The Whitechapel Demon

by Josh Reynolds

  By all accounts, he’d been quite good at it too. He was sneaky, was Ketch. It had been a stroke of luck, that business with the French girl during the armistice. Ketch had nearly been hung, before the club had greased the right palms.

  He put the car into gear and left Bow Street behind. They could regroup at the club. Ketch would call when he’d found the woman, and then the club could pay a visit en masse. Unless Stott had him summarily executed right there in the parlour, that was. While it was Ketch’s function to see to disposal, the rumour around the drinks cabinet was that Stott had an amateur’s enthusiasm for the executioner’s art.

  “What now?” Pitezel said, as the car wound its way out of the warren of the East End.

  “Back to the club for elevenses, mayhap,” Stack said hopefully. “Getting shot at puts my stomach in a right state, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Back to the club,” Eddowes said grimly. He was already composing excuses to give to Stott, something, anything to keep breathing another few hours.

  It had been the War that had taught him about death. Oh, he’d known, in a general sort of fashion what it was. He’d seen rabbits go squealing to the groundskeeper’s hounds, and he’d watched his grandfather collapse in on himself over the course of his final months like a dying fire. But that wasn’t the same as getting that clammy hand on his shoulder.

  When he’d come back, he’d resolved never to get that close again. Like many men, he’d fallen prey to con-artists and Masonic mountebanks aplenty. He’d joined a dozen different orders, lodges, clubs and societies in as many weeks, finding only the same, tired, theosophical nonsense. Eternal life was easy to promise, but difficult to provide. He’d finally settled in the Whitechapel Club, where he found like minds—men, like him, fascinated by death, but eager to escape its grasp all the same. Or so they claimed; in truth, he thought some of them wouldn’t know what to do with immortality if they had it. But he knew. By God, he knew what he’d do with eternity—any damned thing he wanted.

  That was why he had so assiduously studied the Osirian Mysteries, scouring places of antiquity for any crumb of information on the Whitechapel Club’s sovereign. Osiris, God of Life, God of Death, had lived and then died and then lived again. Eddowes preferred to skip that middle bit, but he knew that in death was the secret to life.

  He’d met men who shared his vision. Not members of the club, though they’d introduced him to it, and all of its peculiarities. They’d put up the capital to allow him to join, and had helped fund his researches, and all they’d asked in return was that he keep them appraised. He didn’t mind. As taskmasters went, he’d had more onerous.

  Fully financed, he’d visited incense-filled caverns in Greece and Turkey, and hidden temples in Alexandria and Cairo, hunting those secrets. He’d played a deadly game of cards with a masked gambler in Venice, and participated in a lethal game of roulette involving a revolver in Riga, gathering crumbs of knowledge. When he’d exhausted the Orient and the Occident, he’d crossed back over the Channel and visited certain quiet houses in London, to which he’d traced certain texts.

  And it was in London that he heard the tales of the Ripper. Not the penny dreadfuls that had filled the papers that bloody autumn in 1888, but the secret stories, whispered in Masonic lodges and temples of mystery. That the Ripper had not been a deranged butcher, but a seeker of forbidden knowledge, a pilgrim into twilight vales, who was harvesting the necessary ingredients for a Great Working. As to just what that Working might be changed, depending on the source—some whispered that the Ripper was preventing a horror unlike any other, sacrificing the few for the many. Others said that he was possessed by some terrible power, a god of razors and sharp things, which demanded blood sacrifice. But the tales that had most tweaked his ear were those that said the Ripper was a student of the Mysteries, and had found the formula for immortality in the gin-soaked guts of back-alley comfort women.

  That tale had a life. It, or variations of it, was the most common, where the Ripper’s name was brought up. Eternal life through savage slaughter; to say that it had whetted the devilish appetites of his fellow clubmen was an understatement.

  Eddowes had become certain there was truth to it. The Ripper had been on the trail of something. Perhaps he’d even found it. But most of his sources seemed to think otherwise—the consensus was that the Ripper, whatever his motives or intentions, was dead. Drowned in the Thames or buried in pauper’s grave, he was no longer a resident of this world; thus had begun the quest to seek him out in the next.

