“We couldn’t get any sense out of her last night and then she was sectioned under the Mental Health Act as soon as the doctor saw her. By any definition she is completely insane. Fully cognisant and open that she murdered her father, but not making any sense as to why. Check with evidence, they have an ornate knife that the girl used to cut out the heart. It’s weird. Some kind of ornamental antique blade. Take a look at it, get it to identification services, then head to Westwood and see if you can get anything from her.”
----- X -----
“I need to see the murder weapon used in the Collins case,” Helen said to the evidence clerk.
“It’s with forensics,” the clerk said whilst eating a cereal bar. “But I can email you some photographs if that helps.”
“Please.”
In her office Helen scrutinised the images. The blade was like a filleting knife, with a long and thin cutting steel. The handle was white with fine markings and the top was capped in a red gemstone with a silver bezel. The knife was covered in handprints of dried blood. It was unusual. Really unusual. It somehow looked imposing and expensive. This wasn’t anything that could be picked up in a shop; it was too finely made and carefully finished.
She looked at the close-up photographs of the handle. There were words that could barely be made out. It looked like Latin. Helen typed the words into an online translator. The words looked like, ‘Bestia cuius occuli videntur in speculo,’ which translated as ‘The Beast whose eyes reflect in a mirror.’
“What the hell is this?” she mumbled to herself. One missing kid was a mystery, two was a conspiracy, but this… this was impossible to comprehend.
“Morning, Helen,” came John Henry’s voice from behind. His tone was sombre.
“John… did you see this?”
The big man looked at the screen. “There’s also a sawn-off shotgun and petrol-bombs at the murder scene. Of the dead men, one has had his heart cut out. The other had his skull smashed in… And I’m the guy who let those boys walk out of here.”
“Jemima Collins is back with us. I’m going to speak with her.”
“Good luck with that. They gave up trying to question her after a few hours. She admits the murder but her story is crazy. Once the child psychologist spoke to her, they had her sectioned… But she didn’t do this. At least not alone the way she claims she did.”
“Why not?”
“Because a twelve year old girl acting alone can’t kill two grown men like that… On top of that, the heart is missing. So who took it? Who else was at the scene who would take a human heart? It was those boys… and now we can’t find them. Those boys are on a murder spree and I’m the one who let them out.”
----- X -----
Westwood was a nondescript building in East London of red brick and darkened windows. There was no indication of its purpose until you noticed the seven meter tall fence of fine mesh around the garden and yard.
As Helen arrived, a white roller-shutter began to raise and she watched a prison van leave the building. Westwood was a special place for special children who didn’t fit into a young offender’s institute. It was a place where little boys with an addiction for killing animals were taken for treatment. It was the place where children of violence were studied.
Many kids were never released from this place, they simply migrated to other institutions of psychiatric care and often it was for the rest of their lives.
“I’m here to question Jemima Collins.” Helen said at reception. She showed her identification.
A man came to meet her who introduced himself as Doctor Balfour; he looked young, with short dark hair and an out of season tan. “Jemima Collins is not in any state to be formally questioned,” he began. “We have her under mild sedation at the moment and have had a difficult time trying to get her to keep her clothes on.”
“Keep her clothes on?”
Balfour nodded. “When she came in she was wearing a blood soaked dress. We cleaned her up and gave her some jeans and pullover but she insisted on only wearing a dress. We found one for her in the end. She said Max prefers her in a dress. Does that name mean anything to you? Max?”
Helen shook her head. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it… has she mentioned the name Slenderman?”
“Many times. She’s locked in a repeating cycle of commentary about how Slenderman needs a heart, a head and a soul. She says she gave Slenderman her father’s heart. She also says Slenderman will come back for her soon. Do you know what she means?”
“Not really. We’ve got six missing children and this name ‘Slenderman’ keeps cropping up but we don’t understand it. One of the missing kids is diabetic and at medical risk. If we don’t find her there’s every chance she will die… This is as serious as it gets and the only lead we have is Jemima Collins.”
“She can’t be questioned formally. Any lawyer would be able to discount statements given in her current state as under duress and psychotropic medication. But we can ask her about the missing children. We can try that right now if you wish?”
“Please,” Helen said. “Time is against us and we’ve got nothing to work with.”
----- X -----
The halls of Westwood looked like a school, with colourful pictures on the walls. Where it differed was every door had thick safety glass and needed unlocking with a key worn on a chain in Balfour’s pocket. The windows to the classroom doors were so thick they looked bullet-proof. Inside each classroom were two or three children, each sat with an adult.
“Are all the children chaperoned?” Helen asked.
Balfour nodded. “During class times, yes, they’re one-to-one with mentors. Overnight in their rooms they can be locked in and the staffing levels reduced, but they’re still high maintenance.”
“Are they all criminals?”
