Tales of Jack the Ripper
Page 1
Contents
Critical Acclaim for Ross E. Lockhart’s The Book of Cthulhu I & II
Tales of Jack the Ripper
Other books by Ross E. Lockhart
Tales of Jack the Ripper
Copyright Page
Dedication
Introduction - Ross E. Lockhart
Whitechapel Autumn, 1888 - Ann K. Schwader
A Host of Shadows - Alan M. Clark and Gary A. Braunbeck
Jack's Little Friend - Ramsey Campbell
Abandon All Flesh - Silvia Moreno-Garcia
God of the Razor - Joe R. Lansdale
The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick-Maker - Ennis Drake
Ripping - Walter Greatshell
Something About Dr Tumblety - Patrick Tumblety
The Truffle Pig - T.E. Grau
Ripperology - Orrin Grey
Hell Broke Loose - Ed Kurtz
Where Have You Been All My Life? - Edward Morris
Juliette's New Toy - Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
Villains, by Necessity - Pete Rawlik
When the Means Just Defy the End - Stanley C. Sargent
A Pretty for Polly - Mercedes M. Yardley
Termination Dust - Laird Barron
Once November - E. Catherine Tobler
Silver Kisses - Ann K. Schwader
Thank you!
Copyright Acknowledgments
About the Editor
Critical Acclaim for Ross E. Lockhart’s The Book of Cthulhu I & II
“The enduring allure of H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, now nearly a century old, is evident in this representative anthology of modern tales, most of which were written in the last decade.”
—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)
“Gathering Cthulhu-inspired stories from both 20th and 21st-century authors, this collection provides such a huge scope of styles and takes on the mythology that there are sure to be a handful that surprise and inspire horror in even the most jaded reader.”
—Josh Vogt, Examiner.com
“There are no weak stories here—every single one of the 27 entries is a potential standout reading experience. The Book of Cthulhu is nothing short of pure Lovecraftian gold. If fans of H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos don’t seek out and read this anthology, they’re not really fans—it’s that simple.”
—Paul Goat Allen, BN.com
“The Book of Cthulhu is one hell of a tome.”
—Brian Sammons, HorrorWorld.org
“…a stunning collection of Lovecraft inspired tales all centered around the infamous Cthulhu myth.”
—Drake Llywelyn, Dark Shadows Book Reviews
“...thanks to the wide variety of contributing authors, as well as Lockhart’s keen understanding of horror fiction and Lovecraft in particular, [The Book of Cthulhu] is the best of such anthologies out there.”
—Alan Cranis, Bookgasm.com
“As he did for his previous anthology, Lockhart has cast his net far and wide to haul in outstanding stories from publications both well-known and obscure, none sampled more than once. He has also commissioned four new stories, several so good that they are likely to be selected for reprint anthologies in the future.”
—Stefan Dziemianowicz, Locus
“The second volume of The Book of Cthulhu exemplifies the richness of Lovecraft’s legacy: gloomy terror, mystery, thrills, vivid action, chilling visions, satire, science fiction, humor—all of that, and then some, is crammed into more than 400 pages awaiting readers eager for some apocalyptic horror.”
—Dejan Ognjanovic, Rue Morgue
“…any fan of Lovecraft can’t afford to miss out on this one.”
—Justin Steele, The Arkham Digest
Tales of
Jack the
Ripper
Other books by Ross E. Lockhart
Anthologies:
The Book of Cthulhu
The Book of Cthulhu II
Novels:
Chick Bassist
Tales of
Jack the
Ripper
Word Horde
Petaluma, CA
Tales of Jack the Ripper
© 2013 by Ross E. Lockhart
This edition of Tales of Jack the Ripper
© 2013 by Word Horde
Cover illustration by Arnaud de Vallois
Cover design by Claudia Noble
Edited by Ross E. Lockhart
All rights reserved
An extension of this copyright page appears at the end of this book
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-939905-00-0
A Word Horde Book
This volume is dedicated to…
Mary Ann Nichols
Annie Chapman
Elizabeth Stride
Catherine Eddowes
Mary Jane Kelly
…and others unknown.
Introduction
Ross E. Lockhart
You can say a lot of things about humans. One is certain: We are exceedingly good at killing one another.
So much so that one of our formative myths, the story of Cain and Abel, is one of fratricide—brother killing brother. The cycle repeats throughout history. Man kills man. Over power. Over property. Over money. Over gods. Over lovers.
And just as frequently, man kills woman.
What are we to make of brother killing sister?
Well, that’s where Jack comes in.
The killer known as Jack the Ripper wasn’t history’s first murderer. He wasn’t even history’s first murderer of women. But in the canon of vicious killers populating humanity’s collective nightmares, Jack the Ripper was the first rock star.
