“I will not choose. I wish to see none dead, and will make all attempts to do so. You shall not condemn any more to death.”
A smile spread across His face. It was sickening because He was obviously enjoying it so much. I wondered which part of my mind could imagine such a thing, but when He spoke it became obvious. “That is where you are wrong, for you are condemning someone right now.” It was guilt and fear and realism, the part of me that knew that shutting myself in that room would not save anyone, and would simply bide myself time until he found me. He continued. “In not too long one of these graves will be filled. So which one will it be?”
Beyond the confines of this dream He was moving, shifting through the London darkness, preparing to pounce on His next victim. Perhaps it was me. Perhaps, as my body shifted restlessly in bed, taunted by these thoughts, He had already found me and my time was up. I felt like a puppet, my strings controlled by some disembodied hands beyond the skies, laughing as I pranced at its command.
I needed to wake up.
I began screaming and thrashing, running between graves looking for anything - God knows what I expected to find. I knew the land was entirely fabricated for my consumption, yet I fruitlessly searched anyway. I would not allow another death to happen so easily.
All the while, He sat atop his hill, chuckling to himself.
Eventually, I gave up. It was a nightmare: and I was in for the ride. When it stopped, only then could I get off. I returned to the hill, defeated and ashamed, and feeling guilty. I did not feel in control of myself. I was stuck inside my own bastarding dream.
As I stood before him, he spoke to me neutrally. “Now that you see reason, let us see the outcome, shall we?”
He flashed a wicked grin as His face began to wave; the world falling out of focus, and I woke in the early hours of the morning drenched with sweat and cold with fear.
Chapter XXVII
I did not wish to purchase a copy of The Times the next morning, for I knew what would be reported. If not that morning, then the morning after, a name of a person close to me would be listed. It was only a matter of time, an inevitable ticking, until either Harry or Palmer’s name would show. When they did it would not change anything. It would not change my mind about what I needed to do. But still, I needed to know.
I made arrangements with the innkeeper to deliver the morning and evening papers to my room, so I did not have to leave so often. I had several days of fearful silence before the article finally appeared.
THE TIMES, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1838
SPRINGHEEL JACK MURDERS LOCAL BUSINESSMAN – Springheel Jack has struck again, murdering London businessman Harry Cowley. The body of Mr Wickes was found near Leeds and was identified only by items on his person. It is unknown why Mr Wickes was in the area. The search for Springheel Jack continues.
I knew why Harry was near Leeds – he was trying to escape. He was doing the same thing that Francis vowed to do, but Jack had hunted him down. How he had made it to Leeds and then succumbed to Jack I could only dread to think. Was Jack toying with him the entire way? My mind turned to my dearest friend Francis. I prayed for him to be alright. I had been scanning the newspapers daily for news of him, but there had been nothing. The silence worried me, but I knew that if I were to hear news in the newspapers then it would be news that I did not wish to hear.
It became obvious that we were under Jack's control no matter where we went. It was as Lucius said, escape was impossible. Anyone who tried to escape – Rufus and Harry – had been killed. Somehow Francis had eluded his escape, most likely taking refuge somewhere where he could not be tracked without telling anyone. I figured it only a matter of time before Jack started killing the ones of us who remained in London. I could only assume Palmer was next, unless he managed to track me down beforehand.
When I slept that night I returned to the graveyard, that bleak nightmare that haunted my mind when I wished it not to. Jack remained stood where he had, leaning against one of the headstones. I saw the graphite begin to wear away like dust, slowly revealing text. It was as if it were ageing backwards: at first it looked weathered, the text barely legible, merely a groove in the stone. Then it began to deepen slowly until I could read the name upon it:
HERE LIES HAROLD COWLEY
1811 - 1838
'You bastard,' I croaked. Images of Harry rushed through my mind: his timidness, his kindness... his struggle against the meetings, against the murders. How he did not want to be a part of this, but yet he was dragged in against his will and silenced by louder men. And now he was gone without further chance to protest.
There was nothing more to show me. I awoke with a startle and remained awake throughout the morning until the sun rose. I flinched at every creak and gust, but nothing came for me in the dead of the night.
I paced for part of the morning, but it did me no good. I had something, a burning desire, to visit Lucius’ house, to investigate. I knew I would find nothing, but I needed closure. I needed to see it, to study it. Lucius was the one with the connection, what if there was something there? I sat in an attempt to clear my mind, but instead the thoughts only devoured me. Consumed, I left the Inn whilst the night was still thick and walked over to Lucius place.
My memory of his home was hazy in the dark, but luckily it stood out. It was still as it had been left, sealed off as a crime scene. The place was terrifying to me – a place I recognised, that I knew, now sealed off as a tomb. It reminded me of my Father’s house when I returned to it, once being so full of joy and now just a place of death. I already missed my home.
I lingered in the street for a while to make sure there were no police presence, but the place was silent at this hour. I needed to go on. What if there was something inside that would give me a clue? I approached the front door and wrapped my trembling hand around the doorknob, finding myself worried about what I would find within. Slowly, I twisted, and to my surprise the door opened.
