A Shadow on the Lens

by Sam Hurcom

  For a moment, I still turned and twisted, crying out with each panted breath. Grabbing the candelabra from the floor, I looked up toward the ceiling, seeing nothing of course for it was too high. I had flung my handkerchief away with the dreadful creature. The true, awful smell of the place, like rancid meat and burning sulphur, hit me. I tried to take shallow breaths, though my nausea near overpowered me and I felt on the verge of collapse. Some compulsion made me take hold of my pistol.

  I felt more itching across my back and began sweeping and spinning once more. It was then I noticed Vaughn shouting to me.

  ‘Hurry, there are more things unseen. I need light!’ I cried at him, hoping he would come to my side. Instead I heard him quickly speed back up the steps to the hatchway. I thought to rush after him, but held still. Things scratched and moved around me. I had heard such scratching recently – the rats in the ceiling above my room at the inn.

  I wheezed and spluttered, flinging my arm around with the revolver, aiming at nothing. The sole candle did nearly extinguish for the way I shook it around, my hands unable to hold still.

  Something passed over my foot and I kicked out madly, yelping once more.

  I shuddered in the cold, my shirt loose and unbuttoned, exposing my chest. The scratching only intensified, a cacophony of natters and dreadful claws on cold stone. It was closing in on me and my tiny ember. I yelled out, to try to banish such things, but the echo of my voice seemed only to fill me with more fear.

  I began to speak to myself, vainly trying to hold my nerve.

  ‘What game is this? Some foolish revelry?’

  I clenched my eyes shut and felt excruciating pain in my temples.

  Then something began speaking back to me from the far end of the cellar.

  I stepped further forwards as the voice spoke in muted tones.

  ‘Speak up, if you will. I am an officer and I am armed – this foolhardiness will not stand.’

  I heard a thud to my right and aimed my gun. Strange laughter began to bounce around me, augmented and unnatural, queerly pitched as if drowned in water.

  ‘Vaughn,’ I shouted fearfully. ‘There is someone down here!’

  I continued to step forwards as the laughter grew louder. The cold worsened suddenly. The last speck of light from my candle began to dwindle and die, which aroused such a state of panic in me that I began to bellow and holler in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘For God’s sake, hurry, man! Hurry!’

  Things whispered, the whispers of beasts not men.

  Whether this next part of my account be true or not I write what I remember seeing and hearing in that moment. I glanced over my shoulder towards the stairs and hatch leading upward, distant now, seemingly too far to reach. A soft creak, the faint hue of lights in the vestibule fading, fading. Then darkness and the snap of a lock being shut.

  I was speechless at first, unable to comprehend what was happening. Then the truth of the matter hit me – that it was indeed a ploy and I was being held in the cellar for some obscure and malicious purpose.

  ‘Vaughn. Vaughn, you coward!’ I yelled, hurtling back towards the steps. I lost my footing and clattered to the floor.

  There I sat, shaking in a heap, alone in darkness. I hurriedly reached in my pocket – my matches, I had forgotten they were there! I struck one quickly as a strange breath of wind grazed my skin. I returned my gaze to the depths of the cellar. The voices spoke once more, though now they said my name with dreadful clarity. In the dying light of my match, I made sight of a shape within the gloom. It had edges and right angles – something misshapen upon the top.

  The match extinguished completely, and I dared not move to light another. Everything fell silent.

  When exposed to true darkness we revert to something less human, something feral and timid. I sat blind, hearing nothing but the panting of my rasping breaths and the haggard beating of my racing heart.

  That moment remains the calm in my nightmares since, the pause before such terrors emerge and wake me from my slumber.

  Something brushed against my back, rubbed against the bare skin of my chest. It was warm, dry like bark in parts, greasy and sticky in others.

  I could do nothing for not even my pistol remained in my hand. I shook and quivered. My breathing was erratic, my nerves electric, sensing every tiny speck of dust and movement of the air. I had no need to clench my eyes shut for there was nothing but darkness before me.

