by A. P. Fuchs
Still walking, I heard a small clicking sound from underneath me and the next thing I knew my feet were tangled and I fell head first into the tiled floor. A hard thud echoed inside my skull and a pain formed above my eyes. Pulling myself a few inches from the floor I paused briefly in disbelief, then positioned myself so I was sitting up, my butt cheeks feeling the cold floor beneath me. Somehow my shoelace became untied and it tried to kill me. At least my imagination thought it did.
I ran my hands through my hair expecting to find a lump or a pool of moisture or a soft spot where the top of my head had been opened, but found nothing. Frustrated, I got up and walked slowly in the direction of the exit.
I could see it now, walking through the front door at home and my mom asking me why I looked so stoned. Gee, Mom, a cold ceramic tile kissed me. It was so passionate it almost knocked me out.
Yeah, right.
I had forgotten about the notion that someone had been following me until a shadow that was not my own appeared near my feet. I quickly turned around ready to give anyone that was behind me a hard punch, but again found nothing.
The throbbing in my head intensified as my heart fiercely pumped away. In fact, it was beating so hard it hurt with a dull, throbbing ache. I was panicking, and when I tried to speak to self-soothe, my mouth produced nothing, causing me to choke on what felt like a vice around my neck.
Anxiety swept over my body and the world turned into a dream. The only solid recollection I had was I had to get out of the building. I walked down the hall as if I was drunk, trying so hard to keep a grip on reality. Everything I was ceased to exist and now I was just a staggering man trying to keep his eyes open, straining to remember which way was out. Fear had become second nature to me; made my clothes stick to my body. I turned left at a T-junction certain it would take me downstairs and then outside.
Two to three minutes and I would be out. Thank God!
Moisture now saturated my black, matted hair and a salty taste met my lips as sweat found its way into my mouth. I loosened the top button on my plaid shirt, hoping to release some heat and cool down. As if that was a cue to my stalker, that strange intense heat plowed into me and drained me of life. I immediately removed my shirt to reveal the white KISS T-shirt that I wore underneath.
Sensing insanity was inevitable I began to decipher the situation. Was I hallucinating? Was I lying unconscious on the art gallery's floor and this was all a dream? I didn't know and to a large degree I didn't care. I just wanted to leave.
Footsteps formed behind me and a heavy breathing filled the room. It was not my own.
I panicked and screamed, completely frustrated at not being able to see the cause of the breathing and not knowing which way was up. I jumped around to face my enemy ready to rip their heart out if they were the ones who were causing me all this pain. But there, standing in front of me, was a tall, thin man with dusty, tattered rags for clothes. His face was partially concealed by the floppy hat he wore, but the lines of age that graced his face distorted his image entirely. He had no eyes, just black holes that felt as though they were looking right through me.
I waited for him to make a move, but instead this Rag-man just stood their staring into my soul. After what seemed like an eternity he raised his bony fingers and signaled for me to come closer. If I followed his instructions I would be a complete fool and probably not live to see tomorrow.I had to be dreaming. This had to be a nightmare of my overly-imaginative mind trying to freak me out. Yet, regardless of all the thoughts that raced through my head, I knew that this was real.
My mouth was dry and my throat felt like cotton, and as much as I wanted to run away I was incredibly drawn to the Rag-man.
Struggling to put life into my legs, I forced myself away from him and ran in the other direction. Footsteps began to follow and the heat intensified. I was burning; my skin began to boil. Making my way down the stairs rather quickly I thought I saw someone in the corner of my eye. When I looked more closely, I saw it was only the security guard sitting at the front desk. I was relieved it wasn't anybody else.
I looked back at him again and my bones jumped out from under my skin. The Rag-man had taken his place. He grinned at me from under his big, floppy hat and his eye-less glare sent a shudder of fear throughout my entire body. My jog became a full sprint as I ran toward the exit.
Finally, the door to the outside world was only a few paces away and with satisfaction I knew I would finally be rid of the Rag-man forever.
I slowed down so I wouldn't crash through the glass-laced door, then gripped its handle and gave a good solid push.
I was free.
Upon my entry into what was supposed to be the front steps leading up to the building, I found myself back outside the religious exhibit inside the art gallery where I originally fell and banged my head. Before, when I was here, I was the only one, but now there were a handful of people milling about with a few of them gathered around together in a circle. I came over to see what was going on. They were gathered around someone lying on the floor.
I stepped in further to take a closer look and through my hazy gaze I saw that it was me, blood pooled around my head.
Shock shook me through and through.
A hand gripped my shoulder and turned me around.
It was the Rag-man. "Welcome home," he said.
* * * *
Mr. Jitterbones
In London's East End they celebrate Hallowe'en. Jack McClay thought that after what happened last autumn, they wouldn't celebrate it anymore. Not after the deaths of those five prostitutes. Their killer was never caught. No one knew who did it. But rumors abounded. Some still maintained it was a fellow dubbed "Leather Apron," while others suggested it was Prince Edward (though this rumor was scarcely heard). Others thought it was the work of a cult. Either way, the women were dead. Jack now hated the fact that he shared the namesake of their killer, Jack the Ripper. Or, at least, that's what the papers had named him. The East End still hadn't recovered from that terrible autumn and Jack thought no one wanted to see anyone parading around in a costume this year.
