by kindels
All these things I put down to the hallucinogenic effect of his laudanum overdose, blind fool that I was! I reassured him that he was suffering from a minor and temporary form of dementia brought on by the use of too much laudanum, and that he would be well again in a day or so. Doctor Malcolm had prescribed a series of purgatives which were rapidly driving the laudanum from his system. I assured him that I felt he would be allowed to leave the hospital within two days.
Why did I not believe him? Why, my son, why? Perhaps if I had, so much pain could have been avoided, and less blood spilt upon the streets of London. But I did not believe him, and I will always have to live with that knowledge. You may ask why I took such pains to visit this man who I have not named, to take an interest in his well-being. I tell you now my son, that if I had my time again I would have turned him away when I first set eyes upon him some few months ago, at my club. He approached me there and asked if I knew him. I did, of course, not from his own countenance, but from his eyes. He had the eyes of his mother you see, and I have never forgotten that grand lady who gave birth to him all those years ago. In deference to her memory I was civil enough to him, and treated him as kindly as I could, and thought him a fine young man for the most part.
I know you must wonder at my words, who he was, who his mother was, and perhaps I shall reveal that to you in time, but not yet. For now, be aware that there are reasons why I keep this to myself. Continue with your reading of his journal my son, and I shall tell you more later, this I promise.
The note ended there, a tantalizing end to a puzzling statement. In truth I felt as though my great-grandfather's words had raised more questions than they had provided answers, though at least now I was sure of a genuine and solid link between great-grandfather and The Ripper. As for this woman, his mother, could she have been a paramour, a lover of great-grandfather before or maybe even during his marriage to my great-grandmother? Is that why he refused to name her? Could The Ripper have been his son, an illegitimate ancestor of mine? The thought made me shudder, for, if that were true, then the blood of The Ripper could be flowing in my veins at this very moment, for we would both share the genes of great-grandfather. I thought I knew everything about the history of my family, but perhaps there were skeletons in the cupboard of which I had never been made aware. I was quite afraid at the thought that I may be about to find them out.
Whatever sense of foreboding I had felt up to this point now doubled in intensity. Whatever the truth of the matter, whatever revelations remained hidden within the as yet unread pages of the journal, I sensed that my peace of mind, such as it was, would never quite return to the state of equilibrium it had enjoyed before I ever set eyes on this document of evil and sick depravity. I wondered where this strange journey was taking me, for though in truth I had not set foot out of my house since returning home with the journal, psychologically I had been transported into the dark and gloomy world of Victorian Whitechapel, been witness to mind-numbing acts of macabre and vicious murder and mutilation, had travelled to the Edinburgh of the nineteenth century to observe yet more scenes of untimely and ferocious killing, and now, my mind was besieged by thoughts that Jack the Ripper may in some way have been a relative of mine.
My palms were sweating, my brow deeply furrowed, and my heart was thumping in my chest. I felt as if an explosion of previously untapped deep emotions had suddenly released deep within my soul, and, despite my attempts to convince my mind that all was normal, that nothing had changed, I felt the beginnings of what was to turn into the longest and most fearful living nightmare I could have envisaged for myself. Believe me when I tell you that Hell exists in many different forms. In the words of his journal The Ripper felt he was already there, and my own descent to that fearful place was only just beginning!
Chapter Nineteen
Of Journals and Journalism
As the words of my great-grandfather's note began to sink deeper into my consciousness so the feeling grew within my own mind that I was faced with innumerable questions, to which I had precisely not one answer. Firstly, there was not one piece of information in the note that explained exactly where the Ripper had been found wandering incoherently around the streets of London. Nor was there anything that provided me with an explanation as to when or how this sudden seizure of disorientation and partial memory loss had begun. Had he started to hallucinate whilst travelling back to London on the train? Had he reached his home first, only to succumb to this strange and sudden reaction on leaving the house at some time afterwards?