  It was torture, sitting before an unknown horror. I pleaded for it all to end.

  Then I felt the hot breath of someone close to my ear.

  ‘He never left, he still remains. The demon of this village.’

  I mustered the last of my courage to speak.

  ‘Who … who whispers with such foul tongue?’ I whimpered like a babe.

  There came no reply. I seemed unable to catch my breath, for the air had all but gone from around me.

  Suddenly the candelabra at my side erupted, engulfed in a ball of white blazing fire that ignited the room and revealed all its dreadful horrors. The fires licked against my flesh. I shrieked as I burned alive. I tried to cover my eyes, but they were held, fixed upon what I saw before me.

  Sitting upright atop a wooden table, was the smouldered and mangled corpse of Betsan Tilny.

  She was looking at me, her half rotten face split by a twisted smile. She had no eyes however. Only deep black holes stared at me.

  8

  The Body – June 18th, 1904

  My recollection of those dreadful moments, alone in the darkness of that cellar, has taken many years to reform in my mind. It was not wholly clear what had happened for so long; only snippets and flashing images came to me, most often in deepest night. It is clear to me now, only because I have spent so many wasted hours reliving it, screaming aloud, knees bent, praying for some light, some shimmer of salvation to emerge and rescue me.

  I cannot tell you what happened after Betsan appeared – Constable Vaughn told me I was lying unconscious on the floor when he and Cummings found me. I remember little of my revival, but it seemed to take a great deal of time. I slipped in and out of consciousness for almost an hour, though they did not divulge whether I spoke or not.

  Eventually I came to with a start, seated in the vestibule, cool rags and cloths laid about my neck and shoulders. Regardless, my whole body felt terribly hot, as though I had fallen asleep beside a kiln or baker’s oven. I gasped for air and retched dreadfully to my side, the dusky, maroon rug on the floor spinning and looping as I did.

  Vaughn knelt beside me then and made me drink, though I reeled away from him at first, tormented by grave visions and memories. After struggling to push him away, he held my shoulders firmly and spoke to me slowly. Only after a few long sips of water, did I understand what he was saying.

  ‘Do you rem-remember what happened, Inspector? D-do you remember?’

  At first, I could not understand the manner of his tone. His eyes were wide, staring into mine as if searching for something. I took more water, and after catching my breath a little, shook my head.

  ‘There was darkness. Something on my back. The—’

  I saw fire and hollow eyes staring at me. I began to tremble and ran my hands through my greasy hair.

  ‘There was something on my back.’

  Cummings stepped into view behind Vaughn. His expression was stony, severe. ‘You are delirious, Inspector,’ he grumbled. ‘You were raving down there. Vaughn came to fetch me as I was gathering candles and we found you in the darkness.’

  I shook my head at first, recalling the cold air and an awful gnawing sound. Cummings stopped me before I could start.

  ‘Your fever! You are unwell – even upon the road I said so.’

  I protested for a time, describing the sensations I could recall, the things I had seen. I felt like a child, convincing his
parents of the grizzly beasts hiding beneath the bed; the pair looked at me regretfully. Vaughn continued to give me water and left my side a few times to fetch more. He dampened another rag and handed it to me; without thought I began mopping it upon my brow.

  Gradually, my better judgement began to return, the madness of what I could recall becoming apparent, as one comes to understand the waking world after a vivid dream. (Everything seemed to be dreams that day and then the sudden waking from them.)

  I listened to Vaughn’s account once more, how he had seen me screaming in the shadows, how I must have thrown down my candles and stumbled through the pitch.

  ‘You … y-you closed the trap door,’ I muttered accusingly at one point, my brow furrowed as I thought upon the sound of a lock being shut.

  ‘Well, of course he did!’ Cummings snapped. ‘I told him to. The lad said you were waving a gun around for Chri—’ He stopped himself with a huff.

  I nodded then, though Vaughn looked as me as if I had wronged him badly. I sat in silence for a moment or two, drinking more as I did. After a few minutes I felt truly foolish.

