Just this morning, sweet Ethel suggested we elope and leave this God forsaken city and all who dwell within it, perhaps catch a ship back to the United States. Return to my homeland, to practicing medicine. How dear her naivety! I understand the intentions of my wife. She is comparable to the schoolyard bully who demands all the toys to herself, and shall not allow any of the other children a sliver of happiness. Should I indulge Ethel’s request—and how I have lain awake and considered it so!—this dark cloud will pursue me to any horizon. At times I contemplate ending my affair with Ethel. She deserves this not, and can find love with a more simple man in accommodating circumstances. Yet I know this could never be the case. It destroys me to picture her on the arm of another.
This sleeplessness is affecting my work at the Institute, and I worry that Drouef has taken note of my fatigue and lack of concentration. How can one attend such trivial duties with such a tempest swirling in one’s thoughts?
I have resorted to sampling my own former wares, purchasing vials of Hyoscine from old contacts to aid my rest. I fear the delusions brought on from such medicines, as once again, I am finding terror within the hole in the wall. On a few occasions, in the early hours of the morning as my lodgers sleep soundly in the rooms below and my wife is attending parties, I grip the sheets, too afraid to move. At the far side of the room, I believe I see the wardrobe rocking back and forth and a heavy weight is pounded against it. The great wooden frame becomes pushed aside, its legs scraping fresh trails in the spilled dust and plaster on the floor.
Alone, whimpering in the dark, I watch the darkness spill from that wide cavity like ink dispersing through water, and the brute that abides within curls his ghastly fingers around the lip, pulling himself from the shadowy miasma.
I wish for death and curse those damned medicines that have delivered these macabre visions.
The fiend stays within the darkness of the wall, watching me as I cower on the bed. The weak glow from my gaslight reflects in its gold-rimmed spectacles, and its mouth remains a rigid and serious line beneath its lustrous moustache. Every part, this is my doppelganger.
In the reassuring light of day, I reason that this is my subconscious emerging through the gateway of my troubles and drugged mind. I am no doctor of the human psyche, but I stare back at the tormented soul within the wall, and despite my horror and revulsion, I pity the fellow, for he appears trapped inside his darkness and seeks only a way out of his prison.
January 25th 1910 (extract).
Night terrors increasing despite removal of medication, which I have deposited under the bathroom sink. Ethel’s unease is growing, having found my wife waiting for her outside the Institute on two occasions. I dread our affair has been discovered regardless of our precautions. While this relieves a part of my heart, for at least this lengthy ordeal shows signs of finality, I am anxious for the coming storm we must sail through before safely arriving at port.
For indeed, while Cora—during the few hours we spend in each other’s company—has not yet approached the subject, her behaviour has become increasingly more erratic and promiscuous. She plans to throw a party of her own this next week. How I loathe her demands that I attend on the grounds of presenting a happy and content marriage to those she seeks to impress for the sake of her failing stage career. This gathering is set for the 31st of this month. I reason that should I abide by her wishes, that this will grant me favour with the officious woman my wife has become over these last few years, and may calm the turbulent seas somewhat.
If only I could sleep! My thoughts deceive me.
January 30th 1910.
Cora has dominated my time in regards to this foolish party. I have had barely a moment to meet with my love, who has been sympathetic and patient throughout this business. I assure her that this party is not a social occasion, merely another stepping stone to our future happiness. She believes my intentions, which causes me to love her all the more. Dear, sweet Ethel! I promise you we will be together soon. She requests that I meet with her briefly tomorrow afternoon, for she has news that would interest me greatly, and she does not wish to discuss our affairs at the Institute.
How I would suffer a hundred of my wife’s ludicrous parties for just one moment with my Ethel!
Now I must continue the preparations for tomorrow. Cora appears to have invited all the performers in London to our modest abode.
31st January 1910.
Within these walls, I have seen the darkness of Hell. I know not what I have done.
29th July 1910.
