by Cross, Amy
Copyright 2017 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
First published: August 2017
“It's all anybody can talk about. He's out there somewhere in the night, stalking the streets as he searches for his next victim.”
A killer is loose in London, copying the murders of Jack the Ripper. Alone on the streets, Maddie tries to find a place to hide, but she soon starts to see a silhouetted figure following her through the night. She tells herself that she's imagining the whole thing, but soon she finds herself trapped. Even when an unlikely savior seems to come along and offer hope, Maddie worries that she's not safe. And before the night is over, she comes face to face with the true horror that is stalking the streets of London.
Meanwhile, over a century earlier, Doctor Charles Grazier deals with an intruder in his home. Wanting nothing more than to complete his work and go to join his wife Catherine, Grazier finds instead that his noctural activities have drawn some unwanted attention. Can he get rid of this intruder and get back to his original plan, or will he be tempted to try an even more shocking procedure? And can anything stop the spread of lurid stories, detailing the crimes of Jack the Ripper?
In Darkness Dwell is the second book in a new horror series, titled The House of Jack the Ripper. This book ends on a cliffhanger, and the story continues in the next book in the series.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
In Darkness Dwell
(The House of Jack the Ripper book 2)
Prologue
“Matt!” I scream, as I slam down against the boards at the bottom of the stairs. “Matt, where are you?”
Rolling onto my side, I feel an intense pain in my belly. I reach down to grab the thick cut that was torn through my skin, but to my horror I feel something wet and slimy poking out through the slit. Something that even now seems to be sloughing out a little more, as if intense pressure is forcing it from my body.
It can't be what it feels like.
Please don't be what it feels like.
Trembling with fear, I look down and see several thick, bulging shapes coiling out from my ravaged body. My vision is getting a little blurry, and it takes a few seconds before I can really focus properly. When I'm finally able to see, I let out an instinctive gasp of shock. It looks as if my guts have started to slop out, but I know that can't be what's happening.
It just can't.
I'd have passed out by now.
I have to push it all back in.
The pain is pulsing through my body as my trembling fingers brush against the bloodied meat. In fact, it's not just my fingers that are shaking: my whole body is trembling violently, as if I'm going into shock, and I can hear my snatched, terrified gasps for air. For a few seconds I continue to fumble with whatever's coming out from my body, watching in horror as more and more blood gets smeared across my hands. Every time I try to push one section back inside, another section comes flopping out. I keep trying, even as my fingers slip and squelch in all the blood, but then I hear a bumping sound nearby and I turn to look up the stairs.
It's him.
He's watching me.
He's standing at the top and he's grinning wildly, and he's holding the knife in one hand. The same knife that cut me a moment ago, and that's still dribbling blood onto the floorboard.
“Matt!” I shout, louder than I ever thought I could shout, loud enough to make my throat hurt. If he's anywhere in this house, he has to be able to hear me now. “Matt, he's here! Matt, it's him!”
I wait, but the only sound is the continued squelching as I try in vain to push my guts back inside.
“Matt, where are you?” I sob.
He hasn't left.
He wouldn't just abandon me here.
“Please,” I whimper, still staring up at the figure at the top of the stairs, “where's Matt? Did you do something to Matt? Is -”
Suddenly the figure takes a step forward, and I let out another horrified gasp. I watch with a growing sense of terror as the figure starts coming down the stairs, causing the slightly-loose boards to creak with each step. He's taking his time, as if he thinks he's finally got me cornered, and I can't help staring at the glinting knife in his right hand. When he gets to me, he'll slice that curved blade through me again and again, and he'll do the same thing to me that he did to all those other girls. I've seen his other victims – some of them at least – and I know that he'll take things from my body. The way he did to his original victims, and to the recent girls. And to Alex.
For a moment, too shocked to move, I continue to watch as he walks down toward me, but then a burst of fear crashes through my chest and I realize I have to run.
Turning, I stumble to my feet. I keep my hands pressed against my belly in an attempt to keep everything from crashing out and hitting the floor. I briefly slip in my own blood, dropping back down onto one knee, but I manage to get back up again and take a few limping steps toward the front door. As I get closer, however, I see that there's no key in the lock, and sure enough when I try the handle I find that the door has been secured. That means Matt can't have left, which means he hasn't gone to get help, which means there must be some other reason why he didn't come when I shouted his name.
I make a few more attempts with the handle, as tears continue to stream down my face, and then I turn to see that he's already reached the bottom of the stairs. There's so much blood on his knife, I'm starting to think it can't all be mine. If he's hurt Matt, that means I'm on my own with him in this house, which means I'm the only one left who can stop him. Suddenly I feel a sense of anger starting to rise up through my chest. For Alex, and maybe for Matt too, I have to stop this guy.
