A Beast Well Tamed (The House of Jack the Ripper Book 5)

by Amy Cross

  “It might,” I reply, stepping over and starting to gather the books up from the floor. My hands are shaking, and I quickly find that the spines of several of the books have been damaged. Perhaps my faith in these books is returning. “There is a great deal to take into account, but Catherine's condition must fall within the parameters of some recognized physical condition. It simply must. Why, to suggest otherwise would be to invoke...”

  My voice trails off. For a moment, I am too horrified to even move, but finally I look up at Jack and see that he in turn is staring at me with a growing hint of fear in his eyes.

  “It cannot be anything else,” I continue, rather weakly. “Tell me you agree. You have to agree. I have merely made a mistake, but it is one that can be rectified if only I am able to determine the nature of that mistake.”

  I wait for him to tell me that I'm right, but he says nothing.

  “The human body is like a machine,” I explain, hoping to reach some kind of fitting understanding. “If a machine moves, we do not say that it possesses a soul. I have inadvertently triggered something in Catherine's body that gives her motive power, absent her actual mind. I have revived the body before I revived Catherine herself, so I simply have to bring her mind back and then she will be well again. Don't you understand? It makes perfect sense.”

  Again I wait, and again he says nothing.

  “It makes sense!” I stammer, although I can hear the doubt in my own voice. “Really, this... I must say, really this is actually a great success, and...”

  “Do you still cling to your science?” he asks suddenly, sounding as if he does not believe me at all. “After what you just saw down there, do you still believe the answer is in one of those books?”

  “It must be,” I reply, before setting the books on the desk and starting to take a look through them, to see which Jack brought over from the shelf. “In all my life,” I continue, “I have never once come upon a condition that cannot be explained by established reason. Certainly there have been challenges, and moments when it seemed as if no answer would be forthcoming, but that simply meant that I had to work harder and for longer. It is this stringent determination, this adherence to science, that marks out a great man.”

  “It sounds like just another type of religion to me,” Jack says darkly.

  “You know nothing,” I mutter. “Nothing at all.”

  I open the first of the books, simply at random, and start looking through what turns out to be a wholly unhelpful section on liver conditions. I turn to another page, about kidneys, then to a section on the nervous system. Indeed, with each fresh page I am confronted by yet more information that sheds no light on Catherine's current predicament.

  “It's in here somewhere,” I stammer. “It must be.”

  A moment later Jack steps past me, bumping my shoulder as he goes. I turn and watch as he storms out into the hallway, and then to my horror I see that he is going over to the basement door.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Why -”

  My throat seizes with fear as I see that he is unlocking the door, which he pulls open a moment later. Standing framed in the doorway, he stares down into the darkness, and I realize I can just about hear the sound of Catherine still snarling and struggling somewhere down there. I wait for Jack to say something, or to do something, yet he simply stands there and watches her.

  “What do you see?” I ask, with tears in my eyes. “What is she doing?”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  I pause for a few seconds.

  “I would rather not,” I say finally. “I have much to do here, in my office. Can you not just tell me?”

  I wait, but he says nothing.

  “Tell me,” I add, and now my voice trembles worse than ever. “Please, tell me what you see.”

  “She is still attempting to climb the steps,” he replies, “but so far she is making no progress whatsoever. She is looking up at me, and I swear I have never seen such anger before, not even in the eyes of the mad dogs that live in the mud at the river's edge. I believe, Doctor Grazier, that sooner or later she will learn how better to climb, and then she will make her way up to this door.”

  “And then what?” I ask.

  I wait for an answer, but he says nothing. Instead, he watches the steps for a moment longer before shutting the door and turning the key in the lock.

  “She cannot get through there,” I point out. “Not when it is locked. Can she?”

  “I do not believe so,” he mutters, and then he turns and walks out of sight. “Then again, this seems not to be a time for certainties.”

  “Where are you going?” I call after him.

  “To think,” he replies. “To find an answer.”

  I hear him leave the house, and then I look out the window just in time to see that he is walking toward the far end of the garden. I remain in place, watching as he stops on the grass, and finally he sits cross-legged and closes his eyes. It takes a moment longer for me to see that he has taken position directly beneath the knife that he hung the other day from the tree, and that he seems to be meditating. I am not sure how such inaction can possibly help the situation, especially for a beast such as Jack who is barely capable of proper thought. Still, I suppose it is good to get him out of the way for a while, so that I can get some proper work done.

  Looking back down at the textbooks, I start searching through their pages. The answer is in here somewhere. Of that I am sure. I simply have to keep looking until it is found. I have to hold my faith in medical science, else I shall lose my mind.

  Chapter Three

  Maddie

  Today

  “Hang on!” I call out, as I continue to struggle with the bolt on the back door. “I'll be out in just a moment!”

  I thought this thing would be a little easier to open, but it seems to be completely rusted shut. Then again, I might be doing something wrong. I keep wiggling the handle, hoping to somehow force the bolt across, but I can tell that it's bumping against something pretty solid. I must have been at this for a good ten minutes now, and I'm starting to think that maybe I'm not going to have any luck. After everything I said to Jerry, maybe we're going to fail at the very first hurdle.