I called out as I entered, although I did not know why. To make sure I was truly alone, I guessed. The house was a mess. Furniture slashed and ornaments smashed. Claw marks embellished every wall, slashed in a frantic fury. Deserted and torn, the house lied in a furious state.
In the living room there were smears and streaks of blood over almost every surface. The dyed in the fabricate residue clotted and congealed, leaving a metallic aroma in the air. It was not hard to imagine where the body had lay before it was removed. A large pool of blood with a trail marked the evident removal of a body.
The scene was so evident I could see it played out before me. I could see Lucius’ every step. Each fallen and torn ornament told its own tale of the movement within the house and it was clear where he was struck down as Jack leapt at him with a great force.
On the walls there were hastily scrawled Christian verse begging for redemption – a killer's lament perhaps? An inner conflict compounded by vicious outbursts, unintentional yet compelled wrath punctuated by self-realization and remorse during the outburst itself? But why? Why would the killer bring this to our attention? Were they truly seeking penance? If He committed those murders – and in such as fashion as this – would He consider themselves capable of salvation? None of these questions make sense. Perhaps it was Lucius who wrote it in a fit of frenzy in hope of repelling the devil, and not He Himself.
From what I understood, Lucius was in the living room at an early or late hour. The murder was reported to have taken place at night, but the attack happened in his living room. I believe this would indicate he was expecting or entertaining a visitor. I believe he was expecting Jack this time, and was readying himself for Him.
The maid had been killed, too. I suspected that she was sleep upstairs, and perhaps came down during the commotion. Her witnessing of the crime made her a target and Jack struck her down.
I could stomach the milieu no longer and left the house, shutting the door behind me. It appears that Lucius’ attempt to bargain with Jack had failed. The case of mon
ey he had held was nowhere to be seen. It could have been taken by the police as evidence, but more likely Jack had taken it. Lucius had offered it to Jack in exchange for his life, but Jack had taken both. Was there a communication breakdown between the two, or was bargaining never an option? I suspected the latter.
I went to leave the house, but found myself running. The place horrified me for reasons I could not understand. I ran at random, turning down streets and alleys. If anything had seen me or followed me, I wished to throw it. I had seen nothing, of course, but that did not mean there was nothing there, hiding in the shadows. No one has to be taught to fear the dark, for good reason.
I stopped in the dark of a dead end alley and listened. Nothing. Nothing was following me, only the darkness of night, but no foul being. I caught my breath and thought about my next move. I could return to the Inn, but I had done enough pacing to last a lifetime. It was me and Palmer now and, as much as I detested the man, if I could appeal to him perhaps we could work something between us.
I knew Palmer’s house, although only from the outside. It took me a while to fully remember the route, but once I did I made my way straight there, ignoring the hour of day.
Chapter XXVIII
Elms estate was picture perfect; the houses big, well designed and highly desired. Such a residence was only fit for the grandeur demanded by a man such as Palmer. Stood in darkness, wedged between several impressive terraced manors, was Palmer's house. The grandiose structure seemed out of place. All the curtains were drawn and lights out, everything sat in still darkness. The morning was rolling in, but many in London would not be waking for another few hours yet.
I rapped against the front door. A part of me expected nothing, perhaps Palmer had tried to flee London too, but a part of me knew he would find it hard to leave such a fortunate empire behind him. He loved his money far too much for that. I knocked again, this time noticing the twitch of a curtain in the front window. Realising there was someone still within the house, I called out. “Palmer, for God sake, I can see you.”
A sound of fumbling came from within, followed the sound of unlatching before the door opened – only slight and still on chain – and the watchful eye of Palmer gazed through the gap.
"What the hell do you want?!"
"Listen, we are both in the same situation, maybe we can help one another."
"He got Lucius and Harry, did you not see? He is hunting us down one by one..."
"Yes, I know. We have to stop it, Palmer. We can only find a way out of this if we work together."
Palmer shook his head. "No, no there is no way. Harry left the area, went North I think, but he still got him! There is no escape! He is coming for all of us!"
Palmer was hysterical, stammering and mumbling to himself, refraining from getting too close to the door. I could see that he was not going to be a whole lot of help.
He continued, "He has not killed me yet, he does not know where I live. Long as I do not go outside, he will not be able to track me down. You should do the same."
And with that, Palmer slammed the door and began to bolt it again. He appeared at the curtain again not a minute later, frantically gesturing for me to leave his porch.
Perhaps Palmer was right that Jack had not killed him because he did not know where to find him, that he had stayed still and not done anything to make his whereabouts public. Jack would be limited to the information he had at hand. That did not help me though. Essentially, it was just a waiting game until Jack did uncover enough information on him. We would have to find Jack before that happened.
I descended the steps of Palmers house back into the street, deep in thought. Palmer was as I suspected, but it gave me no relief. I thought to myself, where do I go now? Who do I turn to? I was well and truly alone in London, and could only bide my time until Jack found me. I would run out of money soon enough and be homeless, on the very streets Jack owned. I could try and leave the area, but I would only end up similar elsewhere. I still clung to the chance that I may end it if I stayed, that was my only hope.