“You won't get me,” I stammer, my voice trembling with tears. “I won't let you.”
His smile grows, revealing rotten and stained teeth.
“Help!” I scream, turning and banging my fists against the door, hoping against hope that somebody outside might hear me. “I need help! I need -”
Suddenly I turn and see that he's coming this way. I turn and stumble away, heading toward the door that leads down into the basement. With my hands clutched against my belly, I try desperately to keep my guts from spilling out entirely, but I can feel more and more pressure building against my fingers. Finally I get through the door and I turn quickly, pushing it shut. I know that won't hold him, but at least I can go down into the basement and figure out how to fight back.
More and more blood is running from my body, dribbling away between my trembling fingers.
Wincing with pain, I start making my way carefully down the stairs. With each step, the pain in my gut threatens to knock me out and sending me clattering down to the concrete floor at the bottom, but somehow I keep going and finally I make it all the way into the basement. When I get down there, however, my feet bump against something on the ground.
Not again.
I know it's Alex, and I've already seen what he did to her. I don't need to see it again.
“I'm so sorry,” I continue, bumping against her cold, dead body a couple more times as I limp around her and start making my way across the basement.
There's only one electric light down here, fixed to the ceiling in the middle of the room above the stone slab, but that should be enough. I start shuffling over to the bench on the far side, where all the medical equipment remains laid out the way I found it when I first came to this house. Almost falling, I stumble and reach out, supporting myself against the counter and then fumbling for something, anything, I might be able to use as a weapon. Finding several large knives, I turn and back against the wall, and then finally my knees start to buckle.
I slither down until I'm sitting on the cold concrete floor.
I need a plan.
What would Alex do?
Alex would fight, but how?
Alex did fight, and now she's dead on the floor.
In my right hand, I'm holding two knives, while my left hand is covering my bare belly. My intestines are forcing their way out through the slit, and the pain is so great that I can feel a cold, pinpricky sweat on my forehead. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I'm pretty sure that I must have lost a lot of blood, but somehow I manage to adjust the knives in my right hand so that I can use them to defend myself. Still struggling to keep the rest of my intestines from falling out, I stare at the bottom of the stairs and wait as I listen to the sound of footsteps slowly coming down.
There's so much pain, it's almost too big to feel.
“Where are you?” I whisper. “Please, Matt, please be okay.”
Finally I see the man's shadow. He's coming for me, but I won't make this easy. Adjusting my grip on the knives again, I get ready to fight for my life.
Chapter One
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
“Did you really have to ask who I am?” the man says, reaching into one of the metal pans and slowly taking out an old kidney that I cut from a whore several weeks ago. “That surprises me.”
I watch in horror as he holds the kidney up, squeezing its putrid form and seemingly taking a moment to sniff the organ. It's almost as if he's studying the wretched item, as if he's affording it the same critical view that a sommelier would give to a bottle at the club. And then, as I continue to watch this hellish figure, he opens his mouth and takes a big bite from the kidney that causes rotten fluids to burst across the side of his face and dribble down his chin. At the same time, he lets out a satisfied sigh that causes bubbles to splutter at the side of his mouth.
The sight is so truly awful, I feel a rumble of nausea in the pit of my chest. Yet I cannot stop watching this terrible scene, not even as the man slips the rest of the kidney into his mouth as if it were a common oyster. This time, he appears to swallow the remnants hole, and I hear a loud gulping sound.
In all my life, I have never seen anything so utterly disgusting or distasteful.
“I can't believe you were going to let these things go to waste,” he mutters, wandering over to one of the other metal pans and looking down at its contents, like a man at a fine banquet. “You were letting them go to waste, weren't you? I hope I haven't disturbed some kind of -”
Suddenly I lunge at the table, dropping the meager letter-opener and instead grabbing the largest knife I can find and holding it up as the man smiles at me. My hands are shaking, but I most certainly mean business.
“I've been watching you, Doctor Charles Grazier,” the man continues, his eyes briefly focusing on the blade for a moment before he looks at me again. “I've been following you on your little nights out. On your excursions into Whitechapel. You didn't know I was with you the whole time, did you? It was a complete accident the first time. I saw a well-dressed gentleman in such a rundown part of town. You were dressed as if you were on your way to some fancy show in the better part of town, and I thought that was odd. Why would a man of such stature and grace be seen in the filthy streets of Whitechapel? Especially a man who seemed to be slipping from shadow to shadow, as if he wanted not to attract too much attention.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I stammer.
