Doctor Charles Grazier

by Amy Cross

  “Will I?” I ask, raising a skeptical, amused eyebrow. “And whatever makes you believe that?”

  “Because if you do not,” he continues breathlessly, “I swear by any gods that happen to be watching, I will force the information out of you, and I will ensure that your confession is your dying breath! You miserable -”

  Suddenly I burst out laughing. Not in an attempt to embarrass the poor fellow, of course, but simply because I find him so utterly preposterous. Here he is, in my home, attempting to threaten me. Of course, he is not without his strength, so after a moment – still chuckling – I open the drawer on the desk's right-hand side and take out one of my sharper letter-openers. Indeed, I am quite impressed by my ability to do this while I am blinded, and I can only suppose that once again my natural talents are making themselves evident.

  It no longer matters whether or not Jack is real. I am blind, so how am I to tell?

  “Do you think this is amusing?” he asks. “You once told me that killing a child was a line you could never cross, Doctor Grazier, and now look at you. Tell me what you've done with Delilah's baby.”

  I tilt my head and look toward him. Or rather, I look toward where I suppose he must be. Does he know yet that I am blind? As I tighten my grip on the letter-opener, I remind myself that although I am sure Jack is not real, I might yet have need to defend myself. After all, it is possible that...

  Wait.

  Why must I defend myself?

  He is an illusion, a waking dream.

  “You don't really want me to tell you about the child,” I say finally. “Deep down, you can guess what I did, and the truth is most likely even worse than you imagine. If I were to tell you the details, if I told you how I used the child to help Catherine, your paltry little mind would no doubt snap. Believe me, Jack, it is much better for you not to know, but if you insist on being told, I can take you down to the basement and show you the various jars and pipettes and tubes that contain the answer. I can show you the unwashed blades.” I wait for a reply, but he seems dumbstruck. “Would you like that?” I ask, and then I get to my feet. “Shall we go now?”

  Again I wait, and for a moment the room fills with silence.

  “Is it dead?” he asks finally.

  “The baby?” I pause, before nodding. “Yes, it is dead.”

  “You killed it?”

  “I did.”

  “Did it die while it was being removed from Delilah, or did it last any time at all after that point?”

  “There were some signs of life for a few minutes,” I explain, “as I took it over to the counter so that I could... Oh, but you don't want to know the details, do you? You don't want to know exactly how I used the child's body. You have an imagination, do you not? So use it. Imagine the worst thing I could possibly have done with that child, and then know that the truth is so much more awful.”

  “May the Lord have mercy on your soul,” he replies, mimicking the sound of a man with real emotions. “You have done the one thing that I thought was beyond you.”

  “Then you underestimated me,” I tell him. “That is understandable. Anything I might have said earlier is a moot point now. I needed the child's body, so I took it. Why should a great man be denied the chance to complete his work, simply because society insists that a weak little child is so important? What would it have become in life, anyway? A solicitor? A clerk? A doctor?” At this, I cannot contain a slight chuckle. “This world is already far too full. I should be praised for helping with the overpopulation problem.”

  “You murdered that baby,” he sneers.

  “I did what I had to do. For Catherine. For love. And truth be told, I am confident that my plan was rooted in good ideas. I do not know why certain failings occurred, but you cannot deny that I raised her body from the dead.” I pause, wondering just how much to tell him, but then I remember that I have the letter-opener for protection. “The child's blood was key,” I add. “A child is pure and unsullied by the world, so naturally its blood is far more potent. I regret the action that I had to take, but one must not get maudlin about these things. The fresh blood gave her some extra strength, although still the mind is -”

  “You murdered Delilah!” he spits.

  “She was a resource to be used, as was the child.” I can't help smiling again, amused by his pathetic attempt to sound like a moral man. “You come from the streets, Jack,” I continue. “You know how life works. The weak are eaten up by the living, and in this case I deemed it necessary to use Delilah and her unborn child in order to save Catherine. Let us not perform some pantomime of emotion and pretend that this was the wrong choice, because -”

  Suddenly I hear his footsteps coming around the table. I take a step back and instinctively raise the letter-opener, although after a moment I bump against the wall.

