Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  The reader, a self-taught disciple of the Left-Hand-Path, was obsessed with all things occult and esoteric. Having studied books on arcane practices for many years, he knew that it is precisely because all things physical and spiritual are so intimately bound that the sorcerer is able to cause a transformation in or of a thing without any physical contact simply by possessing the will and the imagination to make it happen.

  Sinking into the soft leather contours of the armchair, he turned a page and read some more.

  …Powerful incantations provide the means to harness the unseen energies that pervade every breath of air and every grain of sand. Properly channelled, these forces can be used to advance the goals of the skilled Mage...

  He was acutely aware that dark magic increased the practitioner’s psychic energy and allowed them to manipulate the world around them for their own gains. The specific words and symbols used during powerful incantations create frequencies that influence outcomes by aligning the energy of the participant with the person, object, or situation they are trying to influence.

  The Disciple surveyed the exquisite book with great fondness. It was one of many in a collection that had taken over three decades to accumulate. There were two other books on the coffee table beside his chair; a rare edition of the 1854 ‘Dogme et Rituel de la Haute Magie’ (Dogma and Rituals of High Magic) by the occultist, Eliphaz Levi, and ‘The Clavis Inferni’ (The Key of Hell), a late 18th century book on black magic.

  A cruel smile flickered across his face as he turned to the first of several chapters that dealt specifically with sacrificial rituals; if he ever appeared on Mastermind this would definitely be his specialist subject.

  The Disciple had undergone a period of fasting in preparation for the impending ritual, allowing himself only enough liquid to survive on. The lack of sustenance was starting to take its toll, but he was confident the adrenalin rush would keep him going until it was safe to resume eating normally.

  He glanced down at the engraved Rolex that adorned his left wrist; a gift from his – soon to be expired – wife, given back in the days when she still professed to love him.

  It was ten-thirty p.m.

  In ninety short minutes All Hallows’ Eve, or Samhaim as the Celts called it, would begin. For the majority of people Halloween was a time for making jack-o’-lanterns out of pumpkins, dressing up in silly costumes, and taking the kids out ‘trick-or-treating’. For those in the know, however, it was one of the four High Holidays, or Greater Sabbats. In fact, it was the most important of the four and was sometimes referred to as The Great Sabbat. He could not imagine a more fitting date to commence his work. The thought triggered a sudden surge of adrenalin, making him feel excited and anxious at the same time. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, counting to ten as he exhaled. This was a night in which calmness needed to prevail; he could not allow his emotions to get the better of him, even for a moment.

  Twisting the book sideways, he attempted to study an intricate occult diagram, but after a few seconds of staring at the page blankly, he realised that further reading was pointless. Carefully placing the heavy book on top of the others, he continued to focus on his breathing as he ran through the plan for the millionth time. During the coming hours he intended to perform the first in a series of ancient dark rituals that were as powerful as they were obscure. The successful completion of each one would make him significantly stronger until he finally reached a point where he would be able to bend the powerful forces that shape destiny to his will.

  The Sheep would be horrified, of course. To them, his actions would seem unforgivably brutal, but to him, the sacrifices were simply a means to an end.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. Every slice of his knife would bring him exquisite pleasure, but that was merely a fringe benefit, and he wouldn’t allow it to distract him from seeing the bigger picture.

  He had carried out experiments with minor hexes and charms before, of course, but he had never attempted anything as dark and as powerful as what he had planned for tonight. Of course, he had been preparing for the coming events for a very long time and he knew exactly what was required of him. The documents he had read had been very specific:

  …The chosen organs must be consumed within a single cycle of the sun or their power will be spent. The organs taken must directly relate to the corresponding zodiacal region of the body. Thus, the heart of a Leo will be eaten; the intestines of a Virgo will be eaten and the genitals of a Scorpio…

  At least identifying and removing the organs shouldn’t be too problematic. His anatomical knowledge might be a little rusty after all these years, but he was confident it was more than sufficient for what he had planned. What worried him was that if he consumed the wrong organ – for instance, if he killed a Scorpio and then ate her liver instead of her genitals – the ritual would not work, which was why it was so vitally important that he establish their star signs before killing them.

  …Only by spilling the blood of the damned, which must be released through ritual mutilation and offered as a sign of worship, can the necromancer obtain true power…

  Those who practice diabolism understand that a ritual sacrifice releases an instant burst of power that can be harnessed and channelled to assist particularly complex spells. Animals of varying description are most commonly used, but the most effective and powerful sacrifices require the offering of human life. In these rites, the victim’s blood is drunk and their flesh is consumed.

