Mad Bride of the Ripper

by Lucas Thorn

  Found nothing.

  “I’ll return tomorrow.”

  “I never loved you, old man. Believe what you like about how my mind is affected. But that’s the truth. I never loved you.”

  When he was gone, she moved to the bars of the door.

  Pressed face to the cold metal.

  Closed her eyes.

  Concentrated.

  And felt the shining lights flickering inside the Sanitorium. They were beautiful. Like swirling stars. And, now she knew what she was looking for, there were so many of them.

  It wasn’t as easy, but she reached for a new one, trying to repeat the feeling from the night before.

  Reaching with ethereal hand for the closest living star. Its light was small. Fragile. It was an insect caught in her grip. A firefly. Abdomen soft and filled with slick juice.

  Her fingers tightened.

  Felt it buzzing.

  Flickering against her palm. Delicate life inside her fist.

  She gave it a squeeze. The light flared, responding with a panicked flare as it struggled to escape her grip. She almost couldn’t hold it, but her fingers pierced the light and pinned it to her palm.

  A scream tore through the Sanitorium.

  Raw. Animal.

  A scream of savagery.

  The nurses ran.

  Men in white shirts, batons in hand, ran.

  They all converged as Lucy stood alone in her cell, arm outstretched. Cradling the slippery light and hearing madness sing its shrieking song.

  Flashes slithered into her mind. Images of the nurse. Snarling demands.

  And two men.

  Batons coming down. A blur of blows.

  Crunch.

  Pain.

  Then Lucy let go. Cocked her head and found another.

  Found it easier this time. Easier to hold. The light rolled in her grip as her fingers curled tightly around gelatinous fire.

  Squeezed it tight.

  Her laughter joined the second shriek.

  John. Could hear him yelling orders as she grabbed another light.

  Then another.

  And another, one by one. As she made glorious music with insane cries and long banshee wails. For a time, chaos burst like an explosion through the Sanitorium on a wave of staggered madness thrilled into mindless acts of stunning violence.

  Then she let them go and allowed quiet to return beneath a blanket of muffled sobs and drugged moans. The Sanitorium, exhausted by her touch, shrank into sullen peace.

  Delighted, the vampire twirled a full circle. A slow reptilian dance without rhythm or tempo.

  Her stomach ached. Her chest hurt.

  Echoes of Van Helsing’s hands still burned against her skin.

  But she’d found something now. Something she could use.

  Power.

  Fanged smile wide in delight, she returned her attention towards the brightest star of them all. The beacon which had been waiting all along. And she reached.

  Pulled it close so her mouth could press to the warm pulse. Tongue flicking to taste the electric warmth.

  Whispered through trembling lips; “He’s not coming for you. You know that. You do. In your heart, you’ve always known he would never return. Why do you wait, when you’ve been abandoned? But, I’m here. I’ll always be here. And I won’t abandon you, I swear. I’ll keep you with me. Forever and ever if that’s what you want.”

  “Whose is this voice? Where are you? I can’t see you. Are you real? Or are you in my mind? Speckles and dust. These bloody walls are killing my brain! What poisonous charm have they fed me tonight? What smooth delight to tease and tuck?”

  “I’m right here. All you need to do is open your eyes, and you’ll see.”

  “Just open my eyes? That’s all?” Pause. “Oh! Mistress, you’re beautiful.”

  “Tell me. What will you do for me, Renfield?”

  “For you? Mistress, I’d do anything!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Renfield cackled to himself. Huddled in the corner of his cell. Cockroach between thumb and forefinger. Pressed the insect between his teeth.

  Bit into struggling head. Squeezed its abdomen flat and sucked the juice.

  Felt the slimy shiver of cockroach goo slide down his throat.

  Then tossed the shell of the bug onto a growing pile in the middle of the room.

  Her voice was in his ears now. A constant hum. A melody like none he’d ever heard. Music winding around his soul, constricting. Tightening. Keeping him warm.

  Safe.

  Promises melted any shred of doubt he had. She was his mistress now. He’d serve her without question. With loyalty absolute.

  He was a little man. Reed thin. Face like a rodent.

  How old? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. Did he even have a birthday?

  Thirty.