  He wondered, as he drove, whether what had come storming out of the black gulfs of the world beyond was truly the ghost of Jack the Ripper, or something else. Some tulpa perhaps, given form by fervent need and gone wild. Or something else—a demon, perhaps, some cousin of Mephistopheles’, playing a trick on hapless occultists. He’d seen enough in his travels to know that there were forces beyond the skin of the world that regarded men’s souls as choice appetizers on the Savoy menu of eternity.

  He’d considered asking his benefactors, but he knew that they—like Stott—would regard his failure as a personal insult. And while Stott might be able to end his quest prematurely, they could do far worse, when they were motivated to do so.

  Eddowes shuddered, and tried to think about other things on the drive back to the club. He was confident that all would be forgiven, especially with Ketch on the trail of the interfering busybodies who’d kept them from seizing Andraste.

  The woman was, regrettably, necessary. She had called whatever it was up, and she could lay it to rest or, hopefully, bring it to heel. He’d seen the damage it could do, up close and personal, and the thought of controlling such an entity gave him a frisson of excitement. It would be a mascot, attack dog and figurehead all rolled into one, even if it couldn’t divulge the secrets of life and death as he’d first hoped. And if it could, well, it was all the more imperative that the lovely Miss Aife Andraste be brought with all haste to the Whitechapel Club, where she could be persuaded to use her gifts for the good of her betters.

  The thought cheered him, and when they arrived at the club, his worries had practically evaporated. As he led Pitezel and Stack towards the drawing room, however, they returned, and at full strength. There was something in the air. Like the memory of a bad smell, inundating the club.

  “I say, did either of you chaps catch a whiff of that? It smells like someone slopped a bucket full of the Thames over the curtains or something,” Stack said, looking about curiously.

  “There’s water on the floor and—” Pitezel began and then fell silent. He grabbed Eddowes’ shoulder and pointed. The club’s single servant, besides the absent Ketch, lay athwart the doorway to the drawing room, with his mask torn away and his throat ripped open. Eddowes froze, as did his companions. Then, cautiously, he stepped towards the door.

  The first thing he saw, when he opened it, was that someone was sitting in the President’s chair. The second thing he saw was all the blood. It had splashed across the table and the walls, and it had come from a headless body laying slumped over the table, arms outstretched and a thin grizzle of red still being extruded from the stump of the neck.

  Eddowes recognized the newest member of the silent majority, head or no. He wasn’t going to have to worry about explaining things to Stott. Wilson and the others were all at their usual places, but they huddled in their seats and were leaning away from the man who sat at the head of the table. No, not a man, Eddowes realized.

  Jack the Ripper had, at last, taken up his post as president-elect.

  Eddowes froze again, unable to process what he was seeing. What was left of Stott’s head rested in the Ripper’s lap like a beloved pet, and the latter tenderly stroked the mask that still obscured Stott’s face. Eyes like balefires flared in the shadow cast by the top-hat’s brim, and the raw, shiny slash of his smile made Eddowes’ guts quiver painfully.

  There was nothing of poor Stride left in the Ripper, save his general shape and outline.
And even that was distorted by his cloak, which rippled and flopped disturbingly, like Peter Pan’s shadow gone feral. The Ripper’s blade dangled loosely from his hand, and blood rolled from its tip with audible regularity.

  HELLO.

  It wasn’t Stride’s voice. It wasn’t a voice at all, so much as the exhalation of odour and intent. It was the creak of a coffin lid and the squeal of a Highgate mausoleum door. It hammered at his mind, each word piercing his psyche like a rail-spike. Eddowes staggered. He heard Stack pitch forward and vomit, and smelled Pitezel’s bladder go. He kept his eyes on the Ripper. He licked his lips and tried to formulate his reply. The air felt wrong. It was greasy and foul, like the inside of a tannery. There was a noisome stink to it—not physical, but spiritual—and his soul curdled as it washed over him.

  I FOLLOWED YOUR SCENT. UP STREETS AND DOWN ALLEYS, AND I FOUND YOU AND HERE YOU ARE, the Ripper said, grin never wavering, lips never moving. Every word was like a punch and Eddowes was forced to steady himself on the table. He looked at Wilson and the others, none of whom met his eyes or so much as twitched. They were like mice, paralyzed by the presence of a snake. He wanted to curse their cowardice, but he felt it himself. Worse even, perhaps. He could feel the Ripper in his head. There was nothing of Stride there.