It is with great trepidation that I return to these tainted pages after so long, but my intention is pure and virtuous. Should you, dear reader whom the future hides from me, be reading these entries, then my crimes will have been discovered, and no doubt my thoughts and actions will be presented as evidence should I be caught. To you, Sir, I have no regrets in the keeping of this diary. Many a criminal has found himself caught short following some foolish mistake or neglected cover up. Why would one record, in his own hand and voice, such a document as to condemn him?
I make no excuses for what I have done. While my memory remains fogged regarding the events I am about to document, I fully admit the resultant scheme to flee across the Atlantic is entirely my doing. Let it be known that Wifie, my Ethel, had not a hand in this, and she accompanies me as my loyal partner and mother of my unborn child, not as an accomplice.
Indeed, the mother of my child, which is the pressing news she so joyfully divulged that afternoon before the party.
I aim to record the events leading to this morning, where I sit at Antwerp docks, watching the sea, my new wife beside me as I jot this down while we await the liner Montrose. We will seek our refuge in Canada, away from this plight. I believe there has been some . . . contact with God only knows what, and I shall keep my records complete for reference, should this strange phenomenon occur once more.
For the sake of my Ethel and unborn child, I pray this will never be the case.
I had attempted to retire early the night of the party. Cora had once again become intoxicated on gin and cheap wine, insisting on serenading the attendees throughout the occasion. Our lodgers had vacated the house for the evening, leaving the more colourful of performers—mostly fellow Music Hall performers, musicians and dancers—full reign of Hilldrop Crescent. Cora had taken offence of my bid for privacy, and her mood, slowed by alcohol, quickly darkened.
How I hate her still, that foul pig of a woman! She had indeed approached sweet Ethel with her accusations and declared to her friends how she had driven the seductress away. My husband can barely satisfy one woman, let alone two, she had joked, much to the amusement of the fame-hungry gathering.
Trying to escape her mockery and the public discussion of my most secret business, I fled up the narrow staircase, ploughing through the darkness, unconcerned with lighting the lamps on my journey. I needed the shadows to hide me from their laughing eyes. I demanded seclusion.
Inside our chamber, I sat on the bed, my head in my hands. I remember contemplating leaving the house in a temper. Packing a bag and leaving the damned lot of them behind. Yet, something eased my rapid, undeveloped thoughts. I felt somewhat relaxed for the first time in weeks.
I . . . sensed his coming, rather like the way the air becomes heavy and charged just before a storm. Three loud bangs echoed in the room, the wardrobe shaking with each blow. This worried me not. I felt no threat from the beast inside the walls, having been subjected to his mischief for some time now. On the contrary, and I find this hard to put into words, I welcomed his arrival. Perhaps because Cora had discovered most of my secrets, and while the darkness and the thing it contained revealed itself only to me, I felt the power I had over her. She couldn’t take all of my mysteries.
In point of fact, she would take nothing from me. Not my dignity. Not my love. Not my child.
It was then that the wardrobe was eased aside. It emitted a squeal as its legs scraped across the floor. The shadow spilled
out once more from the hole in the wall, reaching for me with tendrils of shadow. A living void. A swirling shade.
I sat up and stared into its black depths, becoming lost in the turbulent eddies of the abyss. Deep within, glittering like treasure found in the darkest depths of the ocean, the golden rims of my twin’s spectacles shone.
He had arrived, and that night, I would aid him in his escape.
I crossed the bedroom, ignoring the sounds of frivolity and Cora’s loud, grating singing voice, and approached the hole. The darkness hung about me like fumes from hot tar, and I shivered, the deep swallowing the very heat from my breath.
I gripped the edge, where my counterpart had clutched the plasterwork with his pale talon-like digits, and leaned ever closer, bring my face to the churning surface of shadow.
Inside, the ghost’s hanging moustache parted in a ghastly smile.
And then? I can recall nothing, like the spectre had hypnotised me into a state of restless slumber.