  That sounded good.

  He was thirty years old and today was such a good day that it must be his birthday.

  As a child, he’d picked pockets. As a teen, entered houses without invitation. Worked his way from room to room in the middle of the night. Plucked treasures from the pillows of sleeping ladies.

  Sometimes plucked the ladies.

  In his twenties, he haunted fog-drenched London streets. With knife and garrotte he’d taken brittle coin and bloody trophies.

  Met a girl who whored herself to him. Who begged him for a chance at normal life.

  She wasn’t enough. Couldn’t convince him to go straight.

  What was the point, anyway? Man like him couldn’t go straight. Work the same job? Every day? For what?

  Better to hunt the savage score. Because he knew it was out there. A chance at riches.

  Then he’d show her. Show them all.

  Mister Renfield, they’d call him.

  Mister.

  Or, Sir? Sir Renfield.

  Yes. That was better.

  A gentleman.

  He bit into another cockroach. Sniggered under his breath.

  The Queen was coming. Not Victoria. No. The real Queen. The Queen of the World. His Mistress had told him. She was on her way, and he’d be rewarded. If he helped prepare her path.

  Licked his lips. Taste of insect guts. A fishy tang.

  “Oh, yes, Renfield,” he murmured. “Reward beyond measure, alright? Reward beyond gold. Sir Renfield. Call me that, aye? Sir Renfield. Hoo hoo, I’ll have a manor all to myself, I will. Pretty girls on hands and knees. Pretty little knees. All singing Renfield’s name. Sweet delight. Sweet delight!”

  He spat the cockroach head onto the pile of insect debris.

  Sniggered.

  As dawn splintered the morning’s darkness and the guards started their rounds. Nurses at their sides.

  Nurses in pristine white dresses.

  And Doris was on her way. He could smell her. Smell her ripe flowery scent.

  She stopped at his door. Slid the hatch open and peered inside.

  Kind eyes. Bright eyes.

  But wary, too.

  “You alright, Renfield?”

  “Sir.”

  “What?”

  “Why, yes, Miss Doris,” he called back. Showed grimy teeth. “I’m just peach and apples, I am. Peach and apples.”

  “Are you sure?” Her gaze flicked to the small pile of insect shells. Tried to hide her disgust. Turn it into pity. But pity faded as the little man stood.

  Naked.

  Covered in filth.

  Erect as his gleaming gaze remained pinned on her eyes. “I’m always better when I see you, my peach. My poppet. My dolly in a dress. Won’t you come inside and play, Miss Doris? Play with Renfield? Mister Renfield? Sir Renfield?” He gripped his dick, pointing it toward her as he rubbed the shaft. Crowed; “I’ll treat you good, I promise I will.”

  She’d heard it all before.

  Seen it, too.

  “If you don’t be good, Renfield, there’ll be no supper for you today.”

  “I’ve already had supper, Miss Doris.” Slapped
his belly. Kept stroking his dick. Faster. Leaning toward the door. Leering at her. “Just looking for pudding now.”

  One of the guards looked over her shoulder and let out a growl. “Out of the way, Dot. Little bastard needs a kicking.”

  Renfield hissed as the guard’s face filled the small gap. Jerked his hands away from his dick and spun away. “Now, look what you did! It’s broken. Won’t work. Ugly face, ugly face. Bring back Miss Doris. Oh, she smells of flowers. Flowers and fucking. Who’ve you been fucking, Miss Doris? I can smell you’ve been fucking. But you weren’t satisfied. Weren’t at all. You’re left craving. Craving for more. He can’t please you, can he? Can’t please you like Renfield will.”

  The nurse gently pushed at the guard. “Leave him be, Martin. His mind is broken. It’s not his fault.”

  “Not my mind!” Renfield ran to the door and kicked it. Didn’t feel the crack as his toe hit the iron. Left a smear of red. “My cock! It’s his fault. He broke it. Martin. Martin, boy. Martin Martin. With his head like a turnip’s arse. Put me off, it did. Put me right off.” Tone drooped into pleading; “I want to see you, Miss Doris. You whore. You slut. You piece of meat. I want to see you! Show me your eyes. Your sweet mouth for kisses. Your cheeks for chewing. I’ll rip your fucking skin open and drown in your blood! Hear me? I’ll drown in your fucking blood! Oh, why won’t you let me love you?”