  STRIDE IS DEAD. THE THAMES EXTINGUISHED HIM. BUT I FOLLOWED YOU ACROSS THE ANGLES, AND THROUGH THE CRACK. YOU CALLED AND I CAME. I AM HUNGRY, the Ripper continued. As he watched, part of it sloughed off. With Stride dead, it was going to need a new host soon. I AM HUNGRY, it said again. Eddowes flinched back from the hideous need in that statement. He knew then, in that moment if he hadn’t before, as the words scratched across his consciousness like a knifepoint across glass, that it was not a ghost sitting before him, or even a demon, but something else. Behind the penny dreadful facade, something utterly inhuman squatted, watching him with dull, shark-like intent. It was not speaking. Not really. It was more akin to the clatter of a rattlesnake’s tail-tip or the warning grunt of a lion. It was a statement of intent, translated by his terrified brain into something understandable.

  The taste of fog and grapes and blood was thick in his mouth, and the room seemed to ripple and blur as unfamiliar scenes from another time, another London, superimposed themselves over the more familiar ones. The club walls bent and sighed as they changed and then changed back, and Eddowes felt a wash of bile climb his throat. He clutched his mouth and shoved back from the table. “What—what do you want?” he gasped.

  YOU, the Ripper burbled. It sounded amused, insofar as he could determine its mood, past the manic, omnipresent grin. I WANT YOU. I WANT THE WOMAN.

  “Woman,” Eddowes muttered and blinked in surprise. “The medium, you mean.”

  I WANT HER. I WILL HAVE HER. AFTER YOU, the Ripper said.

  Eddowes’ hand crept toward his coat pocket, and the revolver resting there. It hadn’t done much good on their prior meeting, but he refused to die like a dazed sheep. Before he could fully draw it however, Stott’s head connected with his shoulder, causing him to stumble and the revolver to spin from his grip. The Ripper had risen from his chair even as the gory missile had connected and he raised his blade. Eddowes had taken the name of one of the Ripper’s victims as a ghoulish jest, but he realized that it might as well have been a premonition. The blade seemed to quiver in eagerness and his bowels clenched.

  “Wait, wait!” he yelped. He raised his hands. “I know where she is. I can bring her to you or you to her, your choice!” The Ripper paused. Eddowes seized the moment with all the desperation of a man grabbing for a life-preserver. “I can get her. I would be happy to do so, in fact. You are the president-elect, after all!” he said, without really knowing why. It was nonsensical thing to say, but it seemed to strike a chord in the Ripper. Eddowes wondered if, perhaps, there was in fact still something of Stride left, some pathetic, ragged reflex, like a muscle memory, a ghost of a memory.

  PRESIDENT…ELECT, the Ripper mused, YES. THAT IS WHAT I AM. MY NAME IS…JACK AND I AM PRESIDENT. His grin grew wider, impossibly wide, stretching and bunching the flesh of his face into grotesquely distinct polyps. Bits of ectoplasm dripped off of him. The hell-forged eyes found Eddowes again. YOU CAN GET ME THE WOMAN. It wasn’t a question.

  “Y-yes,” Eddowes said. He eyed the ectoplasmic blobs that mingled with the blood on the floor and the table. “I can get her. You won’t have to stir yourself a bit.”

  The Ripper stabbed the athame into the table with a loud thwack.

  THEN I HEREBY CALL THIS MEETING TO ORDER.

  12.

  “When I didn’t hear from you, I grew concerned,” Morris said. He had two men with him and both were dressed in similar fashion to him, Whitehall chic. They looked about them with barely concealed distaste, as if there were nowhere they’d rather be less than where they were. The trio had been waiting somewhere along the Embankment when St. Cyprian and Gallowglass had arrived back at No. 427, and the knock at the door had come not two minutes after they’d managed to bundle the feverish and definitely out-of-sorts Andraste upstairs, to the guest bedroom. When St. Cyprian had opened the door, Morris had been making a show of checking his pocket-watch. “These are Mr. Haddo and Mr. Booth,” he added, indicating his companions.

