I turned around and pressed my back against the door, staring at the room from this perspective. A smaller doorway was tucked near a corner, almost hidden by the overflowing barrels of bones. Unlike the door I rested against, that one wasn’t closed.
With a quick reminder to be fearless, I crept toward my escape.
FIFTY
OF BLOOD AND BONE
MURDER CASTLE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
19 FEBRUARY 1889
As I stood in the small doorway leading out of my current nightmare, an even greater one greeted me. Suspended from hooks in the ceiling—reminding me much too closely of the butchers’ row in New York—hung rows of corpses and skeletons.
The objects of horror were evenly spaced on either side of the small room, leaving a narrow path between them. It was wide enough for a person to pass through, but only just. I barely noticed that this corridor of death opened to another chamber. The skeleton nearest me moved, and the sound of its bones chattering like teeth sent shivers along my spine.
I couldn’t tear my gaze from the skeletons. Some had been entirely stripped of flesh and bleached until their bones gleamed like the streets of the White City. Others hadn’t yet been fully treated. Metal wire glinted from the joints where the bones had been fastened together. The less-stripped skeletons had wire piercing rotting skin. The decaying tissues from flesh stained those bones and dripped to the floor. A slimy, greasy puddle saturated the ground beneath them. Maggots crawled about, their little milky bodies teeming with energy, enjoying their feast.
The stench was strong enough that my eyes watered and I could no longer hold back my nausea. I turned and vomited the pitiful contents of my stomach, thankful I hadn’t desecrated any other body. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, cringing at the sour taste of bile.
A lone bulb flickered above, sending shadows skittering. The room teemed with movement, though it was likely a trick of the light. I was not being watched by ghosts, even if a part of me wondered if spirits were haunting this murder castle, waiting for justice.
My stomach tightened again at the thought.
I closed my eyes against the image of a hundred pale faces emerging from darkness. No doubt the owners of these skeletons were seeking their revenge. Would they come for me, too? I thought of the many times my blade sank into flesh, the jolt of joy I’d tried unsuccessfully to tamp down. I delighted in my work, marveled at the secrets revealed to me. Perhaps the dead didn’t wish to tell me their troubles. Perhaps they thought I was as wicked as the man who’d strung them up, their bones rattling in the gentle breeze.
My mind latched onto that realization with ferocity. The breeze. There shouldn’t be any wind down here, unless… I spun in place, forcing myself to see beyond the forest of skeletons. My quick movement had them clattering together again, the sound setting my teeth on edge. I ignored the fear clawing up my spine and focused. There had to be—there! Wedged behind a trunk—its contents I refused to consider—was a large grate.
Hope rose from the ashes of my soul. It was small, but it wouldn’t be impossible for me to wedge myself into it and crawl to the outdoors. Air flowed in, meaning it most certainly flowed out. If I could only work the grate free from the—My excitement dwindled as I got closer.
I stared numbly at the giant railroad ties that secured it to the wall. There was no chance I’d be able to work it free, even if I ripped my fingers to shreds in the process. I considered sticking my cane in the grate and using it as a lever, but it would snap.
Defeat reached out, begging me to collapse in its waiting arms. Giving up would be so easy. I could sit here quietly waiting for the Ripper. If I gave him what he wanted, it might be over quickly. Perhaps he’d be disappointed to not find me cowering in fear.
I wondered if that would enrage him into carving my body into his finest horror yet. The pain would be unbearable, but if he stayed true to his previous murders, he’d strangle me or slash my throat before his real work began. Either way I’d lose consciousness within minutes, followed by my life. Maybe this was the way the darkness always meant to claim me. Maybe I was supposed to die on the Etruria. If I’d been living on borrowed time, I did not regret the weeks and months I’d gotten to spend with those I loved. With Thomas.
I recalled the way it felt to share my whole self with him, the way his eyes shone with the same love I felt. Our wedding was terrible, but at least I’d seen him at the altar. If I died, I would focus on that. His radiant smile, his unsteady breath. How close we’d come to being husband and wife. My memory taunted me with images of my father next. Followed by Uncle and Aunt Amelia and Liza. I’d be leaving them all behind.
