In Darkness Dwell

by Cross, Amy

  “Please,” I whisper, horrified by the sight, “don't be dead.”

  I wait, but I can't deny the truth, not -

  Suddenly her eyes turn and look straight at me.

  “Is this a joke?” I stammer, desperately hoping that I've stumbled into a prank like the one I witnessed in Trafalgar Square. “I'm not -”

  Before I can finish, she lets out a faint, low gurgle, and I pull back slightly as she starts to sit up. Now that I can see the front of her dress properly, I realize that her whole chest looks to have been torn open, revealing the ragged edges of bones that frame a partially hollowed-out cavity with scraps of bloodied flesh hanging down.

  And then, slowly, the woman's gurgle becomes a hissing gasp as she gets to her feet and towers unsteadily above me.

  “Who are you?” I whisper, pulling back a little further and – in the process – putting my left hand in a dirty puddle. I know I should run, but I'm too scared to stand in case she attacks me when I turn away. “What are you doing here? Why are...”

  My voice trails off as I see blood trickling from her torn belly.

  “Where is he?” she gasps.

  “Where's who?”

  “Where is he?” She seems shocked by something, and she's looking around as if she expects to see something or someone else here in the alley. Then she looks down, and after a moment I realize that her fingers are reaching past her shattered ribs and directly into her empty belly. “What did he do with him?” she whispers. “Tell me, where is he now?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” I reply, “but -”

  “Where's my baby?” she screams, tugging at her own ribs. Her dirty fingernails are scratching against the bones, cracking the nails all the way to their quicks. She seems to be frantically searching for something, reaching her hand deep inside, but then suddenly she pulls her hand out and reaches down to grab my shoulders.

  I instinctively pull away, stumbling to my feet and bumping against the wall.

  “Where is he?” she gurgles, as tears start streaming from her eyes. “You will tell me!”

  “I don't know what you -”

  “Where is he?” she says again, her voice trembling now with rage and fury. “I shall not be denied! Where is my son?”

  “I don't -”

  “WHERE IS SHE?”

  She lunges at me, and I immediately turn and start running. Clattering against a gate at the far end of the alley, I stop and look over my shoulder. I expect to see the woman lumbering after me, but to my shock I realize that there's no sign of her at all. I back against some old crates and look all around, but now the alley is completely empty. There's no way the woman could have vanished that quickly, but it's as if she simply disappeared in the blink of an eye.

  “Please,” I whisper, “leave me alone.”

  I take a step to the side, hoping to reach the gate, but suddenly my right foot splashes in a particularly deep puddle. I look down and see the muddy water already settling, and then to my horror I see not only my own reflection, but also the reflected face of the hideous woman as she leans toward me.

  I turn and run again, hurrying out of the alley and along the next street. I almost slam into several bins that have been left behind a set of doors, but I don't let anything stop me, not until I finally burst out into the main street and almost slam straight into a man who's emptying the trash.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “What's wrong?”

  I look back along the alley, but there's no sign of the woman. Then I turn and look at my reflection in the window of a nearby betting shop, but all I see is my own face staring back at me. Still, I can't take the risk that she might catch up, so I turn and run along the pavement, desperately trying to get as far away as possible.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Sunday September 30th, 1888

  I can do this.

  At first I thought the enterprise seemed crazy, but now – as I stand in the bedroom and stare down at Catherine's naked body – I feel a strange sense of confidence surging through my chest. It's the same confidence I felt before, when I began to work on the transplant techniques, except this time I shan't let anything slow me down. This time, I shall work ceaselessly until I have brought Catherine back from the dead.

  And this time, she cannot lose faith and betray me. This time, she has no choice in the matter. She is coming back.

  I understand why she lost faith, of course. Even now, looking at her body, I cannot help but feel sickened by the hideous nest of stitches that criss-cross her belly. I performed more than a dozen procedures on her during the treatment period, and each procedure seemed to chip away at her strength. It is no wonder her mind began to suffer, since I caused such utter devastation to her body. Fortunately, this time I shall not have to worry about anything except the end result. And if I can restart her heart and bring her back, I can more certainly fix her damaged skin.

  “I thought I had to go to you,” I whisper, staring at her dead face, “but now I see the truth. It is you, my darling, who must come to me. Wherever you are at this moment, I shall pull you back to this world and put life into your body again. That, I promise.”

  I hesitate for a moment, letting those words hang in the air, before finally turning and leaving the room. Once I'm on the landing, I pull the door shut gently and head to the stairs. As I walk down, my head is already filled with ideas about how I might proceed with this latest work. I had feared that I might struggle to come up with any kind of theory, yet in truth this is far from a problem. Indeed, as I get to the bottom of the stairs and make my way into the study, I cannot help but reflect upon the fact that I almost have too many ideas. Too many possible approaches.

  But this time, I do not have to worry about causing any pain to my darling Catherine.

  This time, I can work and work until her eyes open and she breathes again.