“You say the word ‘criminals’ like it’s a class of people. They’re children.” He stopped walking and pointed to two girls in a classroom. “You see the girl on the right, the black girl? Her name is Louanne Jackson. She set four fires, one of them, the second fire, killed a vagrant. Despite knowing she had caused a death, she set two more fires. She’s guilty of arson and manslaughter. But underlying her crime, is an almost inhuman level of abuse within a family. Raped by her father, her uncle and her brothers, then pimped out to others in exchange for pitiful sums of money. When a ten year old girl in that situation sets fires, it’s not a crime as much as a scream for help… By the time someone like Louanne gets to us they’re so damaged it’s hard to bring them around, but we never give up. We never give up on a child.”
“How is she doing?” Helen asked.
“She’s doing well. Fingers crossed, but we think we will be able to release her to a foster family within the next few months.”
Balfour opened a door that led to a gloomier part of the institution. The lighting reminded Helen of an exhibit space. There were no windows and the lighting fell without touching the walls. He led Helen to a room with four wingback chairs facing one another. Jemima Collins was there with a strong looking woman with short black hair. The lighting here was equally subdued and it seemed to focus attention on the chairs. When sitting here the world vanished and left only the four chairs and their inhabitants.
Helen stared at Jemima. From the very outset this girl had been hiding things. How likely was it she would start cooperating now? The girl was in a grey pinafore dress of thick material with a white t-shirt underneath. She wore no shoes or socks and was finger-combing her hair forward over her face in long repeating motions and made no attempt to make eye contact or acknowledge her.
Balfour took a seat and motioned Helen to join him. “Hello Jemima,” Balfour began. “I’ve brought someone to talk with you because we’re worried about some of your friends and…”
“Mayhew…” Jemima whispered. Her mouth curled to a slight grin. “I’m glad you came.”
Helen cleared her throat. “I’m glad too, Jemima. I was worried about you. We all were.”
Jemima hissed a delicate laugh. “Worry about yourself, Mayhew… You’re the one in danger.”
Balfour raised his hand slightly to gesture to Helen not to answer. “Why would you say that Jemima?”
The little girl swung her bare feet and stretched her toes. Her scarred eye looked straight at Helen. “Because Max desires you… He wants to make love to you.”
“Who is Max?” Balfour asked. Jemima shook her head. “It would help if we understood who he is and why he’s interested.”
Jemima looked straight at Helen. “He watched you last night. He told me he was in your home and watched you admiring your own legs in the mirror.”
Helen looked to Balfour, her usual calm demeanour evaporating. It was true… How could she know? How in hell could she know? Somebody must have seen her and told this little girl… But... it was impossible. Her bedroom window was behind curtains, on a second floor without access… but what the girl was saying was truthful.
“Max enjoyed watching you admire your figure,” she added. “And he likes that you enjoy men looking at your legs.”
“Who is Max?” Helen said almost shouting. “Is Max, Slenderman?”
Jemima swung her legs and looked away. “Ahhhhh,” she hummed as though implying she had a secret. “Slenderman, Slenderman, take this child… but where? Where does he take them?”
Balfour spoke professionally, “Do you know where he takes them?”
“To the forest,” she grinned. “He takes them to the swamp.”
Helen broke eye contact and felt her temples throb with a sudden stress. How could this girl know?
“But why does he take Children?” Balfour asked. “What does he do to them?”
“What he does… He lives off their souls,” Jemima turned closer to the doctor. “The Slenderman can only visit our world for a moment in time, but with the souls of children he can stay longer... He likes it in our world. He likes to stay here.”
“Are there cameras?” Helen blurted. She hadn’t been listening to the conversation. “Are there hidden cameras like Hugh Wilfred had? Is that how you saw in my bathroom?”
“Creepy Wilfred was killed for those cameras. Did you see what Wilfred did?”
Helen’s throat was going dry. “Yes, but how do you know about them? How?”
“Max saw them… Max can see everything… He saw what Creepy Wilfred did with his cameras. He was enraged that Wilfred spied on me… So Slenderman killed him… And soon he’ll come for you. He’s going to make love to you… All you have to do is wait… And when he’s ready, he will call to you, and lead you, and guide you… and he’s going to take you to the forest.” Jemima reached both hands above her head to stretch then turned to Balfour with a smile. “I think I’m finished, Doctor Balfour. I won’t answer any more of your questions until Max is ready.”
“When will Max be ready?” Balfour asked.
Jemima sunk back into herself and her eyes glazed over as though she had become lost in her own mind.
“Jemima,” Balfour called. “JEMIMA,” he shouted. There was no response. She had withdrawn completely.
----- X -----
Helen and Doctor Balfour retreated to the corridor. They were silent for a half minute.
“It was true,” Helen said quietly. “The description of my... my privacy...my ...” Helen fell silent, her jaw clenched, her mind working overtime. “Cameras. It’s got to be cameras. Little, secret spy cameras. But I don’t see how.”
“I didn’t understand that,” Balfour said. “What’s the issue with cameras?”
“There was a schoolteacher, one of Collins teachers who was murdered yesterday morning.”
“Yes, I saw it on the news,” Balfour said.