He was wrong.
The sky was overcast with gray clouds, a hint of rain on the air. Though it was October 31st, the snow had yet to fall. It had been a warm autumn so far. The pale light of London's street lamps created shadows around the buildings, in the cracks of the cobbles. Anyone with even a hint of imagination could picture a secret killer lurking there, in the shadows, clad in black, ready to strike. But Jack knew better. He knew these streets well. After all, he grew up on them.
Abandoned when he was just seven years old, he remained on the street, struggling to live day-to-day, finding food in trash cans or in the scraps people left on their plates in restaurants. He didn't mind the hard life, though. It was all he knew. There was never a better way. He was twenty years old now. He couldn't recall his parents' faces if he tried. All he could remember about them was their warmth, the security he felt when he was around them. But that was memory. Almost myth.
Clad in a brown overcoat and matching trousers, he made his way to the alley behind the Ten Bells. He had been living there for almost a year.
Last autumn, he was living in an alley near Miller's Court, but after Mary Kelly got her throat cut, he couldn't stay there any longer. He knew her, too. She used to work the corners around there, propositioning men for any amount they would be willing to pay for ten minutes of her company. She was beautiful with long hair, captivating eyes and a well-formed figure that spoke of youth. She was close to his age, as well; only twenty-five. He was sorry she died and often wondered what she could have done that made a madman stop by her abode one night and cut her to pieces.
Near his home now, Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets but not before pulling up the collar of his jacket around his neck. A breeze was picking up.
Off on the next street he heard the lilt of a woman laughing and the shout of a man hollering at someone, the clip-clopping of hooves against the cobbles
and the sound of a wagon's wheels as they rolled along the street. It was London. It was the East End. Poverty and despair hung on the air like smoke in a pub. It made his flesh crawl. But, it was all he knew and he had resigned to it long ago.
Jack approached his home: a large wooden crate turned on its side against the rear wall of the Ten Bells. The owner, Mr. Harris, said he could stay there as long as he stayed out of trouble and minded his own business. At Christmas last year things got rowdy at the Ten Bells and a fellow had tried robbing the place. Jack happened to be in the bar that night and apprehended the robber before any harm could be done. Mr. Harris was indebted to Jack. The back alley was now his.
No one came down the back alley anyway except the occasional prostitute and her client. On those nights, Jack would leave and come back a half-hour later. Thirty minutes was more than enough time for the man to get what needed doing done and the woman to collect her pay.
It was just after six now. The children would be along soon. The parents would want them indoors early. Bad men came out at night. Bad women, too. A dog barked in the distance.
Jack crawled inside his crate and sat down. In the corner was his pillow and an old copy of the London Times, dated August 12, 1889. He had read it over twenty times. There was nothing better to do some days.
In the other corner he had an old potato sack and within it, a small wooden box that he found in the trash one evening. In the box were the treats for the children: mints, a few chocolates. Nothing spectacular. But the children were thankful, their parents usually unable to afford them any treats. Hallowe'en was a special time for children.
"Wonder what they'll be wearing tonight," Jack said to himself.
The children's costumes were usually just their parents' clothes, the boys with mustaches painted on their faces with charcoal, the girls wearing an old dress of their mother's. They pretended to be grown-ups. A few of the "richer" kids---though no one was rich in the East End---dressed as vampires or undertakers or corpses. Some of the girls dressed as witches. The costumes were rudimentary and only when inspecting their guise closely did you see what they were supposed to be. But the kids' hearts were in it and that's what was important. Hallowe'en was a chance for them to be free of their daily burdens and a chance to just be children.
Jack smiled at the thought of Frederick---Freddy---coming by. Last year, Freddy wore his father's apron and rubber gloves and pretended to be a butcher. Jack wondered what Freddy would be this year.
Probably the same thing, he thought. He didn't know if Freddy could afford a new costume. But he looked forward to seeing the kid's dirty blond hair, blue eyes and dirt-smudged cheeks again.
A constable's whistle shrilled a few streets over followed by the clamoring of footfalls and some shouting. Sounds carried easily in the East End, with its low buildings and open spaces.
Jack glanced up at the moon peeking in from behind a cloud.
The children would be along shortly.
* * * *
The children had come a half-hour later, all rags and smiles, anxious for their treats. There had only been ten of them; few children came by the back alley of the Ten Bells. But Freddy hadn't come. Each time a child came by, a small cloth bag open to receive a chocolate or mint, Jack hoped that Freddy would be the next kid to receive something. After nine of the kids came, Jack had only one piece of chocolate left. By the tenth kid, a little girl wearing her mother's dress and a kerchief over her head, Jack had to turn her away and tell her he had nothing to give her. The girl, so sweet, still said thank you and gave him a curtsey before moving on to her next stop.
Safely tucked away in the corner of his wooden box, was Freddy's chocolate.
I 'ope you come by t'night, ol' chap, Jack thought.