  Stopping at my desk, I look down at my latest notebooks. I have spent all day working, not even stopping to eat or drink, and I was able to jot down half a dozen ideas. Some might be more workable than others, but I have several good places to start. Flicking through the most recent pages, I finally stop at one particular diagram, which shows a technique by which the heart might be restarted. This, I believe, is the most promising of all my ideas, and I see no reason why the heart should not feed the brain in this manner, and why the brain – in turn – should not thus be restored to life.

  It makes sense.

  Perhaps there are elements I have overlooked, but I shall deal with those as they arrive.

  I have a start, and I trust myself to proceed from there.

  “Wherever you are,” I whisper, hoping against hope that perhaps Catherine can hear me, “I shall bring you back.”

  Suddenly there's a knock at the door, and I turn to see that Jack has come through. He is wearing one of my coats, which fits him rather poorly, and he is carrying a small black satchel that I believe he has taken from my other office. He also appears to have made some attempt to rectify his slovenly appearance, and I believe he might even had washed his hair. Not that the effect is entirely convincing, of course, but at least he no longer looks like a hopeless cause.

  “It's getting dark,” he says, with a glint of eagerness in his eyes. “I was thinking that there's no point waiting. We should be going soon.”

  “We?” I reply. “Go where?”

  “Out there.” He turns and looks at the window for a moment. “To the street, and then to Whitechapel.”

  “I thought you were going to that work from now on,” I tell him. “I shall be busy here, until you return.”

  “You're the surgeon, Doctor Grazier,” he continues. “I can keep guard, I can even subdue the lady you choose, but you're the only one who can cut out the body parts that you need. I could try, but I reckon I'd make a right pig's ear of the whole endeavor.”

  “Yes,” I mutter, “I believe you would. But can you not simply bring the whore here
intact?”

  “That would be difficult,” he explains. “One might be able to drag a corpse through Whitechapel, Doctor Grazier, but your house is in a much finer neighborhood. All things considered, I wouldn't want to take the risk. And I promise you, you'll be able to work just fine in Whitechapel. I'll make sure of that.”

  Looking back down at the diagram that I drew earlier, I realize that this particular job is going to be extremely difficult. I thought my earlier work was advanced, but now I am on the verge of something even more complex. It is fortunate indeed, then, that I feel a surge of confidence in my chest. Still, the hardest part will come once I have brought the body parts back to the basement, and there is no real reason why they have to be extracted here. I suppose Jack is right when he says that I must go with him tonight.

  “So will it be the usual items?” Jack asks.

  “I need kidneys,” I reply, “and a liver, and not only a heart but also the brain stem.”

  “Stem?”

  “The part at the base of the brain,” I explain, realizing that he does not know these things. I turn slightly and tap the back of my neck. “Here. The part that leads up to the bottom of the skull.”

  “Can you cut all of that out?”

  “I can. I must be careful, though. The stem in particular is very easy to damage.”

  “All the more reason why you'll have to be the one who does the cutting. But I can do the rest. I can also carry the bits back home. You're an important man, Doctor Grazier, and your time is valuable. I just want to assist you in any way possible.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Why?” He seems shocked by the question. “Why would any student want to work in the studio of a great artist? To learn! So that perhaps I can one day become like you! Well, not like you exactly, but even a small advance in that direction would be a great step up for a wretch such as myself.”

  He is insane.

  He thinks that a low-life, uneducated brute can even dream of becoming a real gentleman. I should disabuse his of this fantasy, but then I suppose there's a danger that he might decide to no longer help me. And for now, at least, he can be useful.

  There will be time to kill him later.

  “I'm sure you will be invaluable,” I mutter, before realizing that I am delaying the inevitable. Stepping away from the desk, I head over to the door, where I am greeted by Jack's repulsive odor. The man stinks, so evidently his ablutions were not as through as I had hoped, but I can force him to wash later. Right now, I suppose I must fight my aversion to company and accept his help.

  “Will it be the usual hunting ground tonight?” he asks.

  “Hunting ground?” I reply, shuddering at such melodramatic language.

  “You know what I mean. Whitechapel, Sir, and the streets in its vicinity.”

  “That would be the best place,” I tell him, as we head across the hallway, making our way toward the front door. “Nobody cares what happens to those whores. They might pretend, and a few social reformers might preach, but the people from that place are human waste.”

  “I myself was born and raised in Whitechapel,” he replies, hurrying ahead of me and taking my coat from the stand. He smiles as he turns and holds it up for me. “No fear, Sir. I share your opinion about those streets. Growing up there, I saw only too often that its people are foul and no good. Occasionally I spotted men such as yourself, Sir, and I marveled at their great appearance. I always felt I was born wrong, that I should have been born and raised in a great house such as this rather than in the dens of iniquity that plague London's darker streets. It's too late for me now, but I can still try to improve in certain ways, can't I?”

  Realizing that he's still holding my coat, I turn and allow him to set it upon my shoulders.

  “I can improve, can't I?” he asks, sounding a little desperate.

  “Perhaps,” I mutter, supposing that I should tell him what he wants to hear. “Anything is possible.”

  Such a lie.