“Of course you know what I'm talking about,” he replies. “You were doing a good job of sneaking about in those streets, but at the same time you could have done better. You're lucky you weren't set upon by thieves. Of course, if you had been, I would have stepped into protect you. You made for such a curious sight, I wanted to see what you were up to. And I did see, and let's say I was fascinated. You exceeded my wildest hopes. The way you killed those prostitutes was a work of -”
“Nonsense!” I shout. “Sheer nonsense!”
“I saw it, Doctor Grazier.”
I shake my head.
“I saw it,” he continues, reaching up and tapping beneath his eyes with two filthy fingers. There is meat in his mouth, yet still he talks. “I did, Doctor Grazier. I saw what you were up to.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but in truth it seems that he is very sure of himself.
“What are you doing in my house?” I ask, finally possessed of a voice despite my great shock. My hand is shaking as I hold the knife, but I know I must present a confident tone. “Why did you break my window and invade my property? Answer for yourself, man.”
“Call the police if you don't like me being here,” he replies, before looking into another of the pans and muttering something under his breath. “No? Don't want to do that for some reason?”
This man is intolerable. All I want is to get rid of him so that I can go back upstairs and finish what I was doing. Catherine is waiting for me in the next life, and every second I waste here is a second I lose with her.
“You've had a busy night,” the man continues. After a moment, he reaches into the pan and starts taking out a liver that has been sitting for several weeks now in a solution of brine. “This is magnificent,” he continues, struggling to keep the decaying organ from sloughing out of his hands. “Is this from the prostitute on Bough Lane? Or from the one you killed in -”
“Put that down!” I snap.
“Why?”
“Put it down, I tell you!”
He chuckles, before holding the liver up and taking a bite from one end. I open my mouth to tell him that he must stop at once, but instead the sound of tearing meat makes me turn away, and then I hear a slopping, dribbling sound as blood hits the floor. For a few seconds, I honestly believe I must be about to vomit, but I manage to regain my composure and finally I turn back to see that this ruffian is watching me carefully as he chews. It is almost as if this whole show is for my benefit. Sure enough, when he swallows, he keeps his eyes fixed on me as he takes another slow bite from the liver.
“You read my letters, I assume,” he says finally, speaking with his mouth full and spraying bloodied saliva across his hands. “Or did you? You strike me as the kind of man who perhaps doesn't read the more sensationalist newspapers.”
“What letters?” I ask, before remembering that Doctor Culpepper and his wife mentioned something about a letter purportedly written by somebody named Jack the Ripper. “What do you want from me?”
“I wanted to be part of what you were doing,” he continues. “There were all those falsified letters, written by pretenders. I thought some should be written by somebody a little closer to the truth. And if you weren't going to write any, the honor fell to me.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” I tell him, “but I want no part of this.”
“Relax,” he replies, as he swallows another chunk of liver. “In writing those letters, Doctor Grazier, I was not trying to take any of the credit away from you. After all, you're the man who killed those woman, you're the one who expertly removed certain organs.” He smiles, before looking down a
t his own blood-spattered fingers. “Well, you know what I mean,” he adds. “I followed you last night, just as I have followed you before. This time you killed two prostitutes. You were interrupted during the first, you were very nearly caught in the act, but the second seemed to go rather well. You harvested certain organs and you brought them back here. I was watching you from the darkness. I'm in awe of your work, I almost -”
He pauses, as if he's lost in some kind of reverie.
“I could no longer hold back,” he adds finally. “I had to come and present myself to you in person, as your faithful watcher.”
“What do you want?” I shout, taking a step toward him and raising the knife, only to stop when I smell the rotten liver in his hands. The stench is utterly sickening. “This is my home!”
“Really?” He glances around. “It looks more like a surgical theater to me. Then again, what would I know? I'm only a humble man from the slums of Whitechapel.” He pauses, eyeing me with a growing smile. “I don't have a gentleman's education,” he adds finally, “although that's not to say that I don't know my way around. I have something you don't, Doctor Grazier, and that's a knowledge of how the world really works. And that, I have to say, is what makes us such a good team.”
“Team?” I reply. “What are you talking about?”
“We've got London terrified!” he continues, unable to hide his glee. “You only have to step outside to see! The whole city is gripped by its fear of Jack the Ripper! They enjoy it, you know. They enjoy being terrified, they enjoy the stories of ladies getting their stomach ripped open! They enjoy your killings, and they enjoy my letters!”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head, “I don't know what you're talking about! You're not...”
My voice trails off as I start to realize what must be happening. In my grief, after Catherine's death, I must have imagined this intruder. Perhaps some deep, hidden part of my consciousness is trying to lure me away from the table where I was about to cut my wrists. The plan worked for a few minutes, too, but now I see through it all. Taking a step back, I stare at this pathetic wretch and see with utter clarity that he could only exist in my most fevered imagination. Such a monster could not be real.