In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve...

  From time to time, Ethan would look up from the corner of his eyes as the clock continued to race, gauging his surroundings, catching a glimpse of an early morning traveler, someone off to somewhere, just like him. Many erroneous statements were made after the slaying of Mary Jane Kelly, a few reports of her being seen by others, citizens along the streets witnessing her alive for hours after her death. His thoughts traipsing in and out of madness with each step, Ethan wondered if he’d gone crazy, imagining the event rather than committing the slaughter of a woman. Were these eyewitness accounts accurate? No. Although obscured, Ethan could still detect dry bloodstains on his fingertips and the edges of his sleeves. He could feel the weight of the blade handle as he reached into his pocket to stroke the murder weapon. This had surely happened.

  Then who did these people see? Perhaps it was like the old turn-of-the-century photographs of ghosts. So, what if it was the spirit of Mary Kelly walking the streets later that morning as she had done so many times before her death? There was still another possibility. What if it was mistaken identity? Many prostitutes of that time wore the same kind of attire, layer upon layers of skirts, boots and bonnets. Couldn’t it be people spotted a woman who merely resembled her? Or, maybe it was Abigail. Except for the difference in the shapeliness of the two women the resemblance was remarkable, easily mistaken for one another, especially on a crowded street.

  And what of Abigail? Would Ethan happen upon this mortal worshipper again, once more before departing? Could she have been watching, following, maybe even stalking him since their last encounter? Was she standing just outside the little room where he sliced his last victim apart? Was she the one who had cried out in the dark of night? “Oh! Murder!” If so, to maintain his anonymity, he would have to silence Abby before leaving, having no choice but to kill her.

  “No worries.” He thought it through. “She would consider it an honor and feel privileged to have me cut her into scraps for the homeless hounds on these streets.”

  Then like the flip of a coin, the arrogant, erudite and entirely self-possessed side of Ethan’s insanity took charge.

  “Stop it! She wasn’t there. No one was there.” Applying his logic to perfection, everything he did was perfection and nothing would or could be altered. Dr. Arthur Bridgeman would remain a fictitious, unrecorded and unimportant name in history. The entire event was perfect. He was perfect.

  There were really no vestiges left of the man who stepped through Flicker back at the end of August. Certainly there was the memory of who he’d been at one time. Memories of family, friends, his love of teaching. He knew he was Ethan LaPierre in name only. Once an innocent boy, later a man of morality and humility, he could not afford to be that Ethan to do what he had to do here in this century. He couldn’t afford to return to being that man once he stepped back through the vortex. He did not want to, anyway. That sheep of a man who let years pass him by as opportunities in life, for love, were laid at his feet and yet he sidestepped them to avoid any pain. In retrospect, he’d lived a half-life. Now, Ethan was empowered with the necessary tools, all the proper skills to navigate his surroundings, whatever the time period or place happened to be. He was now the master of his domain and his dominion was the bloody fucking Universe, according to him, and he would know because he was a god. It all made perfect sense. The soldier returning home, not with mental trauma but prowess to command everyone and everything in his realm. His comrade, Time would accompany him through the Flicker back to the LHC, with him for eternity. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, they would defeat any adversary.

  Though his thoughts were all over the place, Ethan had the presence of mind to pick up a discarded tarp from the pile of trash just across the street from his lodging, from the same heap that sheltered Abigail from sight as he had watched from above. It seemed so long ago to him now, more like a dream. Making it back to his flat just past 4:30 a.m., without incident, as expected, Ethan became delightfully intoxicated with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee as he walked in the door. Either it belonged to the night manager or just one of the early workers who’d already left for the day. Ethan helped himself, pouring a cup without asking, as the kitchen, for the moment, was empty of occupants. While enjoying the coffee he set the kettle of water to boil, preparing to later sterilize the surgeon’s blade one last time before reacquainting it with other instruments resting on the desk in his room. They would travel together, inside the duplicate medical bag Ethan had purchased for the occasion of his return. Bringing the mug upstairs along with the canvas tarp he had claimed with reason, Ethan began the process of preparing for his journey home.