  The rituals he intended to carry out represented his last chance at salvation. Success would lift the curse that blighted his life, and prevent the controlling bitch that ran it from depriving him of the rewards that were rightfully his. It was a last throw of the dice in which he risked everything, from his freedom to his immortal soul.

  The stakes were high, but to do nothing was to lose everything anyway, so what choice did he have? Besides, taking petty revenge on the heartless bitches who had done their utmost to destroy his life was just background noise; the bigger picture was that he was embarking on a mystical journey in which he would discover his true self and gain the power he needed to live his life to its true potential. It was his coming out party, only instead of doing something conventional, like confronting the truth about his sexuality, he was finally acknowledging the darkness in his soul; if he didn’t forge ahead with this voyage of self-discovery, there was a very real risk that he would lose what little remained of his sanity.

  The Disciple stood up, swaying slightly as the blood drained from his head. His blood sugar was low, he realised, and he told himself to be strong; he could eat as much as he wanted in a few short hours. He checked his watch again, and his stomach immediately constricted. It was getting on for eleven.

  The planning and preparation phases were finally over.

  It was time for the killing to begin.

  ◆◆◆

  The tube ride to the East End proved singularly uneventful. Emerging from the bowels of Bethnal Green station, he turned his collar up and tucked his chin into his chest to counter the chill. He left the main road as soon as he could and was quickly engulfed in a blanket of darkness. Rubber-soled shoes carried him soundlessly through the cobbled streets that led to his sanctuary, and he scuttled from building line to building line like a sinister shadow, avoiding the sporadic puddles of light generated by the area’s few working streetlights.

  A security light above the adjoining lockup, activated by an overly sensitive motion sensor, came on as he crept beneath it, and he quickly shielded his eyes to prevent his night vision from being completely destroyed. He cursed his security conscious neighbour as he fumbled with the key to his lockup, eager to escape into the darkness within.

  Once inside, he lit the candles and the incense. He had prepared them himself, just like everything else in the ritual he was about to begin.

  The Disciple knew that a magician had to craft his own instruments if he wanted his magic to be successful, and over the past couple of mont
hs he had fashioned a number of crude but functional magical accessories. These included pens, ink, a water sprinkler, an inkwell, a sand shaker, and, of course, the candles and incense burners.

  Earlier in the year, he had purchased a thirteen-inch serrated Bowie knife and a razor-sharp Finnish skinning knife. In accordance with ritualistic custom, he’d replaced their respective wood-effect and rubber handles with elegant wooden ones he himself had made especially for the task ahead. Both were lovingly engraved with arcane symbols.

  He had cut the wood he used from the living tree with his own hand, felling each of the branches he’d selected with a single stroke – an almost impossible task requiring a keen eye, a sharp axe, and split-second timing. It seemed as though half the trees in Epping Forest had been decimated before he’d finally got the knack of it but, once he did, the sound of the wood splitting as he severed the bole of each limb from its host had resonated through the forest like a series of gunshots. Ignoring the excruciating blisters his endeavours had spawned, he begun fashioning his wand and staff that very same day.

  Practitioners of the dark arts place little value in the printed word. They believe the most important ingredient for performing any magic ceremony is the will of the magician; the words used are nothing more than a conduit through which the sorcerer’s will is directed.

  Over the years, The Disciple had learned that to be truly effective the hand of the person who wishes to use it must copy out the text of the ritual. And so, a few days ago, he had meticulously handwritten the words of the ritual on parchment made from the tanned skin of a lamb he had slaughtered and skinned himself.

  The animal’s death had not been a pleasant experience for either of them.

  He looked around, studying the cavernous space of the archway in the flickering glow of the candles. The van was as he had left it last night, fully prepared for the task that lay ahead. But that was for later. Right now, he had to concentrate on getting through the opening ritual, in which he would summon the demon and pledge his immortal soul in return for the gifts and privileges the coming sacrifices would bring.

  Black magic is most effective when carried out during the waning of the moon, which is the point in the lunar cycle that comes after a full moon but before a new moon – and tonight there was a waning gibbous moon. In addition, he knew that performing a ceremony on All Hallows’ Eve, in a year that has a three-fold repetition of a single number in it, would create very powerful magic – which was why he planned to commence the opening ritual on the stroke of midnight, kill his first victim before sunrise, and consume her organs after sunset.

  And there was a very important precedent for what he was about to do; the rituals had been successfully performed in Whitechapel once before, exactly one hundred and eleven years ago – another thrice repeated theological number.

  The Disciple believed that the man the word had come to know as Jack the Ripper – whose five canonical murders were committed between 31st August and 9th November 1888 – had been one of the highest echelons in late 19th Century Freemasonry, and that he had used dark magic and sacrificial rituals to bring about the destruction of his closest rivals in order to influence the decision-making policies of the Government. His ultimate ambition had been nothing less than to alter the very fabric of the British Empire.

