by william Todd
He then looked over his spirits one more time until he found a suitable companion. Dr. Arless finally exchanged the dainty stool at the window for a more comfortable high back from his side of the room, lit the candles on his nightstand, and resolved to watch the waning day bleed itself out with a full snifter of cognac.
Rolling the honey colored liquid around softly in its glass, Dr. Arless settled in and regarded the scene outside his bedroom window. The horizon was burnt by the melting sun, and was no longer blemished with clouds. The night would be clear and cool.
Tiny, multiform gravestones in the distance, like grey mold amongst the gold and green, caught his eye, and he wondered how his charge was doing amongst the dead and possibly dead.
At that thought, he took his first long swill of alcohol, not bothering to savor the flavor or aroma of the cognac, only to hasten its last desired trait—inebriation. Without a single morsel of food yet eaten, that state for which he now worked so diligently came surprisingly quick.
. . . .
The vicar slalomed between gravestones, lantern held high, racing as quickly as his old bones would allow.
Sean Caudill could be heard cursing somewhere in the shadows above the clinking clamor of the grave bell. At last, the old man of God stumbled upon the grave. And there he eyed a tipped stool, an upturned flask still spilling its contents into the fresh dirt, and Sean Caudill tangled in the roping of the grave bell, lantern by his side. With each yank and pull, as he tried to undo himself, the bell would sound its alarm.
“Mr. Caudill, do you know what you’ve just done?” the vicar lamented.
“S-sorry, vicar, sir. I was—I was just goin’ t’relieve meself, an’…”
“You’ve been taking the drink, boy! You’re arse over elbow there!”
“Only t’keep meself warm, nothin’ more, I swear.” “I knew I should have insisted on Mr. Severo,” he grunted, as he began to undo the web of rope Sean Caudill had woven around his leg.
“I’m not blatted. I’d not disrespect th’good Arless name, I swear by it. I tripped meself up on a bloody clump a dirt.”
“For your sake, young man, I hope the ringing from this blasted bell hasn’t reached the ears of our neighbors. I can only imagine what hearing it would do to Mr. Arless’ nerves. Olivia has intimated that he’s not been taking this as well as he seems.”
There was a sudden scream in the distance that carried on the cooling midnight breeze. The vicar sighed. “That would more than likely be Olivia now. If she has heard the bell, then Mr. Arless, no doubt, has as well.”
He finally completely untied the young man from his bonds. “You, my boy, get back on that stool and do not stray from it till I return,” he snorted irritably. “When I return, there had better be no alcohol left in that flask—and I do not mean its disappearance by drink.”
Sean nodded with sheepish hesitation without looking directly at the vicar and returned his stool upright.
A second, more horrific, scream made both men jump. The vicar’s features set grimly in the harsh lamplight. “I guess I’ll have to walk down and tell them that the ringing was you. I’m not sure what I’ll find when I get there; but they must be told that Mrs. Arless definitely is not alive.”
. . . . A noise woke Dr. Arless from an alcohol induced slumber. The sun had long set, and stars now glittered the night sky beyond the window. A cool evening current crawled into the room, and their chilly fingers helped caress the doctor back to consciousness.
Upon wiping the cobwebs away, he realized the cognac snifter was no longer in his hand. He leaned over the arm of the chair only to see it broken on the hardwood floor near his feet with its contents in small, sticky pools.
Even before he could blaspheme the ruination of good crystal and even better spirits, Dr. Arless heard the din that revived him from his alcoholic coma.
He struggled at first to ascertain what the noise was and from whence it came. His eyes quickly darted around the room, fearing that another wifely specter had come to torment him.
The only ghosts were the souls of the candlelight dancing upon the walls. When he heard the faint, haphazard ringing a third time, the doctor’s heart leapt painfully into his throat, making him momentarily gag in horror.
He staggered over himself and thrust his torso out the open window, squinting in the direction of the graveyard. The lantern light zigged in one direction then zagged in another, all the while the grave bell tinkled wildly and sporadically, seconds of nothing, then frantic ringing and ringing, then nothing again.