He glanced up at the sky. The moon sat in the middle of a swirl of clouds, a nimbus around the moon. It was quarter after ten. It was late. Then again, I guess you won't be. Yer mum wouldn' let ya out this late, if she 'ad any sense. There are bad men about. Maybe she'll come by wit' ya? Maybe not as I know she 'as te get up early to work at the bookstore. Your dad? Let's 'ope so.
It was after eleven when Jack finally gave up waiting. Downhearted, he placed the wooden box in the potato sack and shoved it in the corner of his crate. Scrunched up off to the side was his blanket. He straightened it and lay his head down on the hard floor, draping the blanket over him. It didn't provide much warmth and he could already feel the chill of night settling in his bones.
It wasn't long before it began to drizzle and soon after that, the rain came steadily, drumming a soothing rhythm against the top of the crate. A few drops leaked through the cracks in his roof and he shivered when the cool drops soaked through his blanket and jacket.
Just another night in the East End.
* * * *
After midnight it was still raining. Jack was having a hard time staying asleep. He awoke every fifteen minutes or so, the thunder crashing in the sky jolting him out of slumber. It was nearly black in the alley; the only light came from the lamps on either end of it, lighting the streets that ran adjacent to his home. There weren't any people out. All had gone indoors once the rain really started to come down.
At the next flicker of lightning and crash of thunder, he sat up, blanket drawn about his shoulders.
"Te 'ell wit' sleepin'," he muttered. The only problem with not having a proper home was there was nothing to do when sleep failed to pass the time.
He thought of Freddy again and of his butcher costume from the year before. Now that he thought of it, he was surprised Freddy wore such a costume, what with all the talk of Leather Apron and Bloody Jack. But, it was all Freddy had, he supposed. Couldn't hold it against the kid. Children were supposed to be allowed a good time as much as adults were.
Rain ran off the top left corner of the crate. Jack reached over, cupped his hands beneath the runoff, and filled them with water. He brought his hands to his mouth, slurped some of it, then used the rest to wash his face. The cool water helped clear his head.
The thunder rumbled then crashed with power. It echoed on the air. The sound faded away after a few moments and was replaced by complete silence. Then . . .
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak.
Silence again. Jack thought the sound to be his imagination. He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his blanket around them. Chin on his knees, he closed his eyes, hoping to doze off.
He thought of how he would obtain breakfast the following morning. He might find some change on the cobbles. Some usually could be found in front of the Ten Bells, the change having spilled out of the pockets of the drunkards as they stumbled along home. He might need to go into town, where it wasn't as poor, and beg. He hated having to do that. All Londoners stuck up their noses when an unfortunate from the East End bothered them for money.
"We'll see," he said.
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak. It was like two sticks tapping against each other.
His eyes shot open. This time he knew it wasn't his imagination. He inched his way to the edge of the opening of the crate and peered both ways up the alley.
No one was there.
"Bugger," he said. Whoever's doin' that oughtta let up an' lemme sleep!
He leaned against the inside of the crate and closed his eyes. The rain was letting up though it still kept a steady drumbeat against his roof. He was glad he was indoors . . . in a manner of speaking. There was a time when on rainy nights he didn't have anywhere to go and had to brave the weather by cramming himself up against door frames or steps partly covered by an awning, just to keep relatively dry. He was glad he had found this crate and that Mr. Harris was so hospitable in letting him use his alley.
The night wore on.
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak.
Jack snarled. "That does it!" He threw back his blanket, crawled out of his crate and quickly got to his feet.
The alley was bare of any li
fe. Just a few trash cans, some litter, and puddles twinkling in the lamplight.
"Who's there?" he called. No one answered.
The thunder rumbled but didn't crash. The rain had eased even more, just dribbling now.
With a huff, Jack went back into the crate and pulled a cigarette out of a beat up old pack from his breast pocket. He pulled a match out of the other breast pocket and struck it against the crate's sharp wooden corner. He lit his cigarette and tossed the match in a puddle not far from him. It went out with a fitsz.
As he drew heavily on the cigarette, the sound returned.
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. Clik-clakity-clak-clak.
A thud on Jack's roof. Empty and hollow; thick-soled boots on wood. It was above him, whatever it was. He wanted to get out of the crate and see what caused the noise but, heart suddenly pounding, something told him he shouldn't. He decided to wait.
Silence. Silence for an eternity. Was it still there? Whatever it was? It could have been something that had fallen off old Mr. Harris's roof and landed on the crate. His crate was right up against the brick and mortar. It surely was possible.
He dragged on his cigarette, the sizzling sound of its cherry burning away at the paper and tobacco somewhat soothing.
A dull thud, but not as loud as before. Movement. Something was up there.
Jack tucked in his legs and inched his bottom along the inside of the crate so he was against the far wall. Another thud and then a splash as whatever it was jumped off his roof and landed in the puddle beside the crate. Clak-sploosh!
A cat? Maybe. Cats were common in the alleys. But a cat doesn't wear thick-soled boots. So Jack waited, listened, wanting to see if any more sounds would come. Then . . .
Clik-clakity-clak-clak. A pause. Then another clik-clakity-clak-clak.