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

by Amy Cross

  I look around, trying to locate the source of this sound, before suddenly I am struck by the most awful realization of all.

  It is me.

  I am crying out, and I cannot stop myself.

  How have I come to this, and how can my Catherine have been reduced to such a state?

  The wailing continues, until I reach up and physically force my mouth shut. Even now, a desperate hum emerges from the back of my throat, and it takes several more seconds before I am able to quieten myself entirely. And now, with my hands still clamped against my mouth, I find that I am quite incapable of rational thought. Indeed, I move my hands on the sides of my head as I feel a huge pressure starting to build. At first, I fear that I might never be capable of thought again, but then the pressure subsides and I am left simply with a rumbling pain. I lean forward, with my hands still on my head, until my forehead bumps against the wall, and then I let out a more uncharacteristic and animal-like groan of sorrow. I have begun to wail and sob again. At the same time, I can still hear the sound of chewing coming from down in the basement.

  “It cannot end like this,” I whisper, trying to find some hope from somewhere. “She can be revived. She must be revived. That cannot be Catherine down there, she would not do something like this.”

  And yet the sound continues, and it is as if Catherine is not only chewing through Culpepper's body, she is also eating into my own mind. I cannot listen for a moment longer, yet I still cannot tear myself away. Letting out another animalistic whine, I roll onto my side, still clutching the sides of my head. It is as if all my thoughts are crashing together, as if permanent damage is being done to my mind. For a few seconds, I am absolutely convinced that even if this terrible sensation passes, I shall never be myself again.

  Finally, somehow, I stumble to my feet and make my way back across the hallway, before stopping again as I reach the door that leads into the study. I feel utterly, utterly drained, as if every bone in my body is trying to pull me down to the floor.

  Delilah Culpepper is still unconscious, although Jack has moved her to the reclining chair by the window and he is tending to her with a surprising degree of tenderness. For a few seconds, I can only stare at the scene as I feel all my certainties fall away. Now, with a heavy heart, I can truly contemplate the impossible.

  “Tell me,” I say to him finally, my voice trembling with fear. “Jack, you must tell me.”

  He looks over at me. “Tell you what, Sir?”

  “What you were talking about before,” I continue. “Stories of the dead. Tell me. I fear I am finally ready to listen. I fear I have finally fallen that far, because...”

  My voice trails off for a moment. If feel as if – by even contemplating these words – I risk betraying everything I have valued during my life. Science. Medicine. Rational thought. All these qualities and more have been the bedrock of my work, yet now that bedrock is crumbling and I feel superstition coursing through my veins. Perhaps this is weakness, perhaps it is strength, but either way... I need to know more. I need to at least face the possibility that medical science cannot explain this wretched situation.

  “Whatever has become of Catherine,” I say after a moment, “I am no longer certain that it can be explained by conventional medical science. There. I have spoken words that strike horror into my heart.”

  “Sir -”

  “TELL ME!” I scream, momentarily dispossessed of my senses before quickly recovering my composure. Taking a stumbling step forward, I almost slip and fall, only just managing to steady myself against the door. “For the love of God, man,” I continue breathlessly, “tell me what you know. Or what you think you know.”

  For the love of God?

  Did I really say that?

  I am Doctor Charles Grazier, I am a distinguished member of no less than five...

  No less than...

  London...

  What am I? What have I become? Have I become mad?

  Jack takes a moment to check Delilah once more, before getting to his feet and making his way back over to the desk. He seems fearful, even scared, and I watch as he opens one of the books and reveals a set of handwritten notes that he has made on some of the blank pages. Ordinarily I would be furious that he used my books, but on this occasion I merely walk over to the desk's other side and look down at the scrawled, barely-legible words. Jack's handwriting is obscene, and it is quite clear that he lacks any sort of education whatsoever, yet at this moment I am willing to try anything.

  “I pray that I am wrong,” he says after a moment, his voice heavy with fear. “I pray that I am a fool, and that these ideas are mere foolish notions. I pray that -”

  “Enough of that nonsense,” I reply, interrupting him. “You do not need to set the scene with foreboding prattle. Tell me what you think is happening here.”

  He stares at the pages for a few seconds, before turning to another, revealing a set of symbols that he has jotted down. He looks down at these symbols, as if they possess some meaning that he understands. A moment later he runs a fingertip over them, as if to feel the ink that dries these scratched shapes to the page.

  “I am starting to believe,” he says finally, “that by attempting to bring your wife back, we have inadvertently stumbled upon something that should have remained in the shadows. Something that some men sense at times, but that no man grasps in its entirety, and that otherwise remains hidden from the lives of mortals. We, however, have somehow drawn back the veil and exposed some hidden aspect of life itself. Of death.”

  He pauses, and then he looks at me.

  “We have gone too far, Doctor Grazier. We have gone farther, perhaps, than is permitted for mere mortals.”

  “But what does that mean?” I ask, with fresh tears in my eyes. “Tell me in plain English, man.”

