by Cross, Amy
WOMAN, 23, STABBED TO DEATH IN WHITECHAPEL.
And another:
WHITECHAPEL MURDER LINKED
TO BLACK MARKET ORGAN TRADE?
My thoughts immediately start racing as I think back again to the man who attacked me last night. He only got the tip of his knife a couple of inches into my body, but I'm sure he'd have done more if he'd had the chance. I barely managed to fight him off and run, but now I can't help wondering whether I met the same shadowy figure who apparently killed a woman later in the evening.
And then I spot another banner on one of the other news channels.
Stepping closer to the window, I stare in horror at the 'Breaking News' at the bottom of one of the screens:
JACK THE RIPPER'S BACK IN LONDON!
Chapter Twenty-Four
Doctor Charles Grazier
Sunday September 30th, 1888
Now morning has arrived, I can hear the cacophony of London outside the house. This will be the final morning of my life, so whereas I would usually be annoyed by such loudness, this time I stand in the hallway and listen to all the shouts and yells. London is loud and busy, and I dare say it shall continue to be loud and busy for as long as the city itself exists. Long beyond my day, for certain.
Everything is ready.
Catherine's body has been wrapped and left on the bed, along with a note detailing every aspect of her medical condition. I have asked in the note for there to be no autopsy, to spare Catherine the indignity of being cut open by men she did not know, but I doubt this request will be respected. Someone like Thomas Culpepper – indeed, perhaps Culpepper himself – will carve into her and look at all the aspects of my work. This cannot be avoided, but I curse their names regardless. And I am quite sure that they will not understand the groundbreaking treatment that I developed.
One day, the name Charles Grazier will be famous the world over, once my journals have been properly read by the great men of future days. If I could not be so grandly lauded in life, then I take some comfort from the knowledge that such will be so after my death. There shall be books about my great work, and whole institutes named after me. Perhaps the people of my own time are timid and ill-equiped to recognize true brilliance in those who tower above them, but I trust that men of the future shall have their eyes a little more open. I had not intended to leave evidence of my accomplishments, yet that is precisely what I have ended up doing, in carefully annotated notebooks that shall be discovered after my death. In these notebooks, men shall learn of my great achievements in treating Catherine. I shall be mentioned in the same breaths as Newton and Gallileo and Da Vinci.
And here I am now, hesitating too long.
In truth, there is nothing left for me to do other than to go into the kitchen and perform one final, ghastly little ritual.
Turning, I step through the doorway and over to the kitchen table, where I have arranged a simple bowl with a scalpel at its side. As I sit down, I run through the plan one final time. I shall cut my wrists over the bowl, and then I shall go upstairs and settle myself next to Catherine on our marital bed. By the time our bodies are found, I shall have joined Catherine in the next life, and the horrors of this world will be forgotten. And now, as I take up the scalpel and tilt my left wrist to better see where I must cut, I feel a tremendous sense of calm starting to settle upon my shoulders. Soon, Catherine and I shall be together and -
Suddenly I hear the sound of breaking glass, followed by a loud and heavy thud.
I immediately turn and look toward the doorway, and for several seconds I sit in shocked silence and listen to a series of stumbling footsteps. There's a grunting sound too, a kind of breathless gasping, and finally the steps start heading down into the basement. It is almost as if a pig has entered the house.
A moment later I look down at the floorboards, and I realize I can hear somebody down there in the room beneath the kitchen.
Getting to my feet, I feel a rush of panic in my chest. I head over to the doorway and look out into the hall, and to my horror I see that the half-circle window has indeed been shattered. Stepping forward, I reach down and pick up one of the many shards of glass that have fallen upon the floor. I tell myself that this must be an illusion, that I am imagining the intrusion, but suddenly the glass shard catches against my finger and tears the skin, and I watch as a bead of blood starts dribbling down to the palm of my hand.
Downstairs, in the basement, somebody is moving about.
I should run to the front door and out into the street, so that I might call for the attention of a police officer. However, an officer of the law might have certain questions about what is going on inside the house, and might prevent me from achieving my end alongside Catherine upstairs.