  Home. It would have a different feeling now. That apartment he knew and grew to love, on the outskirts of the Oxford campus, could feel uncomfortably foreign to him. Ethan feared he would forever feel like a caged animal when enclosed in those four walls. He had lived more of a life during the time he’d spent in the room where he now stood than he ever did during all those years he’d wasted away in his luxury, tech-savvy flat.

  Collecting himself first, Ethan then proceeded with his final travel preparations by gathering up every item of clothing he had purchased here, as well as the initial physician’s attire he had worn entering this era. Stuffing whatever would fit inside the original medical bag, after all the time he devoted to its cleansing, he could still see the bloodstained lining as he opened it to receive other incriminating evidence. A pitcher of fresh water at the ready for his disposal. Ethan had filled it in advance, now patiently waiting for the sun to arrive on this new and last day in Whitechapel. Biding his time until the sun would penetrate his room through the window, once it made its grand entrance, Ethan began collecting all the remaining clothing, shoes and accessories he could not stuff into the medical bag and, along with what he was wearing, tossed all of it onto the discarded tarp. He bathed his body, all the while staring at himself in the mirror, deep in thought. Ethan knew he was gazing at the visage of a god. After shaving clean the beard and his moustache, he ran his hands along his face, slowly transforming his exterior into a previous persona. Now it was time to dress the part of Dr. Arthur Bridgeman again. The elegant attire he’d bought in London, fit for a fine physician, was enlisted to assist him in completing the look. Virtually identical to the suit he’d arrived in, none the worse for wear, it hadn’t had any wear until now, having been saved for this momentous occasion.

  Dressing the part one last time, once he had tied the replicate dress shoes, Ethan stood to admire his appearance in the mirror. “Voilà! Dr. Bridgeman has returned!” Once again, staring down his reflection in the looking glass, he then realized that clothes do not make the man. This time he’d have to wonder if the demon staring back would, like Time, follow him into the future. The man’s disturbed mind being duly occupied, he retrieved the blade, pre-wrapped inside of several rags. Ethan headed downstairs, finding the public kitchen vacant and his pot of water ready for boiling. He hovered above it as the steam began to rise, escaping the water, sweeping across his newly exposed skin, the sensation a welcome one. Watching as the blade boiled, keeping an eye on his timepiece as well as his surroundings, Ethan remained ever mindful of the mission, prepared to intercede should anyone come sniffing around, perhaps a fellow tenant who might become curious about what he was cooking. Of course, no one intruded on his task.

  Nearing 7:30 a.m., the knife sterilized, Ethan returned to his room. Standing in the middle of the rug, there he remained just looking around. All of his items packed and ready to go, he paused to reflect upon the past months spent in these quarters, taking a few mental snapshots as mementos. Time spent with Polly and Abigail but mostly his time alone there would haunt him the most. The ghosts, the nightmares, the dreams, the fever and the food. He’d lived a lifetime and Time had changed his life. His departure surely bittersweet, if his leap had been designated a one-way trip through the Flicker, Ethan was certain he woul
d not only have survived during these times, he would have thrived. But it was not a one-way trip. He was expected home. The foreseeable future upon his return, Ethan was expected to report on the journey. He was expected to tell them a story and they expected a true one.

  Gathering the last of his personal belongings, it included something that did not belong to him. Retrieving his borrowed copy of “Robinson Crusoe” from the desk, he would return it to its rightful home in a cubbyhole in the hallway, placing it back on the shelf from which it came on his way out the door. That tiny little library had, at times, been his saving grace. Over time, he had read every book in the collection. Meager as it was, they were firsthand classics of his time, as well as their own, and it was a privilege to have access to them, revisiting old friends when he was deeply, desperately lonely, longing for some company. In fact, Ethan was quite sure all the literature had literally saved him from the depths of insanity. Of that, he could not have been more mistaken. Nothing could save him from himself.