The last entry in the journal had been dated the 20th September, and my great-grandfather's note was dated the 23rd. I presumed from his words that the patient had been admitted either one or two days before that date, so perhaps the Ripper's collapse had occurred on the 21st, which was almost certainly the day he had returned by train to London. At the latest he would have been admitted to the hospital on the 22nd so there wasn't quite the gulf of blank dates that there could have been. It did explain why there were no journal entries for those dates. It wouldn't have been possible for him to access his journal if he were lodged in a bed in a hospital ward.
I must admit that I was wholly intrigued by the references to the Ripper's mother. Who could she have been? If she weren't a secret lover or a relative of my great-grandfather, then what would have induced this feeling of responsibility toward the man in my ancestor? Was it logical to assume that the man was the bastard child of an illicit relationship between great-grandfather and this mystery woman? Of course not, I told myself. There could have been many reasons for his feelings of benevolence towards this young man, though I admit that for the life of me, at that moment in time, I couldn't think of any! I suddenly realised that I'd thought of the man as being young. Why? Great-grandfather hadn't mentioned his age, only that he reminded him of his mother, yet, somehow, I had the feeling I was right. Jack the Ripper was a young man, probably younger than I was at that time, I just knew it, without any concrete evidence to hand, I just knew.
My research notes were lying on the desk in front of me, where I'd left them in readiness for my current excursion through the pages of the journal. Suddenly something on the uppermost page seemed to leap up from the paper and strike me straight between the eyes. It was a date, the 30th September, 1888. It was, of course, the date of the so-called 'double murder', when both Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes would meet their horrific ends. Yet, there was something else, I couldn't think of it at first, but there was a significance about that date that was eluding me for the time being. I wracked my brain, but it wouldn't come, no blinding revelation or realization sprang to mind. I would have to hope that my memory would click into action before long, and that the significance of the date would reveal itself to me.
I suppose it was the lack of a good night's sleep, for, even though it was still quite early in the day, I suddenly felt my eyes becoming heavy, my thoughts seemed slurred, as if I were caught in a whirlpool of sudden drunkenness. I shook myself in an attempt to clear my head. As I did so, I thought I heard a sound behind me, a sort of quiet rustling, as though someone was treading on dry leaves. I turned quickly, knowing logically there was no-one there, yet at the same time my illogical fears and tensions were such that I just had to check I was truly alone. I was, of course.
The uppermost thought in my mind at that time was simply; was it possible to be alone and yet not alone? Anyone who's been in love will probably recognize that concept, the feeling that no matter how far apart they may be, two lovers can yet feel as though together across the miles. Unfortunately for me, the feeling in my mind wasn't one of togetherness with Sarah, that most beautiful lady with whom I shared my life, and who was many miles away at her sister's house; no, my feeling was one of togetherness with the malevolent force that I felt was somehow contained within the words and pages of the journal. Like a cancerous mass of gargantuan proportions, the sensation weighed me down, my mind was clouded by thoughts of death, of a crazed madness running out of
control, toward an inevitable climax of destruction; but whose, his or mine? His destruction of course had been a fact of history. It was over a hundred years since the series of murders he'd perpetrated had taken place, and Jack the Ripper, whoever he may have been, was by now long dead. So, why was I asking the question? Was it possible that my own mind was becoming scarred and twisted in some way by the words from those aged pages, from the paper itself, strangely warm to the touch, and horrific in content?
I shook myself once more in an effort to dispel the daydream, the feeling of other-worldliness hanging over me, hanging over the entire study, hovering just below the ceiling, a cloud of depression and fear, of evil intent and malevolent purpose. Why didn't I just give up, throw the damned journal in the waste bin, or better still, take it into the garden and burn it? I couldn't. No matter how much I may have wanted to dispose of it, to read not one more single page of the depravities committed by the Ripper, I was somehow being driven by a compulsion I couldn't deny, as though a will stronger than my own was invading my body and mind.