Determined to keep order for at least a little longer, then, I head to the desk next to the stairs and I take a letter-opener from one of the drawers. This should be enough for me to defend myself, should the need arise, although I assume the intruder is likely a cowardly child. I have heard of criminal thugs sending children into houses to steal whatever they might find, but I have absolutely no sympathy for thieves. I shall certainly not hesitate to gut this child if necessary. I might be in my sixth decade now, but that does not mean I am a pushover.
How dare some homeless wretch break into my home?
“You there!” I shout as I reach the top of the wooden steps, looking down into the basement. “This is private property! You have one chance to come out, else I shall not be answerable for my actions!”
I wait, but now I hear nothing at all. Perhaps the little thief is hiding. Perhaps he even realizes that he has chosen the wrong house to attack. I imagine he is shivering with fear, terrified that he has finally met his match. I am quite sure that these little thieves always crumble when they are confronted by somebody of real force and character.
“You have been warned!” I continue, as I start making my way down the steps. “I am not a man to be meddled with! Do you hear me? You picked the wrong house this morning!”
By the time I get to the basement, I am filled with a rare fury. This is supposed to be a peaceful morning, yet an intruder has chosen to break into the sanctuary of my home. As I step out across the basement and make my way toward the stone operating table at the center, I adjust my grip on the knife. I look around, so that this little monster cannot get a jump on me, but I suppose he must be hiding behind one of the pillars. Stepping carefully around the side of the table, therefore, I prepare myself to apprehend the intruder.
“You'd be better off running!” I call out, while glancing toward the benches and seeing that none of my scalpels are missing. “I'm not afraid to use force, young lad! You'll get what's coming to you if -”
Suddenly I hear a scraping sound from the far end of the room. I turn and look toward the farthest, shadowed part of the basement, which is where I keep my ice cases and assorted other items. To my surprise, I realize I can hear a continued slurping sound coming from the darkness, and I think I can just about make out the shape of a figure crouched on the ground, bent over and trembling violently. Immediately, I realize with a shudder that this figure appears rather larger than a child.
“Who are you?” I shout, determined to strike an imposing figure as I march across the basement. “I'll have you know I was a boxer in my youth. It's a brave man who brings a fight to Doctor Charles Grazier! A brave man or a fool, anyway.”
I stop once I'm past the stone slab, and in truth I am starting to feel rather alarmed by the sight of this shabby figure. Now that I can see him more clearly, I realize that he is hunched over an upturned ice case, and I believe he might have emptied out the particular case in which I have been storing the unused body parts cut from the bodies of the dead whores. I can hear a chewing sound, too, and finally I take a couple more steps forward as I try to see exactly what is happening.
Suddenly, as if he has only now heard my approach, the hunched figure gets to his feet and turns to me.
To my horror, I
see that he is a wretched fellow wearing a black suit that has clearly seen better days. His most striking aspect is a set of dark, soulless eyes, and I watch as he straightens up and steps toward me. As he emerges from the shadows, I realize that he is indeed holding one of the older unused uteruses in his hands, one that I took out of a Spitalfields whore a few weeks back. A moment later he raises the old uterus to his bloodied mouth and bites down, causing putrid black liquid to burst from the flesh and dribble down his wrists.
“Who are you?” I stammer, holding the knife up as I take a step back. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Who am I?” he asks, before grinning and – in the process – revealing a blood-stained mouth with flecks of torn human tissue stuck between his teeth. “Haven't you guessed yet?” he gasps, still smiling even though he seems to be in pain. “I'm the man they're calling Jack the Ripper!”
Coming Soon
IN DARKNESS DWELL
(THE HOUSE OF JACK THE RIPPER BOOK 2)
Lost and alone on the streets of London, and in desperate danger, Maddie finally realizes that she might have to do the one thing that goes against everything she believes in. Meanwhile, more than a century earlier, Doctor Charles Grazier is forced to deal with a man whose capacity for violence and cruelty seems to know no limit, just as London begins to be gripped by the horror of Jack the Ripper.
Also by Amy Cross
THE ASH HOUSE
Why would anyone ever return to a haunted house?