Poor Sean Caudill was probably beside himself in fear, not knowing what was happening and unsure what to do.
Who would have thought that this would actually happen? In the back of everyone’s mind, this guard post was but a formality of futility.
But there was no mistaking the sound; Gwen Arless was still alive, and his devilish deed would be found out by all.
Suddenly, the bedroom door exploded open. It crashed back against, then bounced off of, the side wall. In ran Gwen Arless, no longer covered in earth and eaten by death. She looked as healthy as she had so long ago before the disease began to eat her alive.
Dr. Arless’s head spun like a top from his bedroom door back out to the graveyard where he was still hearing the clanging of the grave bell. How could she be in the earth, yet here at the same time?
He regarded her once again, chest heaving, heart pounding, head spinning, terror building. The once dead now alive again Gwen Arless screamed in a shrill voice, “I’m still Alive, I’m still Alive, I’m still alive, she’s still alive!”
Unexpectedly, Dr. Arless’s hand lost its footing on the window sill. With more of his upper body outside than inside, he had no way to right that sinking ship and fell from the window.
In that tumble, as he peered through his upended legs, and before the view of the bedroom was briefly replaced by the glinting night sky, Dr. Arless caught one last glimpse of the woman in his room. It seemed Gwen Arless had once again been replaced by another; his last view was of Olivia with a look of horror upon her face.
He heard a brief scream, replaced by a wet crack, then all went black.
Jack
Jack. Jack, I like that nickname. Only my closest acquaintances call me Jack, and the post is proof that my inner circle is ever widening.
Jack. It has certain qualities that appeal to me. It is a one-syllable name, and no one should waste lung capacity on any name longer than that. It is a hard, uncompromising name. There is nothing in the sound of it that denotes indecisiveness.
Jack. I kill like my nickname—quick and decisive. Tonight is the night. The moon knows. It is hiding behind a wet blanket of clouds the color and consistency of drab wool. Oh, occasionally, it peeks out momentarily, but once it sees my distinct silhouette upon the dank cobblestones of Whitechapel, it whips up those dingy covers over its head, once more.
Gaslights barely cut through the vaporous London filth, leaving most anything beyond ten feet of their glowing halo in undulating darkness. That darkness and I are inextricably linked. It envelopes me like the welcoming embrace of a friend and ushers me along the back alleys, unseen, where I prefer to do my business; where the whores and prostitutes dole out their vile bodies for nothing more than a pittance.
Tonight, another lucky one will confer her body to me, but it will be for my pleasure, not hers. The thought of my pleasure makes me smile, but my friend the darkness sweeps it into the shadows under my rimmed felt hat, as I pass under a lamp post and turned left onto Duke Street.
A little farther along, and I will turn down Church Passage towards Mitre Square; I have business there. I feel inside my caped coat and find the polished steel that I will use in my endeavor. It is long, sharp, and slightly slick from the blood of my first catch. I wiped it is haste on the trollop’s dress, but it did not come completely clean. I can feel its cold comfort through my leather gloves. It transfers to my touch a longing that entices me to quicken my pace—just a litt
le.
My hands also trace along the bulge of my belly through the thick lining of my coat. Tucked into the front of my shirt is a linen bag from the hospital. My employer never misses them. They have more than they can ever account for. Within that bag is my post mortem attire; I loathe being in soiled clothing. This bag sits in my front in such a way as to make me look paunchy, like so many Englishmen. In reality, I am lean, so my torso amalgamates with the linen bag quite well. Any abnormalities from concealing this under my shirt is further hidden under my full-length coat.
I also feel—but do not rattle—my full change purse. It is the bait that will be cast into the slimy sea of prostitutes.
The fish are hungry. They are always hungry.