  ‘I’m sorry to you both,’ I said, buttoning up my shirt (what buttons remained). ‘This damned illness has taken hold quickly. It is quite unfortunate.’

  Vaughn stood and looked at Cummings, who stepped away and leant against the vestibule wall.

  ‘There is … um … there is no need to apologise, Inspector,’ Cummings said. ‘Perhaps though it would be best to suspend your enquiries.’ He shifted, glancing to Vaughn as he spoke. ‘This fever seems to be impacting your judgement.’

  ‘It has caught me off guard, Mr Cummings, but my judgement remains sound.’

  ‘You may argue that. But no one would be given this task in your current state.’

  He was right. I could not deny it. But never had such a thing happened before and as I stood, pulling off the damp rags about my neck and shoulders, I felt a greater sense of determination to carry out my work.

  ‘I shan’t let a fever get the better of me again, Mr Cummings. For however much longer I remain here, be it a day or two. This work must be done.’

  Cummings clearly wanted to disagree. He shook his head and looked down toward the floor.

  ‘You need bed rest.’

  I ignored him, taking a rag in hand and wiping my eyes and forehead. I looked about my person and to the small writing desk with my case upon it. I saw, then, the candelabra, its short candles still extinguished, though I made no sight of my pistol.

  I turned to Vaughn and held out my hand.

  ‘My gun, Constable.’

  He fidgeted, thrusting his hand into his pockets and glancing at Cummings for some reassurance.

  ‘Per-perhaps it is best we keep it safe for you, sir. You were waving it about quite madly; should it have accidentally fired—’

  ‘My gun.’ I held my hand firm and stared at him.

  He shared another quick glance with Cummings before turning back to me, his eyes round and soft. He puffed out his chest to speak then seemed to collapse inwards. With an audible sigh and slump of the shoulders, he stepped towards a cabinet by the door and retrieved my pistol. He held onto it for the briefest moment before handing it back to me. I placed it in the open camera case.

  ‘How much light is down there now?’ I asked as I took hold of the camera stand.

  ‘More than before,’ Vaughn replied quietly. ‘Though we will n-need much more.’

  I have documented many forms of body decomposition in my career. One of the first cases I was assigned to – prior to any investigative role I had earned and solely when I was a photographer – regarded a young man who had failed to pay adequate interest on debts owed to a local creditor of East Ham. He was dragged from a public house in keen view of many witnesses and wrapped in the chain of a derelict tug boat, before being slung into the river under the cover of nightfall.

  That was in the first week of January eighteen ninety-two; the Thames was sub forty degrees for much of that month. When the man’s body was recovered some ten days later, it was almost in perfect condition upon first view. As he lay on the slab it was a different matter – his skin peeled away with but the lightest touch of the coroner’s tools.

  When a body is buried in heavy soil, the gases inside the corpse have no way to escape, resulting in expansion of much of the stomach and intestinal tract. The body eventually bursts around the gut and what is left of the internal organs seeps and mixes with the dirt and soil. Exhumation of a victim buried in such a manner is a pitiful thing, for the body is beyond almost all recognition and even the facial features can be bloated, distorted and twisted, in a dreadful manner. However long the body has been buried greatly influences the ferocity with which the insects and creepers have devoured it. Little more than a skeleton remains after four weeks.

  I have seen all manner of tortuous deeds and harrowing acts performed upon human flesh, many too foul and disturbing to be noted in detail in these pages. I have seen a body frozen by the elements, only examined after thawing for forty-eight hours. I have even seen the remains of a man left to fester in a vat of potent chloric acid, so much so that his body had deflagrated to something barely recognisable as human.

  Believe me when I say I have seen some dreadful things.

  But one can cope with such sights, separate them, if you will, from the rest of the psyche. A coroner’s room is nothing but a physician’s laboratory. We live in such an age of advanced medicine that the body upon the slab is nothing more than a piece of meat, a scientific study, an anomaly or peculiarity. Do not misunderstand me, for I am not so callous as to be unaffected by such things. Merely it is the case that I have come to process and isolate these disturbing scenes from the rest of my life.