  He is not real.

  I must remember that.

  He cannot interfere. I shall finish my confession, and then I shall burn this house to the ground, and I shall cut my wrists in the flames.

  “Come any closer,” I say firmly, “and I'll gut you!”

  “You wouldn't know how,” he replies, putting on a good show as he pretends to be angry. “You only kill women, and children. You wouldn't stand a chance against anyone who can actually fight back.”

  “Oh wouldn't I?” I ask, unable to stifle a grin. “Delilah fought back, or at least she tried. Tell me, Jack, when you attack a man, do you simply try to pummel him into submission? Of course you do, whereas I am an expert on human anatomy. Why, I know exactly where to strike you with this blade, and how to incapacitate you without even breaking a sweat. You can't seriously think that I let you have free roam in my house, without knowing precisely how to kill you. I could have ended your life at any time.”

  “I dare you to try!” he barks. “Besides, it is clear that you cannot see.”

  “Come at me then, man,” I reply, raising the letter-opener a little higher. “You will be dead inside of thirty seconds!”

  “I swear -”

  “Remember who you are!” I shout angrily. “Remember what you are! You are a beast, you are a guest in my home and you serve me! The fact that you can walk on two legs is a miracle, let alone the fact that you are able to comport yourself in the rough approximation of a gentleman. Make no mistake, however... You are a wretched creature, and while you might convince yourself that you feel true emotions, you actually feel nothing of the sort. You are a miserable, filthy beast and you will get down on your knees and beg for your life!”

  I wait for him to do as he is told. I shall not spare him, of course. I intend merely to make him kneel so that I can more easily cut his throat. For too long, I have endured his presence. Now that I have finally found a way to cure Catherine and bring her back, I have no need of this pathetic cur and it is time to put him out of his misery. This shall be my final gift to the world. And yet...

  And yet I can make no sense of this. One moment I am determined to live, the next I wish to die; one moment I still believe that I can save Catherine, and the next I am certain she is lost forever. It is as if my mind can no longer settle on any one particular idea, leaving me lost in a mess of confusion and fear. I steady myself a little and try to draw my thoughts together, but I am concerned that I shall never truly be myself again. If any man can taste this degree of madness and then return to sanity, it is I, yet I fear now that sanity is beyond me.

  Do I want to live?

  Do I want to die?

  All I know, at this moment, is that Jack must go.

  “Kneel!” I say finally. “Kneel or I will cut you down where you stand.”

  “Try,” he replies.

  “Don't be foolish!” I shout. “Kneel, man! Kneel and -”

  Before I can finish, I realize that I am dribbling. I reach up and wipe saliva from my chin. I know not why I have become akin to a slathering beast, but more and more liquid is running from my mouth.

  “Kneel!” I say again, forcing a grin to hide the fa
ct that I am in distress. “Kneel, you damnable cur, and face your proper punishment! KNEEL!”

  “Never! Not to you!”

  “Kneel, I -”

  ***

  Blood rushes between my fingers. There is so much blood, I can smell it in the air.

  ***

  The memory flashed into my thoughts, for just a moment. I remembered being down in the basement, cutting Delilah Culpepper open and removing her child. In truth, these memories have been flashing unbidden into my mind all day, as if they are trying to compete with my conscious thoughts.

  “You murdered Delilah!” Jack sneers.

  Unable to stifle a laugh, I realize that I must go to him. Still, it is inconceivable that a gentleman could be injured by such a brute in his own home, and I know exactly where to strike him. I take a moment to consider my aim, and to concoct a plan by which I shall fool him with a dummy move, and at the same time I try to meet his dull, foolish gaze. He must be standing directly in front of me, must he not?

