by Amy Cross
Copyright 2017 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
First published: September 2017
Fearing for his own sanity, Doctor Charles Grazier struggles to deal with the horrific creature that now resides in his basement. Still clinging to the hope that he can bring his wife back from the dead, he begins to come up with a new plan, one that he believes is sure to save Catherine. For this plan to succeed, however, he will have to do the one thing he always swore to avoid. And by nightfall, a horrific act is taking place on his operating table.
Meanwhile, in the present day, Maddie receives an unexpected guest in the house, and she soon starts to learn a little more about the former occupants. When a surprising discovery is made, however, she starts to wonder whether the nineteenth century Jack the Ripper might have some kind of connection to the murders that have been taking place in modern London.
A Beast Well Tamed is the fifth book in a new eight-part horror serial, titled The House of Jack the Ripper. This book ends on a cliffhanger, and the story continues in the serial's next book.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Beast Well Tamed
(The House of Jack the Ripper book 5)
Prologue
“Have you ever thought about what it would be like if there were three of you?”
Sitting a little way ahead of me on the beach, turned to one side and silhouetted against the glittering Cornish sea, Catherine hesitates for a moment after asking that rather strange question. She has seemed unusually pensive all day, and now I believe I detect a hint of hesitation in her voice. I cannot see her features, only the shape of her head against the sun-dappled water, but her mouth is open a little. I always used to think that an open mouth was a sign of un-intelligence, but on that matter Catherine has very much changed my mind. Indeed, this remarkable woman could most likely convince me that the world is flat, such is my regard for her brilliance.
Suddenly she turns to me, causing her silhouette to change.
“Sometimes I think there are three of us,” she continues. “Of each of us. There's the good one, there's the bad one, and then there's the one who holds it all together.”
“That seems...”
My voice trails off. How am I supposed to respond to such a strange, whimsical comment? Catherine is very intelligent, but she is certainly prone to these occasional flights of rhetorical fancy. I have always been irritated by people who attempt to philosophize, yet Catherine is different. Indeed, her attempts to sound poetic always strike me as rather endearing, even if she seems to be struggling a little whenever she tries to make some deep and meaningful point.
“Three of me would be very inconvenient,” I say finally, hoping to lighten the mood. “For one thing, I would have to spend thrice as much on food and clothing.”
I wait for her to laugh, but she does not. Instead, the only sound comes from the shore, where the tide is coming in.
Holding a hand above my eyes, in an attempt to shield myself a little from the sunlight, I squint as I try to get a better look at Catherine's face. I can just about make out her eyes staring at me with great intensity. We have been married for only a few weeks, and already I feel as if I am peeling back layers of her character. Not all at once, of course, but one by one. Until I reach her center, I shall likely not feel that I know her fully.
“Sometimes it terrifies me the way people change,” she says suddenly. “I don't know what's worse, the times when people suddenly change in a big way, or the little incremental changes that occur each day but which add up over the years. When I said that there might be three of us, you assumed that was absurd, that there could never be more than one. But what I meant was that I wonder whether there could be as few as three. Don't you feel pulled, Charles? Don't you feel pulled in a million directions at once, as if we are all shattered and we have only these flimsy bodies to hold us together?”
“Well I shall not change,” I tell her. “Of that, you may be assured.”
She pauses for a moment.
“Yes, you will,” she says finally, forcing a smile that does not seem entirely genuine, as the light fades and I see her face a little better. “Everybody changes. Everybody eventually risks becoming something they do not want to be.”
Behind her, another wave crashes against the shore.
Chapter One
Maddie
Today
Morning sunlight streams through the window, catching the bubbles that fill the bath. And I'm sitting in that bath, listening to the calm sounds of the street outside while the smell of coffee drifts up from downstairs. Me – homeless Maddie Harper... I'm sitting here having a proper hot bath.
***
“These photos are fascinating,” Jerry says, as I walk back into the kitchen with damp hair. “I'd guessed the layout of the place from the exterior, but some of the details...”
His voice trails off as he leans closer to the print-outs. He's actually using a magnifying glass to get a better look, but then I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. After all, this is a guy who – upon receiving a load of digital photos – immediately printed them all out so that he could see them better. He said something about his eyes not reacting well to computer screens, but I've got a sneaking suspicion that he just likes his old-fashioned methods.
The old notebooks are on a table nearby, waiting for him to take a look at them but already being inspected by two of his cats. I honestly haven't figured out what Jerry has more of, books or cats, but it must be a close-run thing.
“Thank you for letting me use your bath,” I say after a moment. “I really needed that.”
