me.
"Look what I have done," I stammer, hoping that somehow she might be able to understand. "Look at my eyes. I can sew the lids back on when I am done, but until then, I deserve to suffer as much as you. This is my way of showing you just how much you mean to me. How much I love you."
I wait, but she does not reply. She merely continues to stare at me. Of course she does. Did I not remind myself, a moment ago, that there is no part of Catherine in this creature? I must fix that certainty in my thoughts.
"I shall fix you," I say after a moment. "Whatever you are, you are not welcome in my Catherine's body. Do you hear me? I shall cast you out, and she shall return."
She lets out a slow, rattling groan. A moment later she drops the skull against the floor and starts crawling this way. She moves a little faster than before, but still not so fast that I cannot make my way around the side of the slab and over to the door in the basement's far corner. Pulling the door open, I step into the storage room that I use for preserving specimens. My heart is pounding as I step back into the darkness, and as I keep my eyes fixed on the door I can already hear Catherine shuffling this way across the stone floor. So far, the plan is working perfectly.
As soon as she appears, she lets out an angry groan and starts making her way toward me. No doubt she anticipates another juicy meal. I wait for a moment, before tossing the forearm toward her and then stepping around to her other side. As I had hoped, she is distracted by the arm, so I do not even need to use the pokers as I hurry back out of the storage room and slam the door shut. With trembling hands, I slide the bolt across, and then I flinch as I hear Catherine bumping against the other side of the door. She's still hissing and moaning, but at least for now she will be unable to get to me.
I must move quickly, however. Soon Delilah will wake, and by then she must be down here and in place.
"I am sorry, my darling," I whisper, as I hear the creature scratching furiously on the other side of the door. "Soon you will be back with me. This time I know what I must do. This time I shall succeed."
But it is not her. Not yet. If I am ever to get Catherine back, I must do one of the things that I always swore I would never do. I must kill a child.
***
Carefully placing Delilah's unconscious body on the slab, I take a moment to adjust her limbs before taking a pair of scissors and starting to cut through her dress. As a gentleman, I feel very sorry that I must do such a thing, but I cannot exactly operate on her while she is fully-clothed. Once I have stripped her down, I shall have to bind her arms and legs so that she has no chance of escape, and I must gag her as well so that she does not scream. First, though, I need to -
"Do not do this, Charles."
I freeze as soon as I hear those words.
That was Catherine's voice, coming from the cold air behind me.
No.
No, it cannot have been Catherine.
I must keep my mind together and refrain from indulging in this weakness. Reaching down, I start tearing her clothes aside.
"I know what you're planning," she says suddenly, her voice filled with anguish. My hands freeze. "Charles, if you do this, I shall no longer know you as my husband. You are not a brute, nor are you a monster. Charles, please, let the woman go and do not harm her unborn child."
"I have no choice," I whisper, as tears start running down my cheeks.
"It is not me behind that door," she continues, even as the scratching sound continues. "Do not commit this atrocity. Not in my name."
"I must have you back."
"Not at any cost. Not at this cost. Charles -"
Suddenly I turn and look over my shoulder, and her voice stops. All I see is the dark basement, but the air is getting colder by the second and I am quite certain that I sensed Catherine nearby. At the same time, there is a taste of fruit in my mouth. I try to tell myself that I was imagining the voice, but somehow I cannot let go of the hope that she is here with me.
"Please," I whisper, as I feel a sharp, pulsing pain in one side of my head, "just leave me alone."
I turn back to Delilah and prepare to proceed, but then the pain bursts and I let out a cry as I clutch my temple. Stepping back, I feel for a moment as if this agony is going to take over my entire body, and I start groaning as I stumble against one of the stone pillars. I instinctively try to squeeze my eyes shut, but of course this is impossible now that I no longer possess eyelids. Instead I have no option but to reach up and press my palms against the exposed eyeballs, although I stop this when I realize that I might inadvertently damage my ability to see.
"I just need to work!" I gasp. "Let me work!"
Still the pain persists, building and building until I'm doubled over in agony. Only now does the sensation at last begin to fade, but it takes several more seconds before I am able to stand up straight. My body is trembling, and I'm terrified that the pain might return at any moment. This is no time to rest, however, so I turn and start shuffling back toward the slab, only to see to my absolute horror that Delilah Culpepper has disappeared.
"No," I whisper, stumbling closer and reaching out, running my hands across the bare surface to check that this is not some illusion caused by my damaged eyes. How can this be happening? "What -"
Suddenly I hear something behind me, and I turn just in time to see Delilah swinging a chair at my face. She lets out a furious scream. The chair hits me hard, and I feel my left cheekbone shatter as I fall back and slump to the floor.