  “I cannot claim to have lived a good life,” he continues. “Had I tried to be pious and righteous in those streets, I would surely be dead by now. I did what I had to do in order to survive, but I always believed that one day I would find my way out. And now, begging your pardon, I can say that I feel I have escaped. Why, even if I were to die this instant, I would be happy. Because I made it into a fine house, even if just for a few hours. What I would really like, however, is to help you in your work. That, I truly believe, would be the one good thing that could ever come from my otherwise miserable existence.”

  Turning to him, I fully expect to see the usual grin plastered across his face. Instead, however, I see that he is entirely serious. There are even tears in his eyes, although he quickly wipes them away as if he is ashamed.

  The man is utterly deluded.

  “I will help you to the best of my ability,” he says firmly. “Better, even. I will help you to achieve the greatness that you deserve, and to bring your dear wife back to this world. I will set down my life for that, Sir, if necessary. I hope, though, that first I shall get to see the world fall at your feet.” He pats away a few creases from my collar, before taking a step back. “I can also be your guide in Whitechapel. I know its streets so well, and there might be better places where you can have your pick of the women.”

  “All of that is acceptable,” I reply cautiously, “but there is one other matter. You must cease writing those letters that you have been sending to the newspapers.”

  “They're just a bit of fun.”

  “They're disgusting and they draw attention to my activities. It's horribly lurid to have such things in the world, and you must have noticed how deeply they affect the vapid Mrs. Culpepper. Why, the woman was on the verge of requiring smelling salts. You will stop writing them immediately.”

  He hesitates for a moment, before nodding.

  “Of course,” he says, although he cannot hide a hint of disappointment in his voice. “You're right, I don't know what I was thinking. But tell me, did I do alright earlier, with the tea? Did I serve it right?”

  “You neglected to bring sugar,” I point out. “Fortunately, it was not needed.”

  “Sugar!” he mutters, and for a moment he seems genuinely troubled. “Blast! I knew there was something. I'll bring sugar next time, I promise.”

  “Next time?”

  “I'm sorry. Perhaps I'm being presumptive.”

  “And now we shall strike out,” I reply, stepping forward as he opens the door. Making my way out to the steps at the front of the house, I see the busy late-night street, and I feel the crisp air in my lungs. Just a few hours ago, I was on the verge of ending my life, yet now I am a man renewed. And as I walk down the steps and reach the street, with Jack right behind me, I feel ready to head out into the foul streets of Whitechapel and take what I need.

  “Jack the Ripper's gonna strike again tonight,” Jack whispers behind me.

  I turn to him. “Jack the Ripper?”

  “Us, Sir.” Now, finally, his grin returns. “We're Jack the Ripper.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Maddie

  Today

  “Do you see her?” I ask, gripping the phone's receiver as I wait for Officer Wallace to say something. “Are you there? Do you see anyone in the alley?”

  I hear the sound of his footsteps for a moment, and then they stop again. A moment later I hear a faint scraping sound, followed finally by a sigh. This is basically all I've been hearing for a few minutes now, ever since I heard him getting out of his car, and I'm desperately waiting for him to tell me what he sees. I know I shouldn't be impatient, but the memory of that woman's face is burned into my mind and I can't quite keep my hands from trembling.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see her again.

  “Well?” I continue. “Do you -”

  “There's nothing here, Maddie,” he replies finally, his voice buzzing slightly over the bad connection. “There's no blood on the ground, nothing to indicate that an
ything happened.”

  “I saw her!” I say firmly. “Look again!”

  “I've walked along the entire alley twice,” he says with another sigh. “Maddie, listen, the story you told me just now doesn't make any sense. If a woman had been ripped open the way you described, she'd be dead. Very dead. She certainly wouldn't have got up and started chasing you, and that's not even the most ludicrous part of it all. Even if somebody had tried to clean up the mess, there'd be signs of that, but the whole alley is filthy. It's clear nobody's cleaned anything here for weeks. The story you gave me sounds like -”

  “It's true!” I say firmly.

  “Maddie, it can't be.”

  “I saw her! She came after me, and then she vanished. And then I looked down and saw my reflection in a puddle. I couldn't see her in front of me, but I could see her reflection and she was after me!”

  I glance at my reflection in a nearby shop window, checking to make sure that the woman is nowhere to be seen. She's not here, but I can't help staying on my guard.

  “A dead woman chased you?” Wallace says, sounding extremely skeptical. “Maddie, this is...”

  His voice trails off.

  Turning, I look out again through the phonebox's smeared window and see passersby heading to work. Despite everything that has been happening in London over the past few days, people are still getting on with their daily routines. While the sun's up, at least. I want to go out there and scream at them, to remind them that there's a killer around, but I know I'd just come across as a psycho.

  Wallace is right about one thing: I must sound like a gibbering idiot. At the same time, I swear that I saw the woman in the alley. The problem is, the more I keep saying that, the more I'll end up sounding like I'm insane. Or, worse, like I'm trying to pull some kind of prank. If our positions were reversed right now, I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't believe the story. It's as if the whole world is against me and I'm the only person who knows what's really happening.