by Amy Cross
“I won't do this,” I whisper, barely able to hear my own voice over the sound of the rain. “Not again.”
Again?
For a moment I remember seeing Abbie's dead eyes staring at me.
I didn't kill Abbie.
I can't have killed Abbie, I'd never do something like that.
But something inside me, something that's inside me right now, did kill her.
“I won't let you,” I murmur, stumbling away from the wall and back toward the lights of the main street. “Whatever you are, I won't let you be -”
Suddenly the pain comes again, and this time I cry out as I fall forward and land on my knees in a puddle of cold water. This time the pain is so strong, I feel as if it's rupturing my chest in its attempt to turn me around. In fact, it's almost as if something deep inside my body is doing everything within its power to turn me around so that I'll let it kill Tom. The hunger is getting stronger and stronger, forcing its way up into my head, and finally I find that I'm too weak to fight back.
Almost without realizing what I'm doing, I turn and start staggering back along the alley toward Tom. The pain immediately starts to recede, as if the thing inside me is rewarding me for my obedience. Somehow, zombie-like, I feel myself being drawn forward by the lure of no more pain. I still hate the idea of hurting anyone, but at the same time I'm increasingly convinced that I've done this before.
Many times.
Finally, reaching the spot where Tom is smoking, I have tears in my eyes. I stumble into the doorway, and then I reach out to grab him.
Only to find that he's gone.
I look around, but there's no sign of him. At first I wonder whether I've come to the wrong doorway, but I check nearby and I still can't find him. Figuring that he must have simply finished his cigarette and wandered off, I lean against the wall for a moment and take slow, deep breaths. I know what would have happened if Tom had still been here, and I'm terrified of letting anything like that happen again. I'm hugely relieved that he apparently wandered off, but at the same time I know I can't relax.
I'm dangerous.
I have to protect people from whatever's inside me.
Making my way along the alley, I finally reach the main street, where I start wandering through the crowd. Rain is still crashing down and I'm sure I must look crazy, but I don't care about that anymore. I need to get away from all these people, in case the thing inside starts stirring again. I walk for hours, not really knowing where I'm going, losing myself in a daze until I suddenly find myself in the middle of another crowd.
I look around and see couples walking past, and people eating in nearby restaurants, and a cinema showing some horror film called Smythe 2: The Cat Comes Back, and all the other signs of a city getting on with its life. I want to scream at everyone, to tell that that something's wrong, but then I freeze as I see a homeless girl sitting in a nearby doorway.
Taking some money from my pocket, I hurry over and drop coins into her cup. She mumbles her thanks, but suddenly I feel horrified by the prospect of even being near her, as if she reminds me of what I once was and of what I could be again. Turning, I hurry away, pushing through the crowd with such force that several people tell me to watch where I'm going. Usually I'd be mortified, but this time I don't care; this time, I just have to keep going until I'm away from them all.
Reaching the end of the street, I quickly hurry across the road before stopping at the edge of the river. Leaning against the wall, I look down at the water that's gently lapping at the legs of the nearest bridge, and I realize I've been here before.
This is where it all started.
Although my legs feel weak and I'm worried my knees might buckle at any moment, I cross the bridge to the south side and then I make my way down the steps that lead to the shore. I have to climb over a small fence at the bottom, but finally I squelch down into the darkness and the ice-cold mud. At least there's nobody else down here, and there are no lights either. I used to come to this exact spot many years ago, when I was first homeless. I hung around here with Alex and Nick, and I'm not far from the spot where I first met Matt. There used to be a small community here five years ago, but now there's no-one in sight.
Wading through the mud, unable to really see where I'm going, I make my way into the shadows under the bridge itself and then I stop again and look at the water. Maybe this is where I belong. At least here, there's no-one I can hurt. The thing inside me might fight back and demand that I go and find another victim, but I'll just have to stay strong. At least down here, with trains rumbling across the bridge above, I can scream and no-one will be able to hear me.
“Hello,” a voice says suddenly, rasping in the darkness behind me.
I turn, but I don't see anyone. At the same time, I can sense that there's someone nearby.
“What a pleasant surprise,” the voice continues finally, rising above the sound of icy wind blowing along the shore. “Welcome back. It has been so long since I last received a visitor.”
Chapter Eleven
Maddie
“Who are you?” I ask, before taking a step to one side so that my feet don't sink too deep into the mud. “Where are you?”
“I remember you,” the voice replies. “How could I not? I remember all who used to come here. The lost. The alone. The pitiful and damned.”
“Who are you?” I ask again, still looking around but still not seeing anyone. I'm worried that someone's going to lunge at my at any moment. After all, I remember from my time on the streets that there can be some real weirdos around, and some of them can be dangerous.
“I've been here for so long now,” the voice continues, with a hint of sadness in his tone. “Just watching, really. I used to roam the streets for centuries, but I became so tired of all the people. That's the problem with London, really. It filled up and filled up, and now it only suits the kind of people who can cope in crowds. The citizens of this place have either had to evolve to cope with one another, or they've had to escape, or they've lost their minds. Most chose the latter option. I've seen it happen over the centuries, and let me tell you, I much prefer to be down here in the mud. One doesn't meet many people here, but the ones that one does meet are... interesting. One even...”