***
[ Maddie ]
[ Today ]
"I knew you did this before," I mutter, as I finish wrapping some cloth around Alex's wrists, "but I didn't know you still did it."
"It's nothing bad," she replies, sounding a little uncertain. "I just do it now and again, to relieve a little pressure. It's not like I'm trying to slit my wrists or anything. I'm not totally crazy."
Not really knowing what to say, I tuck a section of cloth into a fold, and then I double-check that the make-do bandage is secure. This isn't the first time that I've had to help her out like this, and she almost always does it just when I've started to think it won't happen again. If I hadn't been so distracted lately, maybe I wouldn't seen it coming.
"Cutting just makes me feel better," she says. "A little release, a little pain, and then it's over. Sometimes Nick and I do it together."
"He encourages you?" I ask, shocked by the idea.
"He understands. I like having someone around who understands." She pauses for a moment. "I could even show you how to do it," she adds. "We could do it together and I could show you the safe way. You might find that it helps."
I shake my head.
"How do you know if you don't try?" She pauses, before reaching over and picking up the piece of broken glass that she was using to lacerate her skin. "It's safe and it's therapeutic. Think of all the blood that's in each of us. Doesn't it make sense that sometimes it'd be good to, like, get some of it out? Just some of it? I mean, once you do that, your body makes more, doesn't it? So you're just letting out some old blood and prompting your body to make some fresh new blood in return. How is that not healthy?"
"I don't think you should be doing this," I tell her, "and I definitely don't think Nick or anyone else should be encouraging you. We should get out of this house. Don't you know somewhere else where we could keep our heads down for a while?"
"The streets are still crawling with cops," she replies. "While they're looking for that killer, there's nowhere safe to be. Except here."
"In the house of Jack the Ripper?" I ask. "That's your idea of a safe place right now?"
"It's not like he's still here," she points out with a faint smile. "Not unless you believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. Which, if I know you right, you don't believe in. Not my smart, rational little Maddie. You're always more focused on practical things."
She reaches out and taps the side of my head, like I'm some kind of kid, and I pull away.
"You've changed," she adds, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "You grew up a little while we were apart."
I pause for a moment, trying to figure out why I'm feeling so restless.
"You don't think it's connected, do you?" I ask finally.
"What's connected?"
"Doesn't it seem a little crazy to you?" I continue. "We've maybe stumbled into the house of the real Jack the Ripper, at the exact same time that suddenly there's a copycat out there on the streets. I know coincidences happen, but that's a huge one. That's one in a billion."
"So what are you saying?" she replies. "Do you think that we somehow disturbed the ghost of Jack, and now he's come back from the grave so he can terrify London?"
"Of course not, but it still doesn't quite all add up. And this house..."
For a moment, I consider telling her about all the strange things that have happened here. About everything, even the things that I think I've managed to explain to myself. Like the way I got stitched up on my first night here, and the sound of the bell, and the sensation of being watched by something on the bed, and the brief sight of Charles Grazier reflected in a glass frame. I know those things have rational explanations – they have to have rational explanations – but at the same time I've begun to feel just a little freaked out by the atmosphere here. Maybe Jerry was right when he said he saw doubt in my eyes.
And then there was the guy I saw down by the river, the guy who seemed like he was following me even when I was sitting in Matt Wallace's police car.
"What are you thinking?" Alex asks after a moment.
I turn to her, and I quickly realize that there's no way she'll ever understand. Or, if by some miracle she did understand, she'd turn it into some huge drama.
"We have to keep this all to ourselves for now," she continues. "You realize that, right? Maddie, the rest of the world is out to get us. They want to trample us down and leave us in the mud, but we've managed to find something that's gonna set the goddamn world on fire. Do you think some asshole journalist wouldn't love to steal all the credit and get a big exclusive? Or some cop would leak the news and we'd be shuffled to the sidelines? This story is ours, and it's gonna stay ours."
"Of course."
"You understand?"
I nod.
"This is our chance to get off the streets," she adds, "and it might be our last chance. I've been feeling that for a while now, Maddie. I know I always say we'll find a way to get back on our feet, but lately I've been seriously doubting that. And now, just when I thought things might end really badly, we've got this amazing opportunity. Nick reckons that if we uploaded a video to YouTube, we could make zillions of dollars from the ads alone. And we could do a whole series!"
She pauses, before reaching out with her bandaged wrists and clasping my hands tight.
"Let's stay in control of this situation, Maddie," she says with a faint, sad smile, "so it doesn't become a runaway train that leaves us behind. Jack the Ripper's dead, but that doesn't mean he can't be our best friend right now. He's gonna make us rich."