However, as with any nightmare, I remember a few details on waking. I heard Cora stagger into the room, the bedsprings squeaking as she collapsed her ample and drunken frame atop the mattress.
“I have had too much wine to sleep,” she mumbled. “Give me something. Be of some use, you pathetic man.”
I opened my eyes, trying to shake my drowsiness and attend her needs. Hyoscine remained under the bathroom sink in generous quantities, and it would be a small chore to provide my wife with a dose to aid her rest.
Yet, it was not me to whom she spoke, or rather, it was me! I watched myself leave the room, and just as I intended, return clutching a large bottle of the drug and a syringe.
Alas! It was I that administered drug in great quantities, displaying complete dominance over my dozing wife!
My thoughts grow increasingly cloudy the more I try to arrange them. It was not I that administered that lethal dose of Hyoscine, but without doubt the forensic scholars at Scotland Yard will find my fingerprints on both the bottle and the needle.
My next coherent memory was of awaking next to Cora, my wife of many years already cold as the first sunlight began to creep underneath the curtain. The wardrobe had returned to its position against the wall, and upon inspection, the wall and its pink paint were flawless behind.
The suggestion was almost too much to bear, that I had callously murdered my own wife. Only the entries in this very diary have saved my sanity, that Cora did not die at my hand, not that any investigator would believe such a wild story.
Coincidentally, knowing my story would not be considered and I would be sure to face the hangman’s rope, I disposed of Cora’s body later that morning once I was safe in the knowledge the lodgers were at their employ. Despite my will to record the facts, I choose to refrain from writing the details of my method of removal of Cora. Some horrors are . . . to be left unsaid.
While Ethel and I lived on at Hilldrop Crescent for some time, spinning falsities in regards to Cora’s return to the States to maintain our freedom, we became hounded and fled. It is without question that the authorities will be searching the house, perhaps as I write these words.
I see smoke on the horizon, the approaching steamer, and Ethel is smiling. One last obstacle and beyond that, the future. Our future.
For the first time in many a year, hope is a concept not so futile.
God may pity all weak hearts after all.
Dr. Hawley Harvey Crippen
DARKER WITH THE DAY
—SCOTT NICHOLSON—
It’s black and I remember now.
No, that’s not right. I remember before. Not now.
I remember the laboratory, the fire, the war, and I had a name. It was a long name. Lt. John Sorenson.
And I can only remember it after I have fed and the light of wisdom flows through me.
So thank you, Corporal. Whatever your name is. Maybe they’ll collect your bones and put you in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
And bless this meal, O Lord, that I have received from your bounty. Except maybe I shouldn’t say Grace, no prayers for the thoughts that have returned. Better to be confused than to see all things clearly, especially when my hands are red and my skin is gray and my heart is an open sore.
The street smells of gasoline and smoke and broken things. If not for the odor of meat on my face, I could find my way home. Because home is where you go when you have trouble, home is where the door protects you, home is where she is.
John Sorenson. A name too good for the thing I have become.
John was the one testing the retroviral serum, a trial so obscene it had to be sequestered in a private D.C. lab. Top secret, Capt. Hayden said. In the chain of command, the lower ranks never ask questions. Right, Corporal?
At ease, soldier. You have served.
So John asked no questions when ordered to inject the serum into corpses. Did you, John?
It seemed like an exercise in futility, because everyone knew dead people couldn’t pump blood through their veins. But when the first one began stirring, when the lump under the sheet twitched on its steel trolley, even Hayden was shocked. Humans had meddled in the domain of God, and we know the consequences of such vanity. But it was an act of love as much as it was defiance, and love is all we have left now.
And I wanted to tell her about the mystic wonder we had discovered, but others found it abhorrent and sacrilegious. The lab exploded. Domestic terrorists, probably. Either way, Pakistan took the blame, eager to offend the country that had been massing troops at its borders. But that wasn’t the worst thing to come from the attack on the lab. Subject 37 shambled out of the observation room when the glass shattered. Thirty-seven got Hayden, latched onto his neck while he was stunned. I tried to help, and that’s when it got me.