For Jack’s crimes captured the public’s attention in a way unlike any previous murderer. The public was rabid for news of the Whitechapel slayings, and the press was happy to oblige. In October 1888, just a few short weeks after the discovery of Jack’s first victim, John Francis Brewer’s The Curse Upon Mitre Square, the first novelization of the murders, appeared. Other books followed, as did short stories, plays, radio dramas, films, and television episodes (including one of my all-time favorite classic Star Trek episodes, Robert Bloch’s “Wolf in the Fold”).
Which begs the question: Why does a killer of women garner so much attention?
Because Jack the Ripper is a cipher. A mystery.
Jack the Ripper only killed five women—that we know of—Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. We know more about these victims than we do about their killer, including such details as how they lived, what they wore, even the contents of their pockets (a detail that formed the backbone of Alan M. Clark’s excellent novel Of Thimble and Threat).
But we don’t know jack about Jack, so he has become a quintessential boogyman.
Which leads us to wonder, to ponder, to imagine. Because we are narrative-driven creatures, we make up stories to fill in the blank spaces. And many of our greatest storytellers have added their own voices to the chorus recanting the tale of, and warning future generations about, Jack the Ripper. Marie Belloc Lowndes, Robert Bloch, Harlan Ellison, Patricia Cornwell, Roger Zelazny, Maureen Johnson, and Alan Moore are just a few of the master storytellers to have spilled ink in examination of Jack and his bloody craft.
This year, we arrive at the 125th anniversary of the Whitechapel Murders. Jack’s quasquicentennial, if you will. In commemoration of this sanguine anniversary, I have asked an assembly of my
favorite authors to share with you their own tales of Jack the Ripper: seventeen stories and two poems. Most are brand new, a handful are classics that you may have missed. All provide a unique glimpse at Jack the Ripper and his legacy, filtered through the authors’ lives and locales, visions and voices. Some will horrify you, others will terrify you, still others will entertain and amuse. It’s best you not know which is which going in.
So light a lamp and pour yourself a drink, then sit back in a comfortable chair and settle in for a good read. And I sincerely hope you enjoy these Tales of Jack the Ripper.
Whitechapel Autumn, 1888
Ann K. Schwader
No changing leaves lament the season here,
for nothing grows but woe in Mitre Square.
The belles of Ten Bells, numbed on gin & beer,
have small appreciation for this air
refreshed at last by dawn mists drifting cold
around the corners of St. Botolph’s Church
where twilight draws the desperate & bold,
parading past on mankind’s oldest search.
Yet summer dies in Buck’s Row—not alone—
& Annie follows Polly down to dust
as cries of wholly simulated lust
are silenced by steel whispering on bone.
Their secret reaper rides a sharpened wind,
signing himself your own light-hearted friend.
A Host of Shadows
Alan M. Clark and Gary A. Braunbeck
“Every man has a host of shadows, all of which resemble him
and for the moment have an equal claim to authenticity.”
—Kierkegaard
Jack the Ripper was dying.
How strange to think of himself that way after so many years. But for that short period in 1888, he had always been Howard Faber, celebrated academic physician, member of the American Association of Anatomists, the American Neurological Society, the Association for the Treatment of Mental Disorders, as well as countless others. His credits and accomplishments would fill several pages of any textbook. Howard Faber was a pioneer in neurophysiological research and had even been the subject of an article in Time magazine in November of 1937. His was—had been—a life filled with glories and triumphs and he would not allow his conscience to take those pleasures and prides away from him.
Now, in his eighty-second year, lying on his death bed at his home in Knoxville, Tennessee, he could all but forget the angry young man who murdered right before his wondering eyes. Never could he forget, however, the faces of the women, captured in swift moments like photographic images and twisted over the years into caricatures of disbelief, terror, and the grim resolve of death—
—except for the last one, sad, doomed Mary Kelly. He tried not to think about her final words to him, lest the guilt come snarling to the surface.
I’m not the same man I was then, he would scream within to his conscience. It wasn’t really me.
The malignant tumor in his brain had grown rapidly. His right side was now completely paralyzed, severely limiting his mobility, and aphasia had all but eliminated his ability to communicate. He was confined to his bed and dependent upon his doctor and best friend, Wilson Springer, who had come to stay at the house, and a nurse, whose name he could never remember. He was alone with his thoughts even in the presence of others.
“It’s getting dark so early,” said the silhouette of Faber’s sister-in-law, Estell. She had been talking for some time, but he had not heard much of it, preferring instead to watch the warm yellow and orange of the trees blowing in the icy blue of the sky outside his bedroom window.
Dr. Springer flipped on the light switch. “Winter is coming on quickly.”
Still holding Faber’s lifeless hand, Estell rose from the chair beside his bed and faced Dr. Springer.
“Let this be a lesson to you,” the doctor said, gesturing toward his patient. “Don’t take chances with your health. If you’re feeling poorly—whatever it is—see your doctor.”