“I really needed it too,” he mutters. “Anyone who has to go within twenty feet of you needed it. You stank like an unchanged litter tray.”
“So do you want me to take more photos today?” I ask, seeing that the camera has finished charging.
I wait for a reply, but he seems engrossed in his work.
“There's coffee on the side,” he says finally, absent-mindedly. “And food, too. Help yourself.”
“I can't pay you,” I remind him.
He waves me away, toward the counter, so I wander over. So far, Jerry has been extremely generous, to the extent that I'm starting to feel bad. The guy clearly doesn't have much money, although I guess he must spend a fortune on printer ink. As I stop and pour myself a cup of coffee, I spot a plate of buns standing next to different pots of jam, and I swear I feel my stomach start to rumble. I'm so hungry, I think I could eat every bun on that plate right now.
“Did you sleep well last night?” Jerry asks.
“Huh?” Momentarily dazed, I turn to him. “Oh, y
eah. Thank you.”
“In that house?”
“Sure.”
“And you didn't feel anything... unusual?”
“Like what?”
He pauses, staring at me with a hint of disbelief in his eyes.
“Everybody who goes near that place,” he continues finally, “mentions it in some form or another. A monumental sense of dread, of tingling fear in the gut, of absolute certainty that something terrible is about to happen.”
“I didn't notice anything,” I reply, before realizing that I probably sound a little flippant. “I mean, I was hungry and cold, and in pain, so maybe I was distracted. I guess maybe I didn't have time to think about anything else.”
“Eat, girl,” he says, gesturing toward the buns. “You look like you'll snap in half if the wind picks up. And don't think I didn't hear your stomach growling, because I did. You're probably halfway along to digesting yourself by now. Frankly, judging by the state of you, it's a miracle you haven't wasted away already. You're barely any more than skin and bones.” He points at the buns again. “Eat, girl!”
He doesn't need to tell me again. As I head over to the plate and start cutting open one of the buns, it's all I can manage to keep from wolfing the whole lot down in one go. I want to retain some dignity, though, so I force myself to take a little time. After a moment I see that one of the buns looked to have been nibbled slightly, and I realize there are cat hairs on the plate. Still, the bun in my hand seems clean and untouched, and beggars can't be choosers.
“Why did you never go into the house yourself?” I ask. “I mean, if you were so keen on getting pictures of the interior, why didn't you just go in once?”
“I tried,” he mutters, “but I couldn't. My legs are bad, for one thing. I'd never make it through that window. But even if I could, that house is not for the living. The dead have had its rooms to themselves for too long, there's no place for the living. The house...”
His voice trails off.
“You think it's that bad in there, huh?” I ask.
He takes a look at another print-out, before glancing at me.
“I know it's that bad,” he says. “Sometimes, I even feel it when I'm in here, like it's reaching out to warn me to keep away. There's something in there, and – whatever it is – it doesn't want visitors.”
“It's just a house,” I point out, before taking a bite from the bun and then swallowing the whole thing. I take a moment to chew, and then I start putting butter and jam onto another. Screw the cat hairs, I need to eat. “It's empty, and there's not really anything to do in there. I mean, sure, it's dark and it's cold and some of the rooms are kind of creepy. There's a lot of stuff left behind by the people who lived there before, but that's all. It's not like there are all these crazy bumps or creaks. There's nothing scary about it.”
As I say those words, I suddenly think back to the sound of the bell. This morning, all the cat food was still on the plate at the top of the stairs, but I've convinced myself that maybe the cat has been out for a few hours. It's not like I heard the bell during the night. For all I know, it's Jerry's cats that sometimes slink into the empty house and cause trouble, and they were too busy last night.
“You should really just go inside,” I tell him. “I get that you find it creepy, but I bet you'd be okay once you were inside. Sometimes you just have to face your fears and...”
Pausing, I realize that it's a little crazy for someone my age to tell an old guy about facing fears.
“Well, you know what I mean,” I add finally. “You've been building it up for so long, it can't be as bad as you think.”
“And how would I get in anyway?” he asks. “Through that broken window? At my age?”
“There's a back door,” I point out. “I bet I could get it unlocked, if you were willing to give it a go.”
I wait for him to dismiss the idea, to tell me that it's nuts and that there's no way he'd ever set foot inside the house. Instead, however, he stares at me with a growing hint of fear in his eyes, and I realize after a few seconds that he's actually considering the possibility.
“I can open the back door for you,” I continue. “I'm sure of it. If you want to come into the house, I can take you over there right now.”
Chapter Two
Doctor Charles Grazier
Tuesday October 2nd, 1888
“That thing is not your wife.”