  “I fear,” he continues, “that our actions in this house have attracted the attention of something that has been dead for a very long time. Tell me, Doctor Grazier... Have you heard the story of the souls that refuse to die?”

  And while once I would have told him to be quiet, now I merely wait for him to explain more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maddie

  Today

  They're laughing like schoolkids.

  Sitting up in one of the house's bedrooms, I can't help flinching as I hear Alex and Nick giggling down in the study. When Alex arrived, I thought everything was going to be okay, and that she and I would be able to come up with some kind of plan. Even though she was being a little irritating, for a few minutes I genuinely thought that we'd be okay. Then Nick showed up as well and the whole thing fell to pieces. For the first time, I'm starting to wonder whether I was better off on my own. I mean, sure, I struggled to stay out there on the streets while the police were hunting for a killer, but London won't be in that state forever.

  Once the killer has been caught, maybe I should cut the cord and set off without Alex.

  “No way!” I hear her call out suddenly, followed by the sound of her and Nick running across the hallway. Then there's a bump, as if one of them just slammed against a wall.

  “Get back here!” Nick yells. “You are so dead!”

  “Yeah?” she giggles. “What're you gonna do about it?”

  “Get real, bitch! You're going down!”

  She says something back to him, but all I hear is them rushing down into the basement. They're making so much noise, I almost feel as if somebody should apologize to this old, quiet, proud house. Even now that they're all the way in the basement – two whole storeys below me – I can still hear them laughing and messing around. It's starting to seem as if Nick is changing Alex in some pretty serious ways, and helping her let rip with her less responsible side. Meanwhile I'm up here, feeling like some grumpy a-hole who resents other people having fun. I really hate feeling this way, but -

  Suddenly I hear something brushing past me, just over my left shoulder. I turn, thinking that somehow Alex or Nick managed to sneak up here, but there's no sig
n of anyone. I definitely heard a sound, however, and now I sit in complete silence as I wait for it to return. As the seconds tick past, however, I hear only more giggles from down in the basement, and I start telling myself that the supposed 'brushing sound' was really either a figment of my imagination or something completely innocuous. I've let Alex and Nick get to me, and they've made me jumpy, but I have to hold onto at least some of my sanity.

  And then I hear the sound again, accompanied by what I swear is the sound of somebody walking up the house's main staircase.

  I remain completely still for a moment, before getting to my feet and hurrying to the door. Just as I look out toward the stairs, however, the sound comes to an abrupt stop. My heart is pounding, but deep down I already know that somehow Alex and Nick are trying to trick me again. I've already fallen for their stupid games twice today, and there's no way I'm going to give them yet another laugh. As I wait in the doorway, however, I realize I can still hear them laughing and messing around in the basement.

  Or can I?

  The more I listen, the more I realize that they could easily be faking the noise. Maybe they're playing a recording, using it to distract me while they sneak up to embarrass me again. In fact, that'd explain why they're being so obnoxiously loud. That's exactly the kind of thing I can imagine them doing, and I'm really not in the mood to be the butt of another stupid joke.

  “I know you're just trying to mess with me,” I say finally, convinced that they're hiding somewhere nearby and snickering. “Can you just knock it off? Three times in one day is kind of overkill, don't you think?”

  I wait.

  No reply.

  “I'm sure you can have fun some other way,” I continue, looking at the other open doorways as I try to figure out where they've gone. I hate sounding like the responsible one here. “I'm really tired and I just want to figure out what to do next. I don't mind you messing around, but can you leave me out of it?”

  I turn to go back into the bedroom, but then I glance back toward the top of the stairs.

  “And try not to make so much noise,” I add. “I'm -”

  Before I can finish, there's a loud bump right next to me, as if somebody stumbled against the wall. I step back instinctively, and this time I can absolutely see that there's nobody here. I peer into the nearest room, to check the wall's other side, but still I don't see anyone. Okay, this is a little spooky, but I guess that just means Alex and Nick are making an extra effort. If they can see me right now, they're probably struggling to keep from laughing out loud. I bet they think they've got me good.

  “Just stop it guys,” I mutter, turning and heading back into the room, then sitting on the end of the bed as I try to act like I'm totally not freaked out or annoyed. Putting my head in my hands, I sit in silence for a moment, trying to focus my thoughts.

  And then someone touches me.

  Startled, I sit back as I feel a hand brushing against my wrist. The sensation lingers for a few seconds, even as I stare straight ahead into empty space, and then I feel several fingertips slipping away from the palm of my hand. I try to tell myself that I'm imagining the whole thing, but a moment later the fingertips return, this time on the side of my face.

  “Who is that?” I stammer, swallowing hard. I swear, I can actually feel a hand touching my cheek. “What do you want?”

  The sensation fades, before quickly returning on the other side of my face.

  I instinctively pull back, clambering across the bed and then stumbling off the other side. As I do so, however, I feel a faint twinge of pain in the wound on my waist. That's the first time the wound has caused me any trouble since yesterday, and a moment later I realize that there's a very faint taste of peaches in my mouth.