That’s when this got me.
I remember it all, now that my belly is full and my brain is working again. I remember calling her and telling her to take Dolores and run. Drive for the cabin in the Pennsylvania mountains. Wait until I get there.
I’m not there yet. The war got here first.
But I keep my promises. When you love someone, you owe them that much.
And so it’s time to leave this cold room and this stack of wet bones. Time to walk the dark and go home.
The air outside the room is different. I can’t taste it or breathe it, but I feel it on my face. The cruelty of my condition is that I know exactly what I’m missing. I am aware my heart no longer beats, though my heart still holds her face. It is a love that surpasses all understanding.
The night is lit by distant fires, the hell of war licking the horizon. Behind the gates I feel them moving. If my belly were empty, I would go to them, love them, use them. But if I were hungry, I wouldn’t know it. I’d forget again and then I would be like Subject 37, nothing but a mouth on legs. Eating without conscience or consciousness, nature running in reverse. No chain of command, no law except supply and demand. But my demand has been supplied and so I move through the dark, onward, the shapes in the shadows nothing to me now, his flesh thick on my swollen tongue.
The city is shattered, no electricity, the streets clogged with silent hunks of wheeled steel. Even the sirens have gone quiet amid the low rumble of falling buildings. The supper of soldier sits heavy on my gut, infectious acid dissolving the stray bones. I’m not sure how many I have eaten since I stopped being John Sorenson, but the war has seeped deeper and the nights stretch longer and I’m still miles from her.
I pass a dog in a puddle, the milk of the moon reflecting on the water. It paws at the pavement, whimpering, seeking traction, but the weight of its useless back legs holds it down. I ate a dog once, or maybe twice, when the need came on. The communions are lost in the haze of fever and hunger, but the rich, coppery nutrient and the vibrant twitch of living flesh always jolt me to memory and a sick mockery of life.
Waking from rapture to a deeper rapture.
And my fingers clutching the entrails of prey.
Dogs . . . and s
ometimes people.
Like the corporal, like those who even now scurry behind the walls and inside buildings, knowing my kind is out in the streets. Our kind.
I have already fed, so I leave the dog to its futile struggle. Maybe it will feed another, and that subject will remember its own life and accept the joy of its new existence.
In some ways, it’s more honest than my previous life, one of brass tacks and polished shoes and shaves and salutes. A world of us against them, with the lines ever shifting toward whatever best served those in power. I never questioned that structure, not then, not as an army biologist, a family man, a God-fearing member of the human race.
It took this—a Lazarus miracle, a demonic possession—to help me fully understand. Tender are the mercies of God, and all the silly squabbles over good versus evil crystallize. Only a brain fueled by the profanity of living flesh can comprehend the beautiful design of this new order. It was never “Nature versus nurture,” as the psychologists used to say, though I notice they’re not saying much these days.
No, it’s nature/nurture, the same thing. Eat and be fed, take and be fulfilled, kill and let be dead.
Again I salute you, Corporal, as I move my legs and slide my torn feet across the rubble. Through you, I have partaken of the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and I walk through the valley of the shadow of death in the Garden of Eden. My Eve is out there, though despite all the things I remember, her name still eludes me. Omniscience in all things but this lingering, consuming love.
And all around me, the world goes on, campfires on the rooftops, a gunshot echoing down a distant alley, the wail of a scared infant. The financial section lies in ruins, the security gutted. I know this avenue, though its lanes are cracked and cool, the vehicles no longer crowding one another. I pass a stalled taxi and at the wheel is a dead man in a turban, the flies buzzing his flesh. He holds no appeal, because his blood is turgid and coagulated. An injection of the retroviral serum would restore him, would make him one of us, but those who have entered paradise are prone to locking the gates behind them.
For The Night Is Dark Page 7