  “Stunning, I’ll be sure to write both of those names down as soon as I have a moment,” St. Cyprian said. He didn’t step aside, despite Morris’ indication for him to do so. He preferred that the confrontation, such as it was, took place out in the open. Besides which, he was never able to shake the feeling that whenever Morris visited Cheyne Walk, he was taking inventory.

  “You’ve found the woman, then,” Morris said. It wasn’t a question.

  “What woman?”

  Morris frowned. “Don’t play silly buggers with me, Charles. I want to see her.”

  “Why ever for?” St. Cyprian said.

  “She is—,” Haddo began.

  “An asset,” Booth finished.

  “A potential asset,” Morris corrected.

  “Is she? I hadn’t the foggiest. I’ll just go and get her, shall I?” St. Cyprian said. He stepped back and closed the door in Morris’ face. Gallowglass was watching from the stairs. “You heard?” he asked.

  “I can see why you didn’t want to tell him,” Gallowglass said. She hiked up a leg and sat down on the banister. “He’s not going away. I can see him peeking through the window.”

  “Is he standing in my nasturtiums?”

  “Looks like,” she said, somewhat gleefully.

  “Bastard,” St. Cyprian said, running his hands through his hair.

  “Imagine—we wouldn’t be having any of this fun, if we’d gone to Dartmoor. Who needs the Hairy Hands? We’ve got the Ripper and Morris,” Gallowglass said, “Two eldritch abominations for the price of one.” At the look on his face, her smile faded. “We could probably get her out the window. Maybe take her to your Rosicrucian pal’s place, up the road?” Gallowglass said, “Or that old fraud Klaw, in the East End. He owes you a favour or three, at least.”

  “One’s out, I’m afraid, and the other would be of no great help,” St. Cyprian said. He turned back to the door. “No, there’s nothing for it,” he said. “Let’s just nip this in the bud, shall we? I’m not going to be able to concentrate with Morris peering over my shoulder. And we’ve already got one group of bloodthirsty lunatics on our trail. Two would be pushing the edge of ridiculous.” He stormed back to the door and yanked it open. Haddo stumbled over the doorstep. St. Cyprian caught his tie, yanked Haddo’s chin down to meet his rising knee, and then let him stagger back, clutching at his jaw. Haddo cursed, and fell back into Booth’s arms. St. Cyprian stepped out onto the stoop and slammed the door behind him. Arms crossed, he stared down at them. “Get away from that window, Morris,” he said.

  Morris hopped away from the window, as if he’d been scalded. “Need I remind you of your duty, Charles,” Morris huffed, ignoring the plight of his men as he moved to face St. Cyprian. “That woman is a po
tential threat to the Crown.”

  “Right now, she’s no threat to anyone,” St. Cyprian snapped.

  “I’d as soon see and judge for myself,” Morris said.

  “And I’d rather not have you in my flat right now. You understand, I’m sure,” St. Cyprian said, “Delicate operations to be undertaken and that sort of thing, what?”

  “What sort of operation?” Morris said suspiciously.

  “One certain to locate our elemental of slaughter, if you must know,” St. Cyprian said. He cocked his head and added, “By the by, any word on our friend, the Ripper?”

  Morris hesitated. He looked away, out over the dull ribbon of the Thames. “They found a number of bodies, in various states of disassembly, in a cul-de-sac near the garret. My people believe they happened to be unfortunate enough to attempt to rob him.”

  “Upstanding citizens, then,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Hardly,” Morris snorted. “He left a bit of a trail through the East End, before you dumped him into the Thames. At least seven more dead,” he said and rattled off half a dozen locations. A mental map of the city unfolded in St. Cyprian’s head. He’d need to consult an ABC guide to be certain, but he thought it was almost a straight line, from Whitechapel to Limehouse. The Ripper had fixed on Jadwiga’s trail almost immediately, though he’d been in no real hurry to hunt him down, it seemed. A sick feeling rose from the depths of his belly.

  “And since,” St. Cyprian said, hoping, praying that no one else had died since. He’d had the chance to go after it then and there, and hadn’t.

  Morris looked as if he’d bitten into something unpleasant. Perhaps he’d been thinking along similar lines. “Nothing,” he said. His tone was grudging.