  “If you insist, then,” I say with a smile. “Prepare to meet your maker. Or sink into the depths of damnation. After all, that is where you come from, is it not? From hell? So go back there!”

  And with that, I strike, slicing at his throat with the blade. Somehow I miss, but I go to strike again, only for him to grab my arm and crack it against his knee. I let out a cry of pain and drop the letter-opener, and then I am shoved rudely back against the desk. All of this occurs in the darkness of my own blindness.

  Dropping to my knees, I reach down to touch my arm, only to find that the pain is too intense. The brute has snapped the bone clean in two.

  “Curse you!” I stammer, wincing with pain as I try and fail to clench my right fist. “You will pay for that!”

  “I will pay?” Jack asks, stepping over to the fireplace and – I believe, from the sound alone – picking up one of the pokers. “Perhaps I have seen enough of your work, Doctor Charles Grazier. Perhaps I can succeed where you did not.”

  “You?” I splutter, taking a moment to summon the strength I shall need when I try to stand. “Get down here so that I can finish you off! Or are you not even real? Perhaps you are like Sanderson, you are just an illusion. No, wait, I saw you talking to Delilah Culpepper. Well, maybe that was an illusion too. Maybe there's no way to tell anymore.”

  “You killed Delilah,” he replies, stepping closer, “but I will not let her go. She is a beautiful, perfect creature, and perhaps some good can come of your work if I am able to bring her back.”

  “You really believe that, don't you?” I say with a chuckle. “Oh your poor, pathetic, deluded little -”

  Suddenly the poker crashes against the side of my head, striking me just above the left eye. I feel my skull collapse, and a bright flash briefly fills my eyes as I drop down against the ground. Reaching up to protect my face, I am just about to cry out when the poker crashes down against me yet again, this time shattering my hands and causing me to let out an agonized scream.

  ***

  I drop the child into a small metal dish, and then I lick the blood from my fingers.

  ***

  I roll onto my back, and after a moment I manage by some miracle to see a little out of my right eye.

  Jack swings the poker at me again, crushing the top of my skull. Now I am blinded for good, and I taste a blood-filled, gurgling cry as it erupts from my lips. Within seconds, however, the poker strikes my head again, then again and again, then yet more times with increasing force. I hear Jack cry out, too, as if he is finally giving into his animal side. And still he beats me, until I can feel sections of my skull being quite knocked away to expose the brain beneath.

  ***

  The blood tastes so vital. So powerful. How can it fail to revive Catherine?

  ***

  “You're not real!” I gasp, although I'm not sure whether the words are coming out. “You're not real! You can't be real!”

  “Perhaps this,” he snarls, “will persuade you otherwise.”

  A moment later, I feel the full force of his boot smashing through my face and into my brain, even bursting out through the back. My jaw still works, however, and I am just about able to cry out at him in furious defiance.

  “You're not real! You're not real! You're not -”

  Chapter Twenty

  Maddie

  Today

  “Nice try,” Nick says as I slump back against the wall. “No cigar, but very nice try.”

  Whimpering with pain, I reach down and see that blood is starting to soak the front of my shirt. Nick's blade sliced straight through the fabric and into my belly, and all I can manage is to press my hands against the wound. A moment later, however, I realize I can feel something starting to force its way out through the bloodied slit, as if my guts are trying to burst through. There's blood, too; so much blood, I can feel it running between my fingers and soaking my shirt all the way through.

  This can't be happening.

  Please, let it all be a dream.

  “That was a pretty neat cut, wasn't it?” he continues, taking a step toward me with the knife still in his hand. His eyes look so dark now, almost devoid of human life. Almost dead. “I even impressed myself with that one. Come on, the game's up now, Maddie. Let go. Let's see what happens when you let nature take its course.”

  “Go to hell!” I sob, but I can still feel my intestines trying to come out from my belly, and I'm starting to tremble as rich, pulsing pain fills my mind. I want to run, but I don't think I have the strength.