I cannot tell him that he is wrong. Instead, I simply watch the space at the bottom of the steps, waiting as the growling sound edges closer and closer. Waiting as the shuffling becomes a little louder.
Waiting for this creature, whatever it might be, to appear and -
Suddenly I see movement at the bottom of the steps. With a growing sense of horror, I watch as Catherine crawls into view. She is naked on her hands and knees, rasping and growling as she emerges from the darkness and reaches out to touch the bottom step. She seems confused, as if she does not quite understand what to do next, but then she raises her head and look directly at me. It is as if I am staring down into the face of a wild and untamed beast.
“That is not Catherine,” I whisper, shocked by the hatred in her scowl, and by the ferocity of her snarl. “That is not my wife. It cannot, please... Please God, no...”
Even as I speak those words, she starts climbing up. She moves slowly and awkwardly, as if she lacks full control of her limbs, and she slips several times before finally making it to the second step. Even there, she seems unbalanced, and I believe I can hear the bones grinding in her shoulders. Suddenly she reaches a hand forward, as if she's trying to grasp me from all the way down there, and then she lets out another snarl. This time I see some form of black liquid dribbling from her mouth and running down her chin, spattering against the wooden step.
And then she tries again to haul herself up, before slipping and falling back down to the very bottom. She lets out a loud grunt as she lands.
For a fraction of a second, I consider going down to help her, but somehow I remain glued to the spot. In truth, as Catherine lets out another angry snarl, I believe I am actually afraid of her. Never in all my years did I ever think that this could be the case, but as I stare at this growling bundle of bones and meat – at this thing that masquerades as my dear Catherine – I feel certain that I am witnessing a creature of pure evil. And sure enough, as if to prove this point, she looks up and snarls at me again as more black liquid flows down her chin.
“Dear God,” I whisper, “please -”
Before I can finish, Jack slams the door shut and turns the key in the lock. He then checks the door several times, forcing the key until it will turn no more, as if he worries that even the door itself might betray us and let that creature come up from the basement.
I stay completely still, listening to the sound of Catherine – no, not Catherine... the creature... still slipping and bumping against the bottom step. She sounds utterly crazed, as if she does not understand the simple process of walking up a set of stairs.
“What is she?” I say finally, staring at the closed door for a moment before hearing footsteps walking away behind me. Turning, I see that Jack is making his way to my study. “What have I done? For the love of God, what is happening in this house?”
He does not reply.
He simply goes into the study, and a moment later I hear the sound of books being furiously taken from the shelves.
“For the love of God,” I continue, “what -”
And then I catch myself, as I realize that I have begun to invoke God in my desperate pleas for help. I am a man of science, of integrity, and never before did I lapse into religious nonsense. Yet now, in my darkest hour, some part of my mind compels me to say such foolish things. Truly, I do not believe I have ever before felt my very foundations crack. It is as if everything I have ever believed in, everything I have ever known to be true, is at risk.
Hurrying after Jack, I stop in the doorway and see that he is taking several of my medical textbooks to
the desk. I have always believed that the answer to all of life's mysteries can be found in those books, yet now for the first time I have doubts.
“Those books are my property,” I tell him, although in truth my voice is faltering and I am in no mood to step forward and stop him. “Please, be careful how you open them.”
He is muttering something as he rushes through the pages. Most likely he is damaging the books with his coarse and dirty hands, but in my current frame of mind I cannot think to intervene. After a moment I turn and look over my shoulder, back toward the door that leads to the basement, and I cannot help but think of Catherine – or rather, of Catherine's body – still slipping and sliding and snarling down there in the shadows, still trying to get up the stairs.
Eventually she will reach the door.
It might take some time, but she will get there in the end.
And then what? Will she find a way through? And if she does not, what is to become of her then?
“It's not me!” I remember her whimpering just a short while ago, when a vision of her appeared in the bedroom mirror. “Charles, you have to realize, it's not me down there. Oh Charles, it's not me!”
“It's not her,” I whisper, before turning to look once again at Jack. “That is not my wife.”
“I have already told you that,” he replies darkly, still looking through the textbooks.
“I mean she told me,” I continue, barely able to believe that such absurd words are coming from my lips. For a moment my guard slips, and I allow myself to consider the possibility that somehow Catherine really did speak to me upstairs. “She told me herself, when she -”
“THIS IS ALL NONSENSE!” Jack shouts suddenly, pushing the books off the desk and then leaning against the desk. He seems furious and breathless, and after a moment he looks at me with fearful, angry eyes. “The answer to your wife's condition,” he continues, “is not to be found in any of your medical texts.”