***
Glancing over my shoulder for the twentieth time since I left the house, I look back along the gloomy street and check once again that I'm not being followed. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but there's a part of me that worries Alex and Nick might be keeping an eye on me, that they might think I'm going to ruin everything. There's no sign of them, however, so I quickly turn and hurry on, making my way around the corner and toward the phone booth ahead.
This might be a huge mistake, but as I get into the phone booth and take some coins from my pocket, I feel as if I really need to get another opinion about the house. The whole situation feels completely insane, and I'm not convinced that Alex and Nick are making the right choices. They're treating this like a bonanza, like some kind of goldmine that can set our lives straight forever, whereas I'm starting to wonder whether what we've discovered could help the police catch the modern day killer. Deep down, I know I could never forgive myself if we kept our discovery hidden and another victim ended up dead. I have to at least try to do the right thing, even if Alex and Nick end up hating me. And maybe there's a tiny part of me that thinks this is a way to make up for stealing from the house.
After taking the crumpled piece of paper from my pocket, I slip some coins into the phone and dial the number. A moment later, the call goes straight through to a recording.
"You've reached the voicemail for this number," an automated voice says calmly. "Please leave a message after the beep. If you want to re-record your message at any time, press hash."
Then there's a beep. I glance over my shoulder one more time, to make sure that I haven't been followed.
"Hey Matt," I say finally, feeling a tightening sensation of fear in my chest. "It's Maddie, from the other night. Something's happened that I really think you need to see. It's about Jack the Ripper."
***
[ Doctor Charles Grazier ]
[ Tuesday October 2nd, 1888 ]
The chair clatters down against the stone floor as I try to sit up. A sharp, splitting pain fills one side of my face, and my eyes are burning with dust and scratches. Letting out a faint groan, I touch my left cheek and feel blood running from the wound, and then I look up and just about manage to make out the sight of Delilah Culpepper standing above me.
"Kill me," I whisper.
I wait, but she says nothing. She merely stares at me in shock, as if she cannot believe what she is seeing. She's clearly out of breath, and there's a cut on her lip. After a moment, however, I see that she is holding one of my surgical knives in her right hand.
"Kill me!" I hiss, desperately hoping that she'll put me out of my misery. "If you have any human compassion in your heart whatsoever, you will kill me right now! Please! Kill me so that I can go to her!"
"What is this place?" she asks. "What have you been doing down here? What is scratching so furiously behind that door?"
"Do not look behind that door," I reply, trying to sit up, only for Delilah to flash the knife toward me. I instinctively pull back, but then I realize that perhaps I should rush at her and force her to drive the blade into my chest. "I have tried," I continue. "I have done everything, but it was not enough. I cannot stop, I cannot bring myself to give up, so I need someone to do it for me. Please, end my life. I thought I could save her, but I cannot. Now I must go to her instead. Please save me from trying again and again to bring her back into that body. I won't stop, I know I won't, not unless somebody takes action. Use that knife! Kill me!"
"What are you talking about?" she stammers. "What have you done to your eyes? What madness have you created in this place? Does Jack know?"
"That wretched brute knows everything!" I hiss. "He is a beast, and a beast well tamed is still a beast. Now kill me while you still have a chance!"
She stares at me, as if she is considering doing what I have ordered, but then slowly she shakes her head.
"I must call for the police," she says finally. "They will know what to do here. They will understand what -"
"I can not let you do that!" I shout. "I am about to lunge at you. When I do, I shall attempt to wrestle that blade from your hand. I cannot stop myself, I cannot surrender, so you must kill me. Do you understand? When I try to fight you, you must end my life."
Again, she shakes her head.
"If you do not," I continue, looking at her belly, "I shall commit the most awful crime against you. I shall do something that will change me forever, that will make me not myself. For the sake of your unborn child, do not let me do that. You must stop me, and you must stop me in the most brutal manner possible." Reaching up, I touch my chest just above the heart. "Here," I add, and now my voice is trembling with fear. "Right here. Drive the blade of that knife between my ribs and into my heart."
"I cannot..."
"You must, for now I am coming at you. Please, I beg you... Stop me."
"Doctor Grazier," she replies, "why are you saying these things?"
"Are you ready?"
"No, please..."
"I am coming for you now!" I say firmly. "I cannot help myself! You must stop me!"