  When I speak of this case, you may blame my fever, my delirium, the horrors I claim to have seen in that cellar. Perhaps blame my suspicions, the isolation I felt in that tiny village and the heightened state of paranoia it had wrought upon me. Whatever you may think, understand that the girl’s body was, in many respects, the foulest I have ever laid eyes on. And to this day I wish I never had.

  Let me divulge only a forensic overview – that detail which is of grave necessity. The girl was burnt, for a relatively brief time. This is clear, for whilst the skin was almost entirely blackened and blistered, it, along with near all other muscles and tissues of the body, remained intact. A distressing sight nonetheless; the girl’s facial features in particular were distorted, the ears and nose destroyed entirely. All but the left hand and wrist had been exposed to the flames.

  Further damage was inflicted upon the body in the form of deep lacerations around the joints of the limbs, arms and neck. This damage was clearly exacted after death and burning. Bizarrely, whilst these lacerations were of reasonable depth, they were inflicted upon both the front and back of the body, as though someone tried to remove the limbs entirely.

  All manner of other injuries and brutalities enacted upon the body will remain undisclosed here. I feel they would only serve as a dishonour to the murdered girl.

  ‘Where is Richmond?’ I asked, setting my camera stand down at the foot of the table. The body shimmered in warm candlelight; I stared at it morbidly, though could not keep my gaze on the girl’s empty eye sockets. The cellar was now reasonably lit, with at least thirty candles spread throughout its entirety. It was still not enough, and Vaughn was already gathering more.

  ‘He left soon after we arrived.’ Cummings stood at my side. ‘I was talking with him a while, though he wouldn’t listen. You must understand he is unhappy with all of this.’

  ‘Yes, I had a feeling.’ I turned to fetch my camera. ‘Though it seems this church has been abandoned for more than a mere week, Councilman. Perhaps you forgot to tell me the whole truth of this place earlier today.’

  Cummings’ face turned scarlet just as Vaughn came scampering down the
stairs.

  ‘We’ll discuss the matter later,’ I said curtly, before instructing Vaughn where to set the pillar candles he carried. Thirty minutes later I had the camera in place and the candles arranged to maximise the exposure.

  ‘There is no guarantee that these will be clear, but it will have to do.’

  I paused a moment before taking my first picture, using the camera stand to hold my balance, as everything whirled around me. The fever was unabating.

  After replacing the plate, I moved around the table and removed the cotton cloth laid across the girl’s midriff and thighs. I heard Cummings tut and murmur his disapproval. I ignored him and returned to my camera to take another image.

  I took eight in all, two of the body’s entirety, others of the lacerations around the limbs and two of the face and neck. When I was satisfied, I returned to the vestibule and brought Vaughn’s completed report down into the cellar (quite the struggle, for standing at the hatchway looking downward, every fibre of my being screeched at me to run away and never look back). I read it as he and Cummings stood in silence; it did not take long for it was very brief.

  ‘You have failed to note a few things, Constable,’ I said, already making notes at the foot of the report. ‘And there is not enough detail.’

  Vaughn muttered an apology. ‘I’ve never written a murder report before, sir.’

  I did not browbeat the young man but beckoned him to stand close to my side next to the body.

  ‘The lacerations around the arm and neck were made with something slim and very sharp – likely a butcher’s blade, a boning tool of sorts. The cuts were sliced through quite neatly, time taken, if you understand my meaning.’ I pointed to each delicate slice as Vaughn nodded.

  ‘Here at the legs, however, notice the lacerations were made with something far clumsier; a cleaver, perhaps?’

  ‘Why would someone do that?’ Vaughn asked uncomfortably. I shook my head, continuing to make notes. Black spots danced across the page and already I could feel the deep throb of the fever’s scorn, pulsating up the back of my neck towards my temples. I tried not to show any of my wavering state.