After moments of pondering to myself I heard an awful scream resonating from within Palmer’s house. I froze; I knew immediately what had happened. Jack was inside, right now. Palmer’s voice silenced and I saw, in the upstairs window staring down at me, Him. He had found me.
I stood, waiting for his next move. Perhaps he would crash down on me as he had done James. I could only await it. But he did not. Instead, he stepped away from the window. What was he doing? Was he coming down? There was only silence, and then an almighty crash, but it was not Jack who sprung down at me, it was Palmer’s bloody corpse which crashed into the cobblestone street in a distorted mess. Jack did not follow.
I looked at the once-Palmer, now bloodied and beaten, and contorted out of form. His face did not look horrified or sad, it simply looked hurt. Like a man who felt disappointed that this was his time.
It wasn't long before the discordant angry cries could be heard resonating throughout the streets.
"Murderer! Murderer in the street!" someone called, and I became aware that people had come out into the street only to see me stood beside Palmer.
Without thought nor care, only pure reflex, I pelted down an alley. The mob gathered in the adjacent street. I did not wish to answer to the mob, having being the one at the scene of the crime.
The sky was dark and empty, holding only the memory of stars. I made my way carefully through streets, trying to avoid any contact, but the rabble descended on me quickly. Before I could make my way out of the middle of the street, I found myself to be surrounded by people screaming and shouting. They accused me, and would not listen to my pleas.
The gathered around me, making sure I had no way to escape. They hurled obscenities at me. Then, after a short time, the crowd parted and a strange man approached me, almost official in stance. I recognised him to be a policeman, but his uniform was tattered and old. It was not until the officer looked up at me and I realised that I was staring at Spring-heeled Jack. He was without mask, and He looked as any other stranger should look, but that wicked grind spread across His face confirmed it.
"It is him! It is Spring-heeled Jack!" I cried, but the crowd remained fixated on me with cold eyes. I watch as countless hands cup around the mouths of the populace around me, the dim hum of snickers and whispers filling the street. No one believed me. No one even considered that what I had said was true.
I pleaded with the crowd, but they did not listen, instead keeping their distance. As I tried to tell them my story, Jack delivered a blow to me and I felt myself sink to the cold floor as he grabbed my hands, bounding them together. He pulled me up against my will and began to march me through the crowd and they chanted and screamed.
Nothing is more frightening as an entire city wanting you dead, screaming for your blood, not listening to your pleas of innocence.
As the last ray of light left the sky, reality finally sunk in. I had lost. Jack had caught me, and it would only be a matter of time until he subjected me to whatever torture he saw fit. As he lead me away, I passed out. The crowd, Jack, Palmer’s corpse, it all went black.
I found myself in darkness as an indeterminate amount of time passed. I stared at my hands, covered in blood. Were these my hands? But I did not kill, and nor did I have any recollection of taking a life. Was I the guilty one? Could I really be held accountable for the actions which I did not condone? It was all Jack, all along. Without Jack, none of this would have taken place.
I thought back to my youth. Of my dear Father telling me to always run from monsters. He had warned me of monsters, dragons, beasts and demons, but no one warned me about this. How do you run from such a thing?
“You cannot,” the voice of my Father responded. “For it is you that has done such a thing, and you cannot run from yourself.”
“Is this what you felt too?” I responded into the nothingness.
The figure of my Father appeared before me. A tall and elegant man of gr
and design, far superior than all the others. “That is how life is, sometimes.”
“You abandoned me.”
“I did not abandon you,” he said, appearing genuinely hurt. “But there was no other way, I was a danger – as you are to Lilly.”
I did not like to think about it, what I had done and brought upon her. It was past and unchangeable, but I could not forget. At the time it seemed fleeting, yet it haunted me, indelibly splashed across my mind for eternity. I was forever changed by it. The sorrow had eaten me to a lesser man, its despondent ache leaving my bones brittle and my cheeks sullen.
I thought of James. He had left for the stars whilst I remained in the very world he vowed to save. For such a long time I grieved his death, but eventually I realised that the tears and the pain were not the problem anymore. It was the fear that kept me up at night. The fear that I could hurt more people that I loved. The fear that I could not love because of Him, the same fear that made me realise I had to leave Lilly, lest it happen all again.
“You left me,” cried the sorrowful voice of Lilly who appeared beside my Father. “And when you came back, you had no joy to offer for my marriage, before dragging me into the vile mess you made.”
“I am so sorry Lilly,” I apologised, pathetically. I was beaten down.
“You left me alone, and would not have returned if you were not forced. You did not care about me, only of your money.”
I felt as if I were overheating, the mechanical fixtures of my body shutting down. The words were too truthful, piercing my heart. I had deluded myself for far too long, lying so much about my actions and I that I had lost faith in what exactly was correct in my world. These white lies that I spewed were truths, but tucked into bed. I would show them to others from the doorway so that they would not ask any questions, but they would never be wakened. Not by me, at the very least, for even I did not ask questions. I did not question my own motives.
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