As am I, yet my hunger doesn’t subside with a full belly but with bloody hands. As I begin to turn into Church Passage, the onset of my affliction is lightning-quick. I have to stop. Everything is silent when my footfalls cease. This area between the street lamps and passage is coffin dark but not reassuring to my sense of seclusion.
I look around the stone and glass cemetery around me for an even darker refuge. None is darker than where I am about to proceed so I quickly stagger ahead.
My head is pounding as though being pummeled under the hoof of a draught horse, and my equilibrium leaves me like an exhaled breath.
I finally take asylum in that narrow walkway. Its darkness is soothing and complete, but its length and narrowness fosters within me a feeling of staring down the mouth of a well that stretches to the very bowels of the earth. My dizziness lies to me, telling me that lifting my feet would be tantamount to lunging headlong down that forever-falling fount.
After a few labored steps into that tarry gloom, so as not to be seen by any improbable passers-by, I clutch and pull myself to the cold, dank wall just in case that fiction of falling transforms into fact.
I squeeze my face, as if the pressure I apply will force the vileness within me out through my ears. This vileness is Syphilis. My experience tells me it is in its final stages. In this tertiary stage, Syphilis will manifest itself by causing severe pain and vertigo, hallucinations, and dementia, to name but a few.
Some of these symptoms affect me, but it is not dementia that inclines me to slice and eviscerate prostitutes; one of those bottom feeders infected me so many years ago. I was young and adventuresome, a free spirit who was willing to try anything with anyone in the pursuit of pleasure. I was ruled more by my groin than my brain or my heart. It was folly, I now know, but the young always seem to think their humanity is covered in a suit of armor. I was different in many respects, but in that respect I was a rank-and-file youth who thought they could get away with eating the poisonous mushroom and come out unscathed.
Now, that poison was eating my brain. I am not so far gone that I think I can rid the world of all its overgrowth of weeds, but I at least can give it a trim around the edges.
Besides, I have found out by the purest of
happenstance that I also like doing it. There is a certain feeling of contentment that wells within me after my business is done, not unlike, no doubt, that which Michelangelo felt after completing one of his frescos. Like him, I am the master of my medium.
I repress a tormented scream that has boiled up to my lungs from the pot of pain in my belly. If it advances any further, I will give myself away. I squeeze my face harder to keep that torment within me, lest it escape with the force of a North Sea gale.
I have a small bottle of laudanum to ease the pain, but I loathe drinking it before doing my business. It numbs my senses and lessens the enjoyment I would otherwise have playing with a wench’s internal organs. I will use it, if need be, but I decide to wait and see if the ordeal passes. Sometimes its onset and demise can be a matter of only minutes; occasionally, the agony can last hours.
Just when I think the pain is at its most unbearable and reach for the small bottle in my pocket, the pain relinquishes its iron grasp on me. It leaves me exhausted. I resist the urge to retch because I am strong.
Syphilis may eventually win the war, but I have won every battle since taking up the fight. I inhale deeply to give much needed air to my struggling lungs. This renews me, and I need as much strength as can be mustered this night. Much energy was used just a short while ago with my first go of the night but not as much as I would have liked; someone in a dogcart was boorish enough to interrupt my opus.
This grip of pain, having thus unhanded me, was not entirely unexpected. Its intensity, however, though short in duration, was one of greater magnitude than any previous. It takes several more deep inhalations to restore my vigor.
Suddenly, footsteps near the far end of the passage sober me fully. She is coming from the direction on Mitre Square but has not yet reached the entrance to Church Passage. How convenient it is that my prey comes to me, this time.
The outline to most at this distance would be indiscernible, but the darkness is my friend. It whispers in my ear in the form of quick, delicate steps that the shadow is female.
As if ushering her to her demise, fingers of fog, vaguely phosphorescent from a far-off gas light, wrap themselves around her, as she starts down the passage.
There is only one kind of fish in the sea at this hour. It is time to cast another lure. As our paths narrow, my steps are longer and faster and quieter. She may not even know of my presence as yet. We are nearer to Mitre Square than Duke Street, from which I had just turned.