  “Just wait a few more seconds!” I shout, so that he doesn't give up out in the garden and wander off. “I'll get it soon, I promise. I think it just hasn't been opened for a long time, that's all.”

  And then I spot a small metal latch that seems to be holding the bolt in place. I slide the latch aside, and suddenly the bolt comes all the way across. With a feeling of achievement, I finally manage to pull the door open, and I barely manage to keep from saying “Ta da” as I see Jerry waiting on the other side.

  Or rather, waiting all the way over by the gate, with a terrified look on his face. It's almost as if he's too scared to cross the threshold and actually come close to the house. After a moment, I see that he's actually got one hand on the gate itself, as if he's scared to let go.

  “You can come in now,” I tell him, standing in the doorway. “It's totally safe, I promise. I've checked all the rooms.”

  I wait, but after a moment I realize that he seems genuinely horrified by the idea. After I finally persuaded him to at least give this a try, I could tell that he wasn't convinced, but he seemed to at least be willing to make an effort. Then as we came around to the rear of the house, I could tell that he was becoming more and more nervous. Still, I figured I could help him get over this final little hurdle. He's been living next door for decades, obsessing over this house, and he's still never actually been inside. Now he's staring past me, toward the house's dark interior, as if he sees something terrifying.

  I turn and look, but there's nothing. Just the dark, empty hallway and several doors leading into the rooms, plus the staircase rising high into the darkness of the upper floor.

  “Come on,” I say, making my way outside and heading over to where Jerry is waiting by the gate. Reaching out, I offer him my left ha
nd. “I'll help you.”

  “Don't you feel it?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly as he stares past me toward the open, waiting doorway.

  “It's a little cold,” I admit.

  “But don't you feel the house telling you to keep away?”

  I almost make a joke, but I manage to hold back. After all, he looks genuinely terrified and it wouldn't be right to make fun of him. He's built this up so much, it's only natural that he's finding it hard now to get past a lifetime's worth of fears.

  “Why don't you just come to the doorway?” I ask. “Then you can see how you feel once you've made it that far. Even if you only peer inside today, that'd be an improvement, wouldn't it? Then you can go a little further each time until eventually you'll get all the way into the hall. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll go upstairs, or into the basement. No pressure, but I really believe in you.”

  He immediately shakes his head, as if the idea is utterly horrifying.

  “It's really just a house,” I tell him yet again. “I know you've spent a lot of time wondering what's inside, but that's part of the problem. Imagination can be a powerful thing, and it can be difficult to see past illusions. Trust me, after everything that's happened to me over the past week, I really appreciate what it's like.”

  “I can feel it now,” he replies, sounding a little breathless and panicked. “My throat is tightening, just being this close. There's a force reaching out, pushing me back, telling me that I have no business coming even this far. This force is so strong and so obvious, the only mystery is why you don't feel it. Something unnatural is in that house, something...”

  He reaches his hands forward and moves them through the air, almost as if he thinks there's something right in front of him. There's one part of me that thinks he's taking this way too far, that he's getting a little deluded, but then there's another part of me that knows it must seem very real to him. After all, I hallucinated several times over the past few days, so I know how easy it is to believe in things that are conjured up by your own mind.

  “If there was something bad in there,” I say finally, “why wouldn't I feel it too?”

  “Exactly,” he replies, turning to me. “That is what I have been wondering too. Why don't you feel it?”

  I reach down and take his hand in mine.

  “Just to the door,” I continue, offering a smile that I hope might make him feel at least slightly better. I give his hand a slight squeeze too. “I've spent three nights in the house now, and nothing bad has happened to me at all. Sure, I got a little scared once or twice, but I've never been a huge fan of the dark. The point is, I survived three nights, so I reckon you can totally survive a few minutes on the doorstep. What do you say, Jerry? Are you willing to give it a shot?”

  He looks toward the house, and I can see the fear in his eyes. And then, just when I think he's about to give up and walk away, he nods.

  “You're ready?” I ask.

  He nods again. He's clearly still terrified, but maybe I've managed to help him find a little extra courage. And then, slowly, he lets go of the gate.

  “Okay,” I continue. “Let's take it steady.”

  I step forward, but he's still hesitant. Finally, however, he starts walking along with me, although I quickly feel him holding my hand tighter and by the time we get close to the back door I'm actually starting to find his grip a little painful. I don't say anything, though, since I really don't want to deter him from doing something that he clearly thinks is a huge deal.

  “There we go,” I say as we reach the back door. “How are you feeling?”

  He's still gripping my hand, and when I turn to him I see that he's staring straight through the door and into the dark of the house. Following his gaze, I find that I can just about make out the kitchen and the hallway. To be honest, I can totally understand how the view is a little creepy.

  “So,” I continue, turning back to him, “do you feel like going inside today?”

  “It's everywhere,” he whispers.

  “What is?”