The voice trails off, disappearing into the wind, before slowly drifting back.
“... and screaming so very often,” he continues. “Like lullabies.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I reply, still looking around and hoping to spot some sign of this guy in the darkness. “I don't know who you are.”
“You saw me once or twice,” he says. “I know you did. Maybe, though, you thought I wasn't real. I can understand that. Some of the others used to light fires, but they never seemed to notice me, not even as I sat amongst them. Not that I cared about the warmth, of course, but sometimes the flickering light was a pleasant alternative to all these shadows. You noticed me, though. You're one of the few who, over the years, have been aware of my presence. Until you, it had been a long time. The last visitor before you must have been...”
His voice trails off, although after a moment I hear a faint sigh.
“It must have been Jack,” he continues finally, with a hint of wonder. “Yes, Jack... He came to me one night and told me about a creature. I helped him as best I could, and he went on his way. I thought he'd come back and tell me how it went, but I never saw him again. I've often wondered what happened to him. He was a good boy, although he became a troubled man. Still, I think he would have come back to tell me if he'd dealt with the problem. Which means, I suppose, that something must have gone wrong. I think I remember...”
Again, his voice fades for a moment before returning.
“... a magnificent yacht. Really, some of the boats one sees these days are very impressive.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I reply, shivering slightly in the cold air as my wet clothes cling to my body. Wiping strands of matted hair from across my face, I look around again, just a
s a gust of icy wind blows along the shore and tries to knock me off my feet. Only the mud keeps me standing. “I don't know who you are.”
“You saw me,” the voice whispers, sounding now as if it's being carried on the wind. “Think back.”
“No,” I reply, “I never saw any -”
And then, suddenly, I remember one night when I was down here with Alex. We were wasting time, really, but some people had fires burning in old cans so we stayed close for warmth. There must have been twenty or thirty people here that night, huddled around the flames. I remember feeling uneasy, as if I was being watched, and I remember looking around at the faces of all the other homeless people. Nobody was really paying very much attention to me that night, they were mostly listening to Alex as she rattled on about this and that, but I remember noticing something a little further back, something that seemed to be staring at me.
A man with no face.
Or rather, an almost bare skull with just a few scraps of skin clinging to its surface.
And two dark, empty sockets for eyes.
I remember shuddering when I saw that face, and moving so that I was out of its view. It took me a while to work up the courage to look again, but finally I saw to my relief that the face was gone. Although I felt pretty freaked out for the rest of the night, I finally convinced myself that I'd been imagining things. The next morning, when sunlight revealed the gray mud all around, I was amused by how easily I'd been spooked, and after that I pretty much didn't think about the skull again.
Until now.
“You do remember me,” the voice whispers. “I can see it in your eyes. And there's something else about you too... Last time you were here, some years ago, I noticed a familiar scent. It was the same scent that I'd picked up during Jack's final visit, it made me think that you'd be back eventually. Tell me, have you been to a house in Whitechapel? To a certain house in Whitechapel?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I stammer, taking a step back through the mud.
“Jack was so scared,” he continues. “It took a lot to scare that man. I remember the panic in his voice when he talked about the house on Cathmore Road, and the way he -”
“Cathmore Road?” I blurt out, before I even think to stop myself.
“I remember when this bridge was built,” he replies. “Oh, the disruption was great, and quite a few men died during the construction. Then again, the worst bridge-building enterprise was -”
“Wait!” I say firmly, interrupting him. “Did you just mention a house on Cathmore Road?”
“Oh.” He pauses. “I think so.” Another pause. “Why? Does that name mean something to you?”
I open my mouth to reply, but this time I manage to hold back. This whole encounter right now has to be another hallucination. I thought I'd put those days behind me, I thought I'd moved on and made myself stronger, but now it's clear that I'm slipping back into old habits. Maybe I was a fool to believe I could move on. I'll always be the same person, I'll always be prone to these hallucinations, and there's nothing I can do to change myself.
“I have to save people from me,” I say out loud, feeling a cold thud in my chest. “I'm not safe to be around. There's something wrong with me. I have to... stop myself.”
“You would not do that.”
“I would,” I reply, with tears in my eyes. “To save other people from the thing that's inside me... If that's the only way, then I have no choice.”
“You always have a choice. You can fight it.”
“No, I can't,” I sob, shaking my head in the darkness. I know this voice isn't real, but I need to talk to someone, even if it's just to something that my own mind is inventing. “I'm not strong enough. I just have to end it, so that no-one else ever has to suffer again. I should just sit down in the mud and wait to...”
Now it's my turn to let my voice fade off as I realize the enormity of what I have to do. After all, I know I'm not safe, so I don't have a choice.
“Jack felt the same,” the voice replies after a moment. “I think he took that way out in the end, but it didn't work. The suffering continued. Poor Jack was never the same after his head was damaged.”
“Jack,” I whisper finally, “that name...”
“Do you know him?” the voice asks.