I can sense apprehension in the woman—just a little. She now sees my blackened outline ahead of her. Her steps slacken then resume their original pace, scraping a heel of her shoe on the walkway, almost stumbling. Considering the deeds I’ve done over the last few weeks, I suppose I should not blame her. She has reason to be fearful; fate has put her in the path of Jack the Ripper.
See, even Destiny is unwilling to protect those such as this contemptable creature, who will give away her most precious asset for the smallest morsel or pittance of coin, not even being civilized enough to keep herself clean for those to whom she sells.
I will now free her of that burden.
She is within striking distance.
I rattle my change purse loud enough for her to realize my intentions. She slows down and nods. “Evenin’, sir.”
I tip my hat and disguise my voice, though I probably have no good reason to do so to catch a fish such as this. “Will you?” I ask.
She stood a moment, perfectly still, as though ascertaining my qualities through the inky night between us.
I can smell the trepidation in the space between us.
She begins to walk past without reply, but I grab her by the arm. Once again, I rattle my change purse. “Twice what you usually ask, if you will. If you will, please.” I think it beneath me to plead, but I am in character. A paunchy, old Englishman like myself would no doubt have to plead, even if a little, to get a woman to open up for me.
Her shadowed head turns, briefly, inspecting the coal-black walkway behind us. She turns her head back to me, up the passageway, then back to me once more. I can tell by the slight widening of her shadowed cheeks that a smile has puckered her face in acquiescence. It’s too bad that her last smile would be wasted on me.
She begins lifting her dress, as she says in a whiskyhardened voice, “Twice it is, then, and you won’t regret what you pay for, if I do say so myself, sir.”
This is when I am at my best. I am an expert at this grizzly business. I know precisely when to strike and how. I am ambidextrous in this tenebrous murk and know my way around a body by a sense that few others possess. It is this awareness that strengthens my bravado to do something no other would dare try nearly sightless and with stepped up patrols in every quarter of Whitechapel.
My hands are surprisingly lightning-quick and tourniquet-tight, and they strike at the woman’s neck while her hands are fumbling around the dirty cloth of her dress.
I force her back towards Mitre Square then up against the gritty wall, as my hands clench off the
blood supply to her brain and squeeze shut her windpipe, refusing her the ability to scream.
She struggles violently, as they all do, but she is quickly using up what little air she has left in her lungs. She only manages to push against my face. She swings her hands wildly only to land fruitless blows to my shoulder.
The only sounds our intimate embrace surrender are a few shuffles of feet against cobblestone and the faint wheeze of a clenched-off windpipe.
There always arises in me at these times a revulsioninduced strength that I would otherwise not possess. My hands compress, like the coils of a constrictor, around her neck, and I almost believe that I have the capacity to pop her head completely off her shoulders.
She tries with what little energy she retains for one last attempt to free herself from my grip, but my forearms are plastered against her shoulders, my legs are firmly lodged between hers, pressing outward to keep her off balance. All she can do is wiggle like a hooked cod pulled up from the abyss on a fishing line.
A hand briefly breaks free, however instead of striking at me, she tries to maneuver her hand to her body. She is surprisingly quick, as she reaches for something under her shawl; I might have misjudged just how close to death she was. Some succumb quickly to my grip. Others aren’t so ready to give up the ghost. This one’s a fighter, and that, itself, heightens my arousal for blood.
I feel tempered steel brush up against my forearm. Well, well! She carries protection. Since my implement is sullied, I will use hers when the time comes.
Though she manages to retrieve the knife, I do not give her enough use of her arm to use it with any effect. She manages to stick its point in my coat sleeve, cutting the outer shell, but it is not with enough force to rend all the layers and get at my skin.
I momentarily free my left hand from its death grip and catch her armed hand as its blade tried to find traction on flesh. I smash her knuckles against the wall. After two such blows, she whimpers painfully, loses the grip on the blade, and it falls in a metallic clank upon the damp macadam.