  Backing against the wall, I look around the empty room, but there's definitely no sign of anyone. A few seconds later, however, I hear a faint creaking sound from the floor, as if somebody stepped on one of the old wooden boards. I wait, convinced that at any moment an explanation is going to leap out at me, but then another board creaks and then another, moving slowly across the room as if -

  Suddenly the hatch in the floor lifts up, swinging open as if some invisible force wants to see inside. I stare, too horrified to move, until finally the hatch door falls forward and slams shut.

  “Who's there?” I whisper.

  This has to be a trick.

  Damn it, why can I taste peaches?

  “Okay, you're going way too far this time,” I say out loud, feeling angry and ridiculous at the same time. I'm probably giving them exactly what they want, but I refuse to act like some dumb little kid. “Cut it out!” I yell. “Why do you even care, anyway? Why do you get off on freaking me out?”

  I wait, but a moment later I spot my reflection in the faded, dirty mirror on the dresser. I look completely terrified, like some kind of idiotic girl who can't even keep her head together. I hate seeing myself like that, so I start making my way across the room, heading toward the open doorway. I don't even know where I'm going, but I definitely don't want to spend another moment in this room being mocked by a pair of a-holes who won't even show their faces. As I reach the door, I glance at a framed photo on the wall, and I see my reflection as -

  Suddenly I freeze, spotting not only my own reflection in the glass but also another face just behind me. For a moment, I can only stare in horror at the sight of an older man whose eyes look to have been torn and cut. Just as I'm trying to convince myself that this is a trick of the light, the man steps toward me and I spin around.

  There's nobody there, but there was. I swear, there was a man standing right behind me. And now the taste of peaches is gone, as I look around the room and wait in case the face returns.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

  “They are present in every religion,” Jack explains, as he turns to another page in the notebook. “Every culture, every belief system. Sometimes prominently, sometimes not. Sometimes just in passing. Sometimes different groups even agree upon a name for them. Ghosts, demons, ghouls... Sometimes it is said that one feels the air chill in their presence, or that one notices an unusual taste in the mouth, or that one hears faint cries. So many variations exist, but there is one factor that is common to all versions of the story.”

  I wait for him to continue, but he seems genuinely awestruck by his own words.

  “And what is that?” I ask finally. “What is this common thread?”

  “It is the idea that while most souls move on to some other place, some turn back from the darkness and try to return to the light. They try to scratch and claw their way home, determined to find a way back to life. There is no way for them to succeed, of course, not in the natural order of things, yet still they persist. And occasionally, very occasionally, circumstances conspire to grant them an opening. A chance. And when that chance comes, sometimes one of these dead things is able to wriggle back through. And sometimes, even more rarely, the living become aware of them.”

  “This is nonsense,” I reply. “It is superstition gone mad.”

  “It might be a clue to what has happened.”

  “I believe in rational things.”

  “I believe in what I see.”

  “I believe in science!” I stammer.

  “THIS IS SCIENCE!” he roars, slamming his fist against the desk. “If what I am saying is even remotely correct, then it is absolutely a product of the scientific process! I am not claiming, Doctor Grazier, that your wife's body has become reanimated due to some magical hocus pocus, or by fairy dust dropped by a wizard who flew past on the back of a dragon! I am saying that there is a scientific process that we do not understand, that we are not even aware of, and that somehow this is what has allowed some other soul to crawl by its fingernails into your dead wife's body! Believe me, the idea sounds as impossible to me as it does to you, yet still I cannot dismiss it entirely.”

  “You are taking this too far,” I r
eply, exasperated by his ideas. Yet for a moment I cannot help staring down at the symbols he has drawn in the notebook. Everything he has told me sounds like madness, yet there is clearly method to this madness, and a kind of logic. I feel as if I am torn between two possibilities, and that at any moment I might yet tip over into such ridiculous beliefs.

  “They are markers,” he explains. “The symbols you see on this page. They create boundaries that the dead cannot cross.”

  “Says who?”

  “People who have studied these things.”

  “There is nothing to study.”

  “And yet they have persisted,” he replies, “and they have found methods that seem to work.”

  “What kind of fool would believe in such things?”

  “This fool,” he adds. “Perhaps fear compels me, but I find myself thinking more and more that these symbols can help us. I mean to put them about the house, Doctor Grazier, so that your wife... So that that thing can be in some manner contained.”

  “The basement door is locked,” I remind him.

  “She will only grow in strength, Doctor Grazier. We must contain her while I determine the best method to destroy her, and then -”

  “No!”

  “Sir, she -”

  “I did not conduct so much work to bring her back, only for you to dispatch her again!”

  “That thing is not your wife!” he shouts.

  I know that he is right, yet at the same time I have not given up hope that it might become her. I am trapped in the heart of the most dreadful chaos, yet I truly believe that I shall find a way out of that chaos. If I can just gain some time to think, I am certain that my goal of resurrecting Catherine might yet be achieved. I can tolerate setback after setback, and disaster after disaster, so long as I am able to retain some sense of hope. And hope can only survive while Catherine's physical form remains extant. She cannot be destroyed.