For Diane Mercer the answer is simple. She's dying of cancer, and she wants to know once and for all whether ghosts are real.
Heading home with her young son, Diane is determined to find out whether the stories are real. After all, everyone else claimed to see and hear strange things in the house over the years. Everyone except Diane had some kind of experience in the house, or in the little ash house in the yard.
As Diane explores the house where she grew up, however, her son is exploring the yard and the forest. And while his mother might be struggling to come to terms with her own impending death, Daniel Mercer is puzzled by fleeting appearances of a strange little girl who seems drawn to the ash house, and by strange, rasping coughs that he keeps hearing at night.
The Ash House is a horror novel about a woman who desperately wants to know what will happen to her when she dies, and about a boy who uncovers the shocking truth about a young girl's murder.
Also by Amy Cross
HAUNTED
Twenty years ago, the ghost of a dead little girl drove Sheriff Michael Blaine to his death.
Now, that same ghost is coming for his daughter.
Returning to the small town where she grew up, Alex Roberts is determined to live a normal, quiet life. For the residents of Railham, however, she's an unwelcome reminder of the town's darkest hour.
Twenty years ago, nine-year-old Mo Garvey was found brutally murdered in a nearby forest. Everyone thinks that Alex's father was responsible, but if the killer was brought to justice, why is the ghost of Mo Garvey still after revenge?
And how far will the real killer go to protect his secret, when Alex starts getting closer to the truth?
Haunted is a horror novel about a woman who has to face her past, about a town that would rather forget, and about a little girl who refuses to let death stand in her way.
Also by Amy Cross
THE BRIDE OF ASHBYRN HOUSE
“I have waited so long for your return.”
In the English countryside, miles from the nearest town, there stands an old stone house. Nobody has set foot in the house for years. Nobody has dared. For it is said that even though the lady of the house is long dead, a face can sometimes be seen at one of the windows. A pale, dead face that waits patiently behind a silk wedding veil.
Seeking an escape from his life in London, Owen Stone purchases Ashbyrn House without waiting to find out about its history. As far as Owen is concerned, ghosts aren't real and his only company in the house will be the thin-legged spiders that lurk on the walls. Even after he moves in, and after he starts hearing strange noises in the night, Owen insists that Ashbyrn House can't possibly be haunted.
But Owen knows nothing about the ghostly figure that is said to haunt the house. Or about the mysterious church bells that ring out across the lawn at night. Or about the terrible fate that befell the house's previous inhabitants when they dared defy the bride. Even as Owen starts to understand the horrific truth about Ashbyrn House's past, he might be too late to escape the clutches of the presence that watches his every move.
The Bride of Ashbyrn House is a ghost story about a man who believes the past can't hurt him, and about a woman whose search for a husband has survived even her own tragic death.
OTHER BOOKS
BY AMY CROSS INCLUDE
Horror
The Soul Auction
The Ash House
The Camera Man
The Bride of Ashbyrn House
The Body at Auercliff
Haunted
B&B
Laura
Asylum
Meds (Asylum 2)
Annie's Room
The Farm
The Ghost of Molly Holt
The Curse of Wetherley House
The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel
The Haunting of Blackwych Grange
The Ghosts of Hexley Airport
The Devil, the Witch and the Whore (The Deal book 1)
Darper Danver: The Complete First Series
The Disappearance of Katie Wren
The Horror of Devil's Root Lake
The Printer From Hell
The Nurse
American Coven
Eli's Town
The Night Girl
Devil's Briar
The Cabin
After the Cabin
Last Wrong Turn
The Ghost of Shapley Hall
A House in London
The Blood House
The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1)
Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2)
The Border
Short Story Collections
Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories
Twisted Little Things and Other Stories
The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories
The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories
Thrillers
The Murder at Skellin Cottage (Jo Mason book 1)
The Return of Rachel Stone (Jo Mason book 2)
The Girl Who Never Came Back
Other People's Bodies
Dystopian / Science Fiction
The Dog
The Island (The Island book 1)
Persona (The Island book 2)
The Abyss (The Island book 3)