“It’s hard to believe he was allowed to work for so long, and no one noticed his illness.”
Dr. Springer turned and glared at his friend, still very angry with Faber. “He has never been a very good liar, but it wasn’t until he began to hobble about the laboratory that we knew something was wrong.”
“For all his knowledge of medicine,” said Estell, at times he seems to have little faith in it.”
“And he won’t ever listen to anyone. I have never seen such a fuss over a few simple tests. You know, it wasn’t until after the Dean had a talk with him that he finally gave it up. And I’ve had to take a leave of absence to come here and take care of the sissy.”
Faber knew Dr. Springer was right to be angry. Six months ago, when he was just beginning to have difficulty controlling his right side, diagnostic studies could have confirmed or denied Faber’s suspicions. There was the slim possibility that surgery at that early stage in his illness might have remedied the problem. But the thought of going under the knife caused him to quickly put this out of his mind. Although he had used the scalpel for nothing but good for over fifty years, he had a fear of putting himself in a position in which poetic justice might lend a hand.
“Try not to be too hard on him,” Estell said, squeezing Faber’s hand and placing it beside him. She looked him in the eyes. “Well, I’ll be leaving in the morning. The bus should get me back to Nashville by mid-afternoon. I want to be home in time to fix supper for Danny and the boys. But I will be back to see you soon.”
Better hurry, then, Faber thought, although he didn’t much care. He knew she had come only out of a sense of obligation.
“Thank you for coming, Estell,” Dr. Springer said as she left the room. He sat down beside Faber and, while taking his pulse, turned to speak to the nurse in the hall. “He can have one more visitor today.”
Faber heard the murmuring of those waiting in the dining room as they rose to depart. They seemed to number six or eight. When there were that many, all conversing at once, their words overlapped so that he couldn’t understand what was being said. He was amazed that after nearly a month of being bedridden, he still had so many daily visitors.
Miss Lumbly entered the room. “He was such a saint,” she told Dr. Springer. “I always tell people about the case of that little Simmons girl—you remember, don’t you? All those headaches and the sickness, and every doctor her father took her to diagnosed simple migraine.”
“I remember,” said Springer.
“When Dr. Faber heard about it, he said it sounded like brain abscesses and told the man to take her to Baltimore to see that specialist.” She shook her head. “How could he have known. He just had an intuition about such things, and that little girl is alive and well today, all because of him.”
She was wearing maroon, a color which had always irritated Faber. It was the color of irritation, the color of a bruise. He remembered that first drunken prostitute, Polly Nichols, as wearing maroon. And she—not the whore, but Miss Lumbly—was wearing a shapeless black straw hat with fake flowers sticking out all over. Come to think of it though, he could remember Polly as wearing one like that too.
Faber’s wife, Carolyn, had known Miss Lumbly through her involvement with the Daughters of the American Revolution.
“She’s a haughty socialite,” he remembered Carolyn saying, “who prides herself on knowing everyone of substance in Knoxville.”
He didn’t get to know the woman until after his wife’s death. Since then from time to time, Miss Lumbly had come to call on Dr. Faber. No doubt she thought that since he was a widower, he might easily be persuaded to relieve her of her spinsterhood.
A saint, she had said. If only she knew. The cow—he would like to show her….
Over the years the memories had bled together into one chilling corpse, an experience devoid of spiritual beauty or revelation. As if awakening from a blackout, he would be in the midst of his work before he knew what was happening.
He
knelt beside the woman, savagely piercing her, dividing and violating her hot, wet tissues, his knife penetrating to her most secret flesh.
He took the woman, her mind, her body, and her life—the feeling had never been the same with a cadaver.
To prove his knowledge of her, he carefully separated the organs. And though he was privy to the smells of her living blood, her vagina, even her bowels, she suffered the shame of it without protest, remaining lifeless on the damp flagstones.
What else could she do? He could see that he had cut her throat, no doubt to quiet that horrible mouth. If she struggled, he would overpower her again. And after all, if they were caught, her shame would be that much greater.
He had almost had his fill when a staggering drunkard entered the road. Faber automatically thought to use his cloak as a curtain for the exposed woman. No, he decided, let her suffer the man’s disapproving stare. The fellow seemed not to notice them, however, as he reeled away into the night.
Faber looked at his watch. He was still too drunk to see it well. It looked to be about two o’clock in the morning.
No one else was about. But at any moment, a policeman might see them from his beat along an adjoining road. The woman was the one who had shamefully allowed herself to be exposed in public, however Faber might be detained and questioned about his involvement. That would never do.
He put away his knife, gathered his cloak about him, and started walking. When, several blocks away, he encountered a policeman, he tried not to stagger and draw attention to himself. He didn’t want the man to see he was in his cups.