Though my head ached, and my heart throbbed noisily in my chest, and though every logical part of the man that was me screamed to leave it alone, I knew that I would never desert my strange voyage through the journal until I'd read every last blood-soaked, horror-filled page, until I'd discovered the secret contained somewhere within its pages or in the words of my own ancestor who had begun this curse upon our family by bequeathing the journal to my grandfather, who had, tragically continued the custom, or should I say, the compulsion? The thought entered my mind that perhaps my grandfather and my father had both experienced the same feelings as I was now being subjected to. If they had been, I wondered how they'd coped with whatever knowledge would eventually be revealed to me. I knew that my grandfather had spent the last few years of his life as a virtual recluse, seldom leaving his home, and turning visitors away from his door, except for the closest members of his family. I'd merely thought him a little strange, perhaps a little senile, now perhaps was the time to revise that opinion, though what to replace it with? Even my father had undergone something of a personality change in the later years of his life. His once permanently cheerful countenance had been replaced by one that seemed to me marked by worry lines, a furrowed brow, and a loss of his once almost legendary sense of humour. Maybe it hadn't just been the result of his long battle against cancer, as I'd thought. Maybe something far more malevolent had eaten at his very heart and soul, as it may have done to those who'd gone before him.
This was bad, very bad; I just couldn't shake myself out of this awful feeling of doom and gloom, of gathering depression and oppression. That was the word for it, oppression. The room was filled with a tangible sense of cruelty and tyranny, I felt as if I were no longer in control of events, a pall hung over me, and it wasn't going to go away until I had completed my task, and that meant reaching the last page, the last word in the journal, the last vestige of information from great-grandfather. Was I cracking up? I was beginning to think I was.
I must have fallen into one of those 'waking sleeps' again; you know, when you think you're awake, but you've actually nodded off for a short while, and wake up feeling as though you've been asleep for hours, when it's really only been a few seconds, or perhaps a minute. Anyway, I suddenly came to with a violent jolt, and for a moment unsure where I was. Quickly composing myself, I glanced at the clock. I realised the time had long passed from when I'd promised myself that I'd stop what I was doing and take a break, maybe get some fresh air in my lungs. As much as I wanted and needed to continue my expedition through the journal I knew that I needed to leave the study and collect my thoughts, and give my mind and body the opportunity to refresh themselves, even for a short time. So, with a supreme effort, I rose from my chair, leaving the journal and my notes behind, and walked out of the study without looking back at them. I think that if I had cast a glance back in their direction I'd have probably returned to the chair.
The walk into the centre of the little village where Sarah and I had made our home five years before wasn't a long one, but it was decidedly pleasant. I gulped in several lungfulls of fresh, sweet tasting air as I walked along the street. The birds were singing, a beautiful resonant chant that filled the air around me. Thrushes, sparrows and various finches were all joined in a harmonious concert of unbridled joyous birdsong, all seemingly choreographed and led by the tumultuously melodic voice of a sole blackbird perched majestically on the top of a telegraph pole on the opposite side of the street, his neck stretched upwards, his yellow beak a conductor's baton as he co-ordinated the symphony of song. The sun was warm on my neck as I walked, and the hint of a breeze served to gently rustle the leaves on the trees; elms, rowans, and the single large oak tree that stood guard at the only crossroads in the village. For a few minutes, the horrors of Victorian Whitechapel, the terrible crimes of the Ripper, all thoughts of insanity, dementia and the strange and unholy effects of the journal were left far behind me. My mind, which, for the last twenty four hours had been filled with little else, was suddenly set free, free to enjoy the simple pleasures of my walk.