“Jack the Ripper,” I continue, figuring that by talking out loud I might at least be able to make sense of my thoughts. If my subconscious mind is giving me this hallucination, I might as well use it. “It's the house of Jack the Ripper.”
“I speak of a different Jack,” the voice replies. “Jack the Ripper was a figure of fear. A fright. There was no one man who committed all those crimes, although I have no doubt that he seemed very real to people. And when something seems real, who is to say that it is not?”
“Jack the Ripper must have been real,” I reply, feeling increasingly desperate. “I've been to his house!”
“Perhaps,” the voice replies calmly. “Or perhaps the matter is more complicated than that. You must understand, surely, that Jack the Ripper might simply be a way for the people of this city to ignore the truth. Is it not preferable to believe that one evil man exists, rather than accepting that this evil is present in many people? After all, one can live here and hope to avoid that man, but one cannot very well live here and hope to avoid all of London.”
“I don't know why you're saying any of this,” I tell him. “Jack the Ripper was real, he has to have been. He was one of the -”
Suddenly, spotting movement nearby, I turn and look along the shore. To my horror, I see a figure standing not too far away, silhouetted against the lights that ripple on the river's surface.
It's a man, wearing a top hat and leaning against a cane.
The same man I saw last night, the man who was watching while the old woman killed Abbie.
I remember now.
“If Jack the Ripper didn't exist,” I say finally, my voice trembling with fear, “then who's that? Whose ghost am I seeing right now?”
“The ghost that has haunted London ever since,” the voice replies. “A ghost does not always have to be a dead man, you know. Sometimes a ghost can be an idea. Sometimes a ghost can be the ghost of fear itself. The ghost of hope.”
“It's not real,” I whisper, taking another step back but keeping my eyes fixed on the silhouette. “None of this is real. There's no such thing as ghosts.”
“How many times do you think you have to say that,” the voice continues, “before you accept that you're wrong? Jack the Ripper wasn't one man, but his ghost is very real. He has haunted this city for over a century, he has haunted men and women, he has haunted children. There are even dogs that know the evil that lurks in these streets. He has haunted everyone who knows that lives can end in misery and pain. He symbolizes something of the modern world, and in that way he even haunts beyond London's boundaries. He haunts the entire world.”
Shaking my head, I take another step back.
“This isn't happening,” I say firmly. “It's just -”
Suddenly the silhouetted figure steps forward, and I watch in horror as he starts slowly, calmly walking toward me. Somehow he seems to be making his way cleanly through the boggy mud.
“If he's not real,” the voice whispers nearby, “then what do you have to fear?”
I take another step back.
“If you run,” he continues, “then it must be because you know he's real.”
“He's just a shadow,” I stammer. “He's just a -”
Before I can finish, a train rattles across the bridge. The lights of windows briefly flash down and swing across the mud, and for a fraction of a second I'm able to see that the silhouette has a face. And the face is that of a madman, with an ear-wide grin and eyes of burning sulfur. He's like every nightmare I've ever had, and he's making his way straight toward me without struggling in the mud at all.
“No!” I shout, stumbling back but finding that my feet are getting more and more bogged down. “Make him s
top! Make him go away!”
“But he's not real,” the voice reminds me, “so what is there for me to stop?”
“He's not real,” I whisper, trying to make myself certain. “He can't be real. He's all in my head.”
And yet as the silhouette comes closer and closer, I see him raise his cane into the air, and I spot what looks like a razor-sharp blade attached to the end. This is the classic Jack the Ripper, the monster that stalked the foggy streets of London. The cliché.
“No!” I gasp, before stepping back again. “He can't be real!”
“Then stand your ground,” the voice suggests.
“I can't,” I reply, feeling the panic rise through my body until I can't handle it any longer. The silhouette has almost reached me now. “Why are you doing this?”
“Stand your ground!” he says again.
“I can't!” I shout again, before finally the panic explodes in my chest.
So I run.
Turning, I start wading through the mud, desperately trying to get up the shore toward the path that leads to the road. I know this is crazy, I know I'm running from a shadow, but all I can think about is the fact that I have to get away. I'll figure out the truth later, I'll rationalize it all, but first I need to escape.
My legs are aching as I try to force my way forward, and after a moment I slip and fall face-first into the mud. Struggling to breathe, I have to spit mud from my mouth as I get back onto my feet, and then I wade a little further before falling again. This time even more mud floods into my mouth, and for a moment I feel as if I'm drowning. Somehow I manage to haul myself up, but my chest hurts and I can't bring myself to keep running. Finally I turn and look over my shoulder, and I see that the top-hatted silhouette is right behind me with the razor-blade cane just inches from my face.
“Please!” I gasp. “Don't!”
He raises the blade higher, and then brings it slashes down toward my face.
“You're real!” I scream. “You're -”
In that instant the silhouette and the blade vanish. I fall back into the mud, barely managing to keep my face clear this time. Looking around, I'm convinced that I'll see the silhouette of Jack the Ripper again, but there's no sign of anyone at all. After a moment, however, I look up toward the road and see the exact spot where – five years ago – I sat in a police car with Matt. I saw a silhouetted figure that night, too. Maybe it wasn't Nick after all, maybe it was some kind of ghost.