  Ethan put on his coat, picked up the tarp and medical bag then tucked the book under his arm. Turning to face back into the room from the hallway, from the same spot where Polly and Abigail once stood, from the same doorway which glowed as a pair of angels made their entrance, he quietly closed the door on his 19th Century world. Walking downstairs, he replaced the book in the alcove then in rather bland, unceremonious style, stepped over the threshold and out the front door, exiting the lodging house without speaking to anyone. There’d be no point now trying to cover his tracks; nothing more could potentially taint his anonymous, clandestine mission. He turned right on Bakers Row then left on Hanbury Street, eventually reaching the corner where Hanbury, Commercial and Lamb Street met, just on the northern edge of Spitalfields Market. It was 8:12 a.m. and the Flicker door was just a few minutes’ walk to the north but Ethan had one more stop to make. One more mission.

  Whether it was his quick pace, brisk morning air flooding his lungs or this sense of accomplishment going to his head, he was practically floating along the surface of the streets beneath his feet. Ethan was euphoric, delighted with his performance and the outcome of this project. Knowing precisely where he was going, in moving forward, his mind was free to wander back in memory. Stepping lightly, something whimsical about his cadence, sentiment was building and brewing, biding its time. Observing the people in passing from beneath the brim of his hat, he considered the implications, cast into an irreversible role, one he’d be forced to play for the rest of his life. What did the future hold? He could see he’d be forced to stay in character as the persona of Professor Ethan LaPierre, the man they knew in 2020 expected to emerge on the other side of the doorway, bringing with him an amazing story. With that notion, Ethan drew in a deep breath and smiled.

  Of the many thousands of faceless, nameless women who worked the streets of Whitechapel during this era, the five women who’d met their fate beneath the blade of a man from the future would be properly acknowledged for the roles they played in history. He’d see to it. In fact, he demanded it of himself, considering what he’d already done. Jack the Ripper’s victims would no longer languish in obscurity, all but lost in the annals of time, overshadowed by his damned pseudonym. Now they, too, would live on in infamy by the same hand they’d died by. He would reanimate their souls. He silently vowed to do his part on their behalf, intending to write about them in the future. They’d no longer be listed merely as “victims” of a serial killer. Instead, these five women were deserving of the world’s respect.

  Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols

  Annie Chapman

  Elizabeth Stride

  Catherine Eddowes

  Mary Jane Kelly

  He would honor them in ways they had never been before. Their horror stories would be told in greatest detail, shared with all to read. He would write about them! He would lecture on all of them to his university students. Yes! He would declare himself their advocate, their only existing voice. Ethan was left speechless by his own thoughts and aspirations. Stopping dead in his tracks in the middle of the street, tears began to swell up in his eyes. Out it came, this bursting of the dam within his emotional walls. He began sobbing irrepressibly as the thought of devoting himself “in memoriam” touched him deep in his soul, finding the last nuances of his former self. He doubled over as if all the weight of guilt and responsibility pulled his head forward, overcome with feelings he could not control. After a few moments, Ethan began to slowly catch his breath, finally able to stand upright, only to find himself in tears of diabolical laughter.

  “Oh my God! That’s bloody hilarious!” Ethan exhaled the words, still trying to catch his breath.

  A slow, sly, callous grin crept onto his lips. Oh, of course, it made perfect sense.

  He stood at the main entrance to Spitalfields Marketplace as customers stepped all around him. He coldly calculated the depths of human depravity to which he was willing to sink, considering the endless possibilities of using their names to his own advantage. “I am fucking brilliant!” Anyone witnessing it would think the man was sobbing. Rather, Ethan was laughing hysterically, maniacally at his own cleverness. Paying “homage” to them in this way would appear entirely altruistic. He would be admired for doing so. His smart move would actually be a slight of hand committed with words. He would make a career of them! Ethan’s insidious grin widened into a broad smile.