  The opening slammed shut.

  “Come back,” he called. “Miss Doris, my love! Come back!”

  He could hear her voice as she argued with the guards until they shuffled to the next cell.

  Polite banter exchanged. The Angel-maker was a sweet old soul, so they thought.

  So they thought.

  But she weren’t, were she?

  No.

  Renfield knew her secret. He knew the foul and wretched thing which served as a heart to the bitter old crone. Knew it well. Its putrid beat was something he could hear even without his Mistress’s whispers.

  He sniggered. Pressed his back to the cold stone wall. Could feel Doris out there in the hall. Still smell her. And smell the man. The man who’d been touching her.

  That bastard had felt her warmth against his face.

  Had inhaled the perfume of her sweat.

  Tasted the spit in her mouth.

  Bastard.

  Looked down at his shrivelled dick.

  “Sir Renfield. You’ll call me that, Miss Doris. Aye, you will. And you will love me back. Oh, yes. On hands and begging knees, you will adore me.”

  He paced the tiny cell. Hands to his head. Pulling at dirty hair.

  Heels of his hands thumping his temples.

  His Mistress in his mind.

  In his ears.

  A worm. Slithering and sliding. Crawling into skull.

  She needed him. Needed him to think. And, more importantly, to do.

  He stopped pacing. Looked down. Grubby ground. He’d walked through the shells of cockroaches. They were dust now. Crisp little fragments.

  Dirt.

  Dropped to hands and knees and crawled under the bed. To the little grate. Small grate. “Here,” he called through it. “You hear me, crone?”

  Saw her feet.

  Bare.

  Ugly yellow nails. Grey skin. Old skin. Withered. Disgusting.

  “What now, Renfield?”

  “Angel-maker,” he hissed. “I need your help, I do. Need it.”

  “Pish,” she growled. Sat down on her bed. “It’s your fault you’re hungry. Shouldn’t piss the nurses off. You ought to know better by now. I ain’t sharing what I got. It’s a nice place, this one. Best I’ve ever been to. Real good with their food, they are. Real nice. Just got to be friendly, Renfield. That’s all. Be nice for a few minutes, can’t you? Instead of harassing poor Doris. She’s a lady is Doris, and you should treat her as one.”

  “Doris? Food? What are you blathering about? Food? I have food. I don’t need food.”

  “Then what do you need?”

  “Out!”

  “Then maybe you ought to at least pretend to be sane. That’s the only way they’ll let you free. That’s why I don’t come in here mad like a hatter. No. I had a breakdown.” Her voice dropped. A fragile croak. “I’m all alone, I am. I can’t take it anymore. All I think about is taking my own life. I need help. The Lord knows, I need help. Please, Doctor. Oh, yes, and thank you for the food.”

  “Don’t play that shit with me,” Renfield hissed. “I know you, Angel-maker. I know what you want. What you need. And she knows, too.”

  “She?”

  “My Mistress. She knows your little black heart like I do. She wants to talk to you. She thinks you’ll be helpful. But you’ve got to listen. Listen right hard. Yeah. Right hard. Do that. Open your ears, Angel-maker. Snakes and riddles. Open them wide and you’ll hear it, too. Hear her voice like the words of Mary herself. Better. Because her words will make you smile. Make your soul turn to cream, they will. Let the cat in. Let it crawl inside and pounce! On the mice. Hop hop. Let it in!”

  “I’m not listening to you.” The old woman grunted. “You’re mad.”

  Renfield let out a long cackle. “So are you, Angel-maker. So are you!”

  That night, he lay on the ground beside the crushed remains of his cockroaches. Chewed thoughtfully on another. Sucked juices between his teeth.

  Eyes closed, but mind open.

  Moonlight raking silver slashes across his face.

  Listening to the screams as one of the inmates used a rusted nail to peel a flap of skin from his wrist. He knew that’s what they were doing because his Mistress told him.

  Told him all about it.

  With his eyes closed, he could even see it.

  See the blood spurting.

  And could feel his hunger entwined with hers.

  Warm blood.