  “I know what it is now,” he continues, his eyes widening with fear as tears start running down his face. “I've felt it, all these years, reaching out to me. I thought it was just noise, or a kind of static, but now I can actually hear it.” He pauses, before turning to me with an expression of disbelief. “How can you not hear it?” he asks. “How can you not hear that scream? It's filling the entire house.”

  I wait for him to explain, but he seems almost frozen.

  “I don't hear a scream,” I tell him finally. “I don't hear anything.”

  “Somebody is screaming in there,” he continues, taking a step back but still holding my hand. “I can hear it as clearly as I hear you. Clearer, even. I can hear it ringing out through the house, and I can hear it shaking the frame of the door.”

  “Huh.”

  I pause, before reaching over and touching the frame. I don't feel anything, of course, but I figure there's no need to say that to Jerry. The last thing I want is for him to think that I'm making fun of him.

  “No more,” he says suddenly, slipping his hand away from mine and taking a couple more steps back, almost as if the house is forcing him away. “No more, no more...”

  “You don't want to try coming into the kitchen?”

  “You must come with me,” he continues, gesturing for me to follow him as he backs toward the gate. “Come, girl. You shouldn't be here.”

  “I'm fine, honestly.”

  “Just because you don't hear it, doesn't mean it isn't all around you. You're not safe in there. Nobody is!”

  “And if I don't go back inside,” I reply, “who's going to take all those other photos you want?” Reaching into my pocket, I take out the recharged digital camera. “I'm not doubting that you think you can hear something, but I don't hear it, so I figure maybe that means I'll be okay. I mean, that makes sense, right? If something in this house wanted to hurt me, it could have done it by now. That has to count for something.”

  I'm humoring him, of course, but I'm trying to do it in a nice way.

  He stares at the house for a moment longer, looking up toward the windows above the door. He seems genuinely terrified, as if he's frightened to his core. Maybe he expects to see a ghostly face at one of the windows, or maybe he thinks he'll spot a shadow moving in one of the upstairs rooms. He's probably got all sorts of crazy ideas, and I wouldn't even be surprised if he managed to hallucinate something. He watches the windows for a moment longer, before finally turning to me again.

  “You must come back to my house later,” he says finally. “Before sundown, so I know that you're alright.”

  “Sure,” I reply. “I can do that.”

  “You must come back!” he continues, sounding increasingly worried. “Promise me! If it gets to sundown and I haven't seen you, I'll think that something awful has happened!”

  “I promise I'll come back,” I tell him, “and it'll be way before sundown. And I'll have all the photos you want.”

  He stares at me for a moment, before muttering something under his breath as he turns and hurries to the gate. He seems desperate to get out of the garden, and as he disappears from view I can't help but realize that this house has really burrowed its way into his head. I don't think he's completely crazy, but it's pretty obvious that he's beyond obsessed with the house, and that he barely thinks about anything else. I just hope that maybe the photos, and the notebooks too, and even these little trips closer to the door, might help him see past his fears.

  I honestly can't imagine what it's like to live in the shadow of such absolute, all-consuming fear.

  Stepping back into the house, I take a moment to lock the back door and then I make my way through to the hallway. After everything Jerry has been saying, I can't help stopping for a few seconds and listening to the silence, and I have to admit that some of his words echo through my thoughts. The house is old and it is a little creepy, and it'd be so easy to start imagining bumps and kno
cks coming from the empty rooms. Finally, however, I force myself to remember that I don't believe in any of that ghost garbage, and that I just need to find some way to occupy my time today. I guess I can start by taking those photos.

  At least I know I'm alone here.

  “Gotcha!” a voice yells suddenly.

  Startled, I'm about to turn around when a hand clamps tight over my mouth and I feel hot breath against the back of my neck. For a moment, sheer panic fills my chest.

  “Somebody's screaming in here?” the voice continues, and now I realize with a rush of relief that I recognize her. “Who the hell is that old guy?”

  Pulling away, I turn and see a face grinning at me, a face that's clearly very much amused by my state of shock.

  “Alex!” I stammer, barely able to believe what I'm seeing right in front of me. “You came!”

  Chapter Four

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

  “Increased aggression can also be caused by damage to certain parts of the brain,” I read out loud from one of the textbooks, “particularly the...”

  My voice trails off for a moment, and then slowly I turn and look toward the basement door. For a few seconds I hear nothing, as if the entire house has fallen silent, but then I realize that I can perhaps hear a very faint bumping sound, as if Catherine is still struggling at the foot of the stairs.

  No, not Catherine.

  That thing, whatever it might be, is most certainly not my wife.

  Suddenly the sound stops, and I am left in silence again.

  Perhaps she is cured!

  Perhaps her proper mind has somehow reasserted itself, and now everything is alright again! I wait, listening to the silence and feeling heartened by each second that passes without the sound of some growl or snarl or stumble. Indeed, after almost a minute like this, I cannot shake a rush of hope in my heart at the thought that the nightmare might finally be over. After all, Catherine has always been a very strong-willed woman, and it is certainly possible that she has simply taken back control of her body.