"Doctor Grazier -"
Letting out a sudden cry of anger, I stumble to my feet and lunge at her. She raises the knife and I wait to fall upon its blade, yet her hand gives way and I instead fall heavily against the woman's chest. Still I expect her to find some way to force the knife into me, but she simply crumples like a weakling and whimpers with pain as she, and I, and the dropped knife all fall to the ground together. There is a moment of sheer, blind panic, during which I lose all sense of exactly where the blade might be, and I wait to feel its tip slice into my heart. And then, with a sense of utter horror, I realize that she is sobbing and shaking, and that the fight has entirely left her body. In that moment, a heavy sense of doom fills my chest as I realize that she has lost her chance to hold me back, and that now I shall not be able to stop myself.
"I told you to kill me!" I gasp, as I kick the knife away and grab Delilah by the neck. "It was easy. You stupid fool, you should have done it by now."
She kicks and screams, but in truth she is far too weak to fight back properly. I am able to drag her hysterical, shrieking body back across the basement, and then I manhandle her onto the slab. In truth, a woman of average strength would still be able to slip away, but evidently Delilah is no such woman. She is an uncommonly pitiful specimen of her gender. For all her desperate flailing, she does not actually slip from my grasp, and I am even able to arrange her on her back. Then, filled with a sense of despair, I take the ropes that I set here earlier and I start wrapping them around her neck, so as to hold her in place.
"Help me!" she screams desperately. "Somebody! Jack! Anybody! Help -"
I press my hands against her mouth, muffling her cries. Then, reaching down, I take out another section of rope and start wrapping it under the table, and then I press it into her mouth until her anguished scream becomes little more than a faint groan. She is struggling violently, but I know – and she must know too – that there is no longer any chance for her to escape. She had a chance, that much is certain, and yet she let it slip between her fingers.
And for that, I hope she burns in the fires of hell.
Making my way around the table, I start tying her arms and legs down. I work fast, struggling slightly to see properly as I feel more scratches on my exposed eyes. I get the work done, however, and then I pick up the knife from the floor and start cutting once again through Delilah's clothing. She struggles and groans, but soon I have exposed her bare belly. Although she is carrying a child, no bump is showing yet, although I fancy that perhaps she is a little plumper than I had expected.
"I told you to stop me," I whisper, as I press the blade's tip against her skin just below the center of her rib-cage. "This is happening because you let it happen. I begged you. I told you what you had to do, and you failed!"
She groans again, then louder still as I slice the blade through her skin and cut a line all the way down to her groin. Then I cut several more times, struggling a little as her body twitches and shakes. Fresh blood runs from the slices as I carve them, and then I set the knife aside so that I can slip my fingers into the slits and start peeling back the skin, flowing into the gutters that lead down from the table. I hear a faint tearing sound as I work, but I am quickly able to pull the skin away and reveal the woman's stomach muscles. Taking the knife again, I start cutting those muscles away, minded to focus on the fact that I must not cut too deep lest I harm the life that is even now growing in Delilah's body. It is that life that I need, that must be preserved at all costs. Even now, as more blood runs between my fingers, I feel certain that I am digging deeper and deeper toward a form of vitality that will restore Catherine's body to health.
The bodies of whores were never going to save my wife.
I needed the parts, and the blood, of a woman whose body is filled with the strength of impending motherhood.
How did I not see that before?
Once Delilah's muscles are out of the way, I start slipping my fingers deeper into her guts. I need to clear a way to her womb, yet I must work with care. My eyes are starting to fail me, filled with scratches, and I can barely see properly. Still, I know these bodies well and I need no guide, so I am able to fumble my way past the various organs until I finally get to the womb. I must take even greater care now, for the child will at this stage be small enough to fit into the palm of my hand. If my theory is correct, however, I can remove it from its mothers body so long as I work quickly on the next stage. Yet as I work, in my mind I am imagining how peaceful everything would be now if this foolish girl had just killed me.
"Have mercy on my soul," I whisper, finding some solace from those words even though I do not really believe in souls. "I do this for love."
Reaching my hand up, I lick blood from my fingers, and I feel certain that this blood possesses some extra strength, some extra vitality that I can detect in its taste. Then, slipping my hands back into Delilah's body, I take a moment to find her womb and then I split the edges open. Bubbles of blood pop between my fingers, accompanied by a loud squelching sound. I am past the point of no return now, and I cannot deny that I am filled with a certain sense of awe as I realize that to the unborn child in this woman's body, I must at this moment seem like some god who has come to crack open its world.
Shocked by my own brilliance, I cannot help glancing at Delilah, and I see that she is both alive and conscious, and staring at me with horrified eyes.
"You asked what I am doing down here," I gasp. "You must see the truth now, Delilah Culpepper. I am the one whose adventures so titillated you before."
With that, smiling an unblinking smile, I slip my fingers into her womb so that I can remove the child.
"I am so sorry, my dear," I add. "I am the man they have been calling Jack the Ripper."