  “I need more than insects, Mistress,” he said. Soft voice. Clarity turning words to milk. “I want more. Small things. Little bites. Little delights. A rat? A rodent? A bat or a rabbit. A piece of ear. A nibble of kidney from a tasty little bunny.”

  “You’ll have all you want,” she whispered into his mind. “As many as you like.”

  He heard the scuffle of bare feet.

  Amelia. Grunting with effort as she got down on her hands.

  “Renfield?” Sharp whisper in the dark. A sound not unlike the swish of a razor down a fog-drenched alley. “Renfield, are you there? Can you hear me?”

  He smiled. “Angel-maker.”

  “I heard her.” Trembling voice. “She spoke to me.”

  “Aye,” he said. “I know. I know much more. So much more. I know they don’t lock your door in the daylight hours.”

  “They trust me.”

  “You’re old.”

  “I’m a good woman.”

  “You’re gentle.”

  “I smile for them.”

  “You’ll find their key.”

  “I’ll take their key.”

  “You’ll let me out.”

  “I’ll let you out.”

  His eyes flicked open. Dark pupils glittering holes.

  Somewhere, far away, Lucy’s laughter sprang down the halls.

  She could have been in France.

  Could have been in Africa.

  On the moon.

  Didn’t matter where she was, he’d have heard her.

  A crooked smile spread across his face like a cracking wound. “Serve the Mistress.”

  “Yes.” Wonder in the Angel-maker’s voice. “Yes, I will serve.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Renfield was drunk.

  Drunk on torturous death.

  He reeled down the hall on legs which hardly seemed to touch ground. Excitement thrummed through nerves.

  Behind him, Amelia dragged her feet. Deep-lined face set into expression of vacant cruelty. She didn’t say anything. Hadn’t done anything since unlocking his cell except follow. Like a shadow.

  Followed first to the kitchen.

&nb
sp; Then back out into the halls.

  He staggered, giggling to himself. Right arm wet to his elbow.

  Wet with blood.

  Face streaked with it.

  Left a long thick trail where his shoulder brushed the wall.

  Came around a corner and saw Martin. The big guard had his cap on. Uniform askew. Pistol holstered on his hip. He started for it, but Renfield lifted the one he’d taken from Old Motley. Showed gleam of teeth and thumbed the hammer. “Martin! Martin Martin. Little Martin. Fly, Martin. Fly!”

  Martin lifted both hands slowly. “Now, Mister Renfield…”

  “Mister, is it? Aye, I suppose it would be, now. Funny, Martin, how a man will call you Mister when he’s on the other end of a gun. Only seconds before, it was scum, freak, and roachshit. You remember those names, don’t you? Hoo hoo, you do. You do! Oh yes, I see you do. And you remember walking every day with Miss Doris? Every fucking day, you were in her shadow. You’re a bastard, Martin. She were mine. Mine, she were. You hearing me? Do your ears vibrate with fresh knowledge? The Devil’s own lips must surely be against your ear.”

  “Just put the gun down. You don’t want to do this, man.”

  “What happened to Mister Renfield? I liked when you called me Mister. Call me Mister, Martin.”

  “Renfield-”

  “Mister!”

  Hands up. Palms out. Pleading; “Alright, alright. Mister Renfield. There. That better? Now, put it down. We can sort it out.”

  “I know we can, Martin. I know we can.” And pulled the trigger.

  The blast belched flame and lead. Bullet ploughed through the bone of Martin’s face, just above his left eye. Had enough power to punch out through the back of his skull, taking most of his brain with it. Splattered a wide mess across the wall.

  And then it wasn’t just Renfield howling.

  The Sanitorium, roused by the gunshot, erupted. Shrieks and screams.

  Howls like monkeys.

  Hooting.

  Rattle of cages as they beat their bars with anything they had to hand.

  The Angel-maker shuddered behind him as he pointed to a door further down. “Let her out.”

  Amelia nodded. Trod through the wide pool of blood Martin was leaving. Unbothered by the red prints she left behind. Bare feet. Warm wet crimson squelching between toes.

  Renfield squatted down beside the body.

  Pressed the muzzle of his gun into the hole above the dead man’s eyes. Tried to push it in.