I crossed the main street and approached the solitary newsagent the village possessed. As I got closer to the little shop the words emblazoned on the news hoarding by the door jumped out at me. WOMAN BUTCHERED IN VICIOUS KILLING! My escape from the horrors of the Ripper's crimes hadn't lasted long. All thoughts of birdsong, rustling leaves, and warm sunny days were immediately dispelled by those stark words, written in bold black felt pen, on that virgin white paper background. I was surrounded by death, by the awful truth of reality, that here, in the midst of our so called enlightened modern society, brutality and murder were still just around the corner, waiting like the Ripper in the night, to strike and destroy the lives of the innocent.
I walked into the shop to be greeted by the friendly face of Rashid, the proprietor, who, despite his foreign name and background, had apparently lived in the village longer than the vast majority of its current batch of residents. I tried to respond to his jovial "Good morning, doctor" with a cheerfulness I certainly didn't feel. I quickly purchased a copy of the Daily Mail, and the local paper, whose front page was devoted to the brutal slaying heralded on the hoarding outside the door.
Five minutes later, I was sitting on the small wooden bench overlooking the small village pond, populated by its usual compliment of resident ducks, all innocently paddling contentedly across its gleaming surface, their shadows reflected as rippling upside-down ducks in the clear water. Leaving the Daily Mail on one side, I quickly scanned the lead story of the local paper. A thirty year old woman had been found in an alley in the town of Guildford, not far from my peaceful village. The poor woman had had her throat cut, and her body horribly mutilated. The report concluded, "In a crime reminiscent of the Jack the Ripper murders in nineteenth century London, the police are urgently seeking the perpetrator of this heinous and barbaric act, which at the moment appears motiveless. With little evidence to go on at present, the officer in charge of the case asks that the public remain vigilant and that women in the area take extra care if going out alone after dark."
My head was spinning, the shaking in my hands had returned, and the newspaper visibly quivered as I attempted to hold onto it, as if it were the last solid object in a rapidly crumbling universe.
"Why now?" I asked aloud, though to no-one in particular, (I was alone after all). Why did this have to happen at this exact moment in time? My heart went out to the poor victim of this horrible and sadistic crime, and to her family of course, but it was almost too much for my mind to cope with, that this should have taken place just as the journal had fallen into my hands, on the very night in fact, that I had begun to explore its sinister, ancient pages. Add to that the newspaper's reference to the Ripper himself, and the coincidence was uncanny, as though the present was reflecting the past in some way.
No, I couldn't accept that. Jack the Ripper died long ago, and no-one knew of the journal's
existence, therefore, the murder of this poor unfortunate woman had been nothing more than a grisly coincidence, that's all. I kept repeating that fact to myself as I walked slowly home, my feet and legs leaden, my heart heavy, and my mind in a whirl. The birds were probably still singing, the leaves quietly rustling, and the sun was likely as warm as before, but I never heard or felt a thing, I swear it. I must have been like a zombie as I made my way back into the house, threw the newspapers onto the kitchen table, and sat in Sarah's fireside chair with my head in my hands, as that pall of gloom and depression oozed its way from the study into the kitchen and quickly wrapped itself around me. In truth, I had never felt quite so wretched, so disturbed of mind, and so lacking in confidence. I felt as if my wonderfully crafted and carefully constructed world were being wrenched away from me by some power, some force that as yet I couldn't even recognize. I knew that before long I would return to the study, pick up the journal once more, and delve ever deeper into the mind and world of Jack the Ripper. I was still so disturbed by the strange coincidence of the murder of the poor woman just a few miles from my home on the previous night. As I'd sat reading the words of the Ripper, someone had dragged her into a dark and terrifying alley, slit her throat and committed acts of great cruelty and horror on her body. I remember thinking that though the Ripper may be long dead, something of his cruelty must exist in each and every one of us, buried deep within the subconscious of seemingly rational men and women, but there all the same, waiting to be released by the right catalyst if and when the time comes.
Sensing that I was being drawn by a strange inevitability, and feeling more tense and nervous than I would have believed possible in myself just twenty four hours ago, I rose from my chair. The journal was waiting…
Chapter Twenty