  He was a god capable of exploiting them, once again, his grand and graceful power of resurrection and everlasting life. Illuminating the “victims” would allow their killer to lurk in their shadow, effectively redirecting a white hot spotlight from the predator onto his prey. There would be no harm done. They were already ghosts so they would not care as long as he made them as famous as himself. By protecting him, they would not have died in vain. Elated, Ethan realized he would escape any scrutiny. No searchlights casting suspicion upon him, he’d refocus his attention on them, in honor of their sacrifice made, paying the ultimate price for fame. “Perhaps it was a bit cynical but such is the way of the world, be that world old or new.” He thought silently. Pulling it together, he moved on into the marketplace, navigating his way through the light crowd. Thinking about the future as much as he’d dwelled in the past, Ethan would find his way to merge the two worlds and it would be his saving grace. There was method to his absolute madness. Not only was he a master at stealing lives, he was also fast graduating to stealing all hope, a killer of dreams.

  Ethan reasoned that the victims, these five women, in fact honored him or the persona he assumed during his travels in this time and place. Especially Mary Kelly, bestowing her blessing on him in more ways than one to be sure, but one way more specific than the rest. In his feverish delirium, when faced with both his angels and demons, Mary sat atop his body. With her rage and retribution, she’d plunged the knife into him over and over. During his maddening nightmare, she spoke. No. She decreed and condemned him to live, to survive. Ethan felt her hatred at the time it was happening, processing the hallucinations as a curse bestowed, yet, now it was clear. Her words were prophetic to a fault. What she truly sealed was the fate of his identity. He would live on forever in the annals of history, not as Dr. Ethan LaPierre but as the infamous, notorious serial killer “Jack the Ripper”. The dark, clairvoyant prediction of eternal terror, he was the terror that was about to leap more than one hundred and thirty years into the future.

  Many of the market vendors would get a late start of it on Friday, as opposed to Saturday’s merchants. Most were beginning to set up wares to be purchased. During this morning ritual, several metal drums were ignited with waste materials from the nearby trash heaps, keeping them warm, a type of recycling for their own purposes. This was to be Ethan’s last stop on his path to the portal. Stepping between two of the wooden produce stands over to a burning barrel strategically placed for both the vendors to share, he laid the replacement medical bag in his right hand down on the ground beside him. Ethan lifted the original medical bag that co
ntained some of his old clothing and his previous journal inside and held it in front of him for a moment before tossing it into a fiery grave. What remained wrapped up in the tarp followed it into the barrel. He could have simply grabbed the new bag, turned and continued on to his final destination. Instead, he spent his last few minutes in the 19th Century facing the flames of his existence, watching yellow smoke billowing from the metal can, following the embers with his eyes, rising up to meet an overcast morning sky. Ethan wondered which ashes were from the blood of his victims being released into the air. Which telling streak of smoke came from Abby, blowing him a bloody kiss? Were they parts of his words, confessional pages of the journal he could never bring back? Looking down into the bowels of the blackened pit to see the incineration of the leather bag and its contents, garments in the tarp, they were burnt offerings to other gods in tribute, hoping for returned blessings from his peers. The true tale of his journey was going up in smoke and flames along with any fragments of the man Ethan once was before stepping through the flame-like doorway some months ago. Will o’ the wisps, they were, whispering his deepest, darkest secrets as they went, telling tales of woe to a marketplace full of people but no one was listening to them.

  Ethan could not help but smile as the smoke wafted up in his face, stinging his eyes as he gazed into the open pyre. He could feel the ghosts of his victims hovering around him. He saw them in the smoke, each smiling down upon him in tribute to his cleverness, uncanny abilities to navigate a series of complex tasks over so many weeks involving an extensive cast of characters without being detected. “Bravo!” His satisfied smile was in homage to his friend and ally Time who, although toying with him a few times, never betrayed a confidant nor his confidentiality. Time had helped him make it through this mission. The “job”. Ethan’s grin grew as an inferno engulfed any and all evidence remaining in that barrel. Oh, he wasn’t going to move until the last of it disintegrated, disappearing into the ether, not because he was still paranoid about being discovered but because it was a ritual necessary for him to let go, to say his goodbyes to the women and the world he changed forever in history. He too was forever changed. As the last bit of the bag burned out of existence Ethan picked up the other one at his feet and walked away unnoticed. It was 8:47 a.m.