  “At least you put up more of a fight than Alex,” he continues with a grin. “Don't worry, Maddie. I'm going to use you for an experiment. I'm going to take out your organs one by one. You can even watch for a while, if you like. It'll be a kind of anatomical experiment, something to keep me occupied until the others arrive. Did I mention the others? They're gonna treat me like royalty when they find out what I've discovered here in this house. I think I was guided here. I think the great lord Jack the Ripper himself wanted me to be the one who uncovered his true identity. The name Charles Grazier is gonna live in history. I might even try to summon his ghost, so I can present myself to him as the one who finally gave him the glory he wanted.”

  I try to cry out, but the pain is intense and I can already taste blood in the back of my mouth. I try yet again, but this time all I manage is to spray some blood-laced saliva down my chin.

  “You're so lucky,” Nick says, stepping closer and raising the knife. “When I write the history of our movement, your name -”

  Suddenly something slams into him from behind. Screaming, I duck out of the way as he slumps against the wall, and his knife misses my face by less than an inch. Turning, I'm just in time to see Matt lunging at him again, trying to drive his blade into Nick's shoulder. At the last moment, however, Nick slams his elbow into Matt's face, knocking him back.

  I grab Nick's leg, hoping to slow him down so that Matt can try again. Instead, however, Nick simply slams my head against the wall, and I cry out as I drop to the ground. Still clutching my belly, I feel a jolt of pain run through my chest, and then I look up just as Nick hauls Matt to his feet and shoves him back.

  “Leave him alone!” I gasp.

  “You're a feisty one,” Nick sneers, kicking Matt in the face and knocking him into one of the bedrooms, before stepping through after him. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

  “Maddie, run!” Matt shouts, turning to me. “Maddie, get out of here!”

  “Matt!” I yell, but suddenly the door slams shut and a moment later I hear a gurgled shout from the other side. I stumble to the door and try to push it open, but Nick must have locked it from the other side. I hesitate for a moment, still clutching my belly, and then I realize that my only chance is to get out of here and call for help. At the same time, I've lost so much blood that I'm starting to feel weak, and for a moment I can't even remember how I got here.

  “Matt,” I whisper. “Alex...”

  I wince as
the pain hits harder.

  “Alex!” I shout, hoping against hope that she'll come and help. “Alex, please...”

  And then I remember.

  In my mind's eye, I see her dying face as she was shoved down the steps that lead to the basement. Even now, that memory is already fading again, and I can barely remember my own name. Blood is flowing from my wound, and I'm starting to feel light-headed. Turning, I start stumbling along the landing. I manage a couple of steps but then suddenly I fall, tripping on a loose floorboard and dropping to my knees. I let out a cry of pain as I tumble forward, but somehow I manage to keep my hands clamped tight against my bloodied belly.

  “Matt!” I scream, trying to get to my feet but not quite summoning the strength. “Matt, run! Get out of -”

  Before I can finish, I cry out in pain as more blood spills from my belly and runs between my fingers. The pain is intense, filling my mind for a few seconds as my knees buckle under my weight. I start slipping down, but somehow I manage to drag myself up.

  “Matt, run!” I gasp, tasting blood in my mouth now. “Matt, you have to get out of here.”

  Wait.

  Matt.

  Where's Matt?

  I lean against the wall for a moment and look down at my clasped hands. The cut on my belly runs all the way from one side to the other, and I can feel the weight of my intestines pushing to get out. If I move my hands away, the torn flesh will split all the way and there'll be nothing holding my guts in place. Even now, I can feel more blood seeping out between my fingers, and I think I can even see a sliver of glistening redness pushing against the cut from deep inside. And no matter how hard I try to stay up, I can't keep from sliding down once again toward the floorboards.

  I adjust my hands a little, hoping to get a better grip, but the pain is intense and my fingers are covered in blood. I feel nauseous too, as if my shifting guts are trying to expel everything they contain. My underwear's soaked too. Even if I get out of here, I don't know how -