“Uh huh. But what you haven’t seen on the news is we discovered the murdered teacher had rigged miniature spy cameras to secretly make indecent photographs of schoolgirls. That hasn’t been released to the press yet… But she knew. She said, Max saw that Wilfred had cameras. She said Max was enraged and that Slenderman had killed him… Cameras. Secret voyeuristic, invasion of privacy cameras.” Helen jabbed her finger back towards the room. “That little bitch knows far more than she’s saying and she’s playing games.” Helen began counting things off on her fingers. “She knew Wilfred had cameras, but how? How could she know that Wilfred had secret cameras when we only discovered them yesterday afternoon? She also knew what I do in my own private home, she knew things that she should not be able to know. How is this possible?”
Helen walked to a chair and fell into it heavily, her fingers on her temples. Balfour stood quiet for a moment then sat in the next chair. “There is something I can try,” he said. “I’m minded to try talking to her under hypnosis.”
“Is that possible? Does that even work?”
Balfour grimaced slightly and rocked his hand side to side. “It works but it’s unreliable. If people have crazy delusions and you question them under hypnosis expecting the truth, you’re going to discover that they really believe the delusion. I’m not expecting to get anything from her that will be different to what she’s saying now, but I think it’s worth trying in light of the other missing children. We may get her to answer questions in a more agreeable manner.” Balfour checked his watch. “I will leave it until about six this evening. I’m going to put her into a soft-room with audio and light therapy to calm her for at least six hours. I may use a mild sedative to make her more physically relaxed. We have a room with a one way glass so you can observe without her knowing you’re there. I think if I can get her into a calmed frame of mind and she might lower her guard.”
Helen nodded. “That could help.”
Her phone beeped. A text message. It read, ‘Knife Identified. Important.’
----- X -----
Helen went directly to the identification services who told her the knife had been swabbed for DNA then sent to UCL for analysis. Driving into Euston was difficult. Parking was near impossible.
The researcher was a young man in a white lab coat and thick glasses. He handed the knife over in purple gloved hands. “It’s a sacrificial dagger,” he said almost too quietly. “The blade is folded metal. Like how the traditional Samurai swords were made. Two types of steel, one hard and one soft are hammered together in the furnace, then folded over and hammered again by the blacksmith. They did this hundreds of times so the steel becomes many ultra-thin layers of hard and soft steel.”
“So it’s not cheap?”
The researcher snorted a laugh. “It would take a master blacksmith a whole week just to fold the metal… Then there’s the handle which is scrimshaw. Whalebone… The gemstone on the top is ruby and the embellishments and bezel are pure silver… It’s the work of a skilled craftsman.” He carefully put it into a clear plastic bag and then put the bag into a padded envelope. “Be careful with it,” he said. “It’s so sharp it’s liable to cut through the bag under its own weight.”
“Thank you,” Helen said as he handed it over.
“This came through for you too. From the library.” It was a note saying the knife was believed to be a relic used in occult rituals. There was a man’s name and telephone number. Mr. Herbert Raphael.
----- X -----
“Do come in, my dear. I had heard that you might need my assistance. Please. Please. Enter my home.”
Helen smiled as she crossed the threshold. Herbert Raphael was an immediate eccentric, with his smart blue suit and large bowtie. His home was a two storey Georgian country house in its own grounds and the interior details from the marble entrance hall to the fresh flower arrangements oozed wealth.
They sat on opposite sofas in a drawing room. “Now, my dear… How can I help the police?”
Helen pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and passed a pair to Herbert Raphael who accepted them but did not put them on. “It’s about this knife,” Helen said removing it from the envelope. “I’m hoping you can tell me about it.”
Herbert Raphael froze in place. His
eccentric demeanour faded away to something more serious. His eyes never left the knife. Helen waited for him to speak. It took him a minute before his eyes raised and looked her directly in the eye. “Do you know what this is?”
“That’s why I came to see you. Can you identify it?”
“You’re holding an Eye of Satan, Miss Mayhew. An Eye of Satan.”
Herbert Raphael stood. Paced the room as though thinking, his hand to his mouth as he bit into his knuckle. “Please,” he said on returning. “Can we bring this to my library? I must examine that it is not a fake.” He motioned towards two heavy oak doors that opened into…
What the hell?
It looked like the set to a vintage Hammer Horror film. The polished wooden floor had a blood red pentagram painted on it. The five pointed star inside a circle. The walls were lined with bookcases. There was an altar. A table draped in a deep purple velvet covering and topped with a horned animal skull. Behind it were three ornate chairs. Thrones of the temple.
Herbert Raphael went to the side of the room to a vintage desk and opened the drawer to retrieve a magnifying glass. “Please, Miss Mayhew… Show me the knife.”
Helen approached, hearing her footsteps on the wooden floor as though they were amplified. She looked at Raphael’s desk and stared for a moment into a glassy piece of black stone. “What is that?” she asked.
“It is a scrying mirror. Made from obsidian. There are people who think it shows the future.” Proudly he said, “This one belonged to Aleister Crowley himself. The Master Therion divined with this very piece.”
“Oh,” Helen said. She hoped it didn’t show the future. For a moment she thought she saw her reflection screaming. She raised her hands and wiggled her fingers to remind Raphael to put on his gloves. He struggled with the latex. Too much haste. Too eager to get to the knife.
Slenderman, Slenderman, Take this Child Page 18