  Dark rituals are generally performed to enable the necromancer to communicate with the dead, force malevolent entities to do their bidding, or to achieve power and influence over others. They can also be used with a view to achieving an extended life span, considered the first step in the search for immortality. The Disciple was very clear about what he wanted: money – lots of it, influence and, most importantly, freedom from the controlling bitch who ruled his life, and the other whore-bitches who had made his existence so miserable.

  It is paramount that the appropriate measures are in place before the ritual commences, to protect against unwanted evil spirits. The pentagram, or circle of power, was already marked out in chalk. He sprinkled salt around the perimeter to keep out the dark forces he was about to summon. He knew he would need its protection during the incantation. Then he traced the circle with one of the engraved knives. He inscribed it with the pentacle and other symbols from the Kabala.

  He was careful to start the ritual invocations on the stroke of midnight.

  By the end of the ceremony, The Disciple felt mentally and physically drained. He crossed to his workbench on wobbly legs and slumped down in the padded chair that stood beside it.

  As he sat there gathering his thoughts, The Disciple realised he was shivering from the cold, and that the temperature inside the old railway arch had dropped considerably during the ritual. Had the unseen forces that he had conjured caused that, or was it merely an untimely coincidence?

  Despite the cold, he felt strangely exhilarated as he sipped mineral water from a plastic container. It was as though the atmosphere around him had somehow become charged.

  The invocation had been made. Now he was obligated to kill five women. Failure to do so would bring about his demise in an unspeakable fashion and was therefore not an option.

  An uncomfortable sensation rippled through his bowels. Hoping it was just wind, he switched on the lights around the stage mirror mounted on the long workbench in front of him.

  “Here goes,” he said. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the powder puff and went to work on his face. Next, he donned the wavy-haired black wig and attached the matching coloured moustache with theatrical glue. When the makeup was fully applied, he studied his face in the mirror, searching for any imperfections that might give him away. Satisfied there were none, he stood up and moved into the darkness of the inner chamber.

  As he approached the cab of his van, he glanced up at the inverted cross that was mounted on the wall directly above the double doors, sticking out so dramatically from the semi-darkness that surrounded it. He stopped in his tracks, and for a long, troubled moment he wondered if the Catholic God of his misbegotten youth was angry with him for turning to Lucifer. Looking away guiltily, he concluded that God was probably much better off without him.

  He opened the wooden doors as quietly as he could, and then slipped back inside the lockup to collect his things. A few moments later, cursing next door’s security light – which had come on again – he nudged the van out into the chill night air.

  Breathing deeply, he looked up at the scattering of stars that glistened in the clear sky above. Not a single cloud threatened rain. All in all, it was a fine night for bloodshed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sunday 31st October 1999 – All Hallows’ Eve

  Tracey Phillips sat on the edge of her bed and stared listlessly at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. A sallow-faced young woman, with puffy eyes surrounded by dark shadows, met her gaze with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish.

  Up close, her heavily made-up face looked farcical, clown-like even; the mascara was too heavy, the lipstick was way too thick, and her blusher looked like it had been put on with a workman’s trowel.

  Tracey despised what she had become, and after several seconds of intense soul-searching she tore her eyes away from the painful image, biting her bottom lip in shame and trying to fend off the stomach cramp that was threatening to strike.

  Tracey had been released from the local nick an hour ago. The Rozzers had kept her there for eighteen hours while they tried to prove that she had been kiting stolen cheques. And even though she had started clucking almost immediately, that heartless bastard of a Police Surgeon had flatly refused to give her anything but paracetamols to ease the pain. When they finally realised they were flogging a dead horse and released Tracey without charge, she had rushed straight home, changed out of the sweat and vomit stained clothes she’d been wearing, and phoned her pimp to come and collect her as quickly as he could.

  Staring down at the frayed and faded carpet beneath her feet, Tracey reminded herself that the skanky, hard-faced bitch in the mirror had been a real lo
oker once, turning heads wherever she went. Of course, that was before she had traded her soul for the chemicals that had ruined her. She snorted, dismissing the self-recrimination. After all, what was the point? The fucking addiction owned her.

  In an effort to take her mind off the craving, she tried to recall what life had been like before, but her memories of those drug-free days were elusive, like half-forgotten childhood dreams in which reality and fantasy blurred into one.

  Just then, the mother of all stomach cramps hit hard, doubling her over. Please help me, she prayed to a God she no longer believed in. Sinking to her knees, Tracey clung to the rickety dresser as she struggled against the rush of hot bile that rose to the back of her throat, determined to keep the meagre contents of her stomach down.