I sagged against the doorway, no longer listening to the bones play their chilling death march. I had no hope of winning a physical fight. And the realization that I would never see my family or Thomas again, never press my lips to his and hear his heart pound in time with mine… it was almost too much to bear. I suddenly wished to call out, to beg for death to come swiftly.
But I kept seeing Thomas’s face. I heard my promise to him. And I remembered why I’d ventured here to begin with. I straightened, slapped hopelessness away, and marched over to the grate. I would find a way out of here.
I stuck my fingers through the openings and tugged, really pulling with all my weight, and almost fell on my behind. The grate didn’t budge. Refusing to give up, I tested its strength again, wondering if I could find something to pry it off the wall with. A few threads of an idea began to weave together. The Ripper had made a mistake when he’d left me here. He imagined the corpses and skeletons would terrify me. I’d wager anything he was counting on it. He wanted horror to override my senses. I was certain nothing would please him more.
He must not realize how much I craved the knowledge hidden between layers of flesh. I might not make cadavers to carve as he did, but I enjoyed the process no less. Since I understood the process of death, I understood the grandest mistake he’d made yet.
This room was used to clean bones. He probably had some scheme where he sold full skeletons to academies. It was the only reason I could see why he’d take such good care of them, bleaching the stain of his sins from each bone. It was revolting—the way he’d not only murdered for his pleasure but then profited from it. Shoving my disgust for him aside, I refocused on this chamber. If there were metal wires used to tie the bones together, there must be shears to cut them. And if there were hooks nailed to the wall, there must be a hammer to set them there. And if there was a hammer, then the opposite end of it might be the perfect pry bar.
At the very least, this butcher of women must have a decent blade he used to dismember them. If he was careless enough to leave me down here with my cane, he might have made another fatal mistake. My pulse sped. If there was an axe, I’d break through the damned wall and chop off his head if he dared to attack me.
I put pressure on my good leg and searched for the object I was sure was here. Unfortunately, this seemed to be only a storage room of sorts. I didn’t want to venture back into the chamber with Minnie’s corpse, but…
I turned slowly, remembering this corridor of skeletons led to yet another room. It was dark in there; no light glimmered except for a strange orange-red glow.
My bravado vanished. Images of demons with hooves for feet and tails with tufts entered my thoughts. I forced myself to steadily breathe in and out. It would do no good to lose my nerve now. Pushing against my growing fears, I slowly moved down the corridor of bones. No matter how careful I was, they still rattled as I passed by.
Little hairs along my arms and neck rose. I was almost in the next chamber and there was a new, strange combination of odors to contend with. I paused on the threshold, trying to adjust my vision to the strange light. It took a few moments, but dark objects slowly took form. The hellish glow was not a fire from Hell, but a long, coffin-shaped metal box. It took only a second to piece together what it was—an incinerator.
I bit down on my li
p to keep from making a sound. No wonder he hadn’t left bodies in the streets of Chicago. He’d created the perfect playground for himself. One where he might torture and dispose of his victims without ever being caught.
I inhaled sharply, immediately regretting it. The tang of gasoline was faint but there. I squinted up at the ceiling, where pipes crisscrossed like spiderwebs. I followed them, trying to sort out why there were so many and why they extended in different directions. Up close, I spied what appeared to be spigots. I cursed under my breath.
These gas pipes were his new weapon of choice. He no longer needed to dirty his hands with knives and blood; he could simply target the hotel room of his choice by turning on a spigot and his prey would be rendered unconscious from the toxic carbon monoxide fumes. Just like I’d been. I hadn’t been drugged at all. I’d been brought to the brink of death time and again.
A boot scuffed against the floor, the sound raising the hairs along the nape of my neck. It wasn’t hard to picture monsters dragging their talons over the ground, their nails caked in gore. If I wished to make it out of this murder castle alive, I needed to become what terrified me. I took a deep breath and stepped fully into the incinerator room.
At first I didn’t notice him, standing near the corner, his body nothing more than a dim silhouette. He’d been here the whole time. Silent and still. Waiting. That frightened me more than the thought of impending death. Something in his hands glittered in the darkness, conjuring images of metal claws. I forced my gaze up his form, swallowing panic as I took in the tall, twisted horns. It was the scene of my recurring dreams made flesh.
The devil was here.
He’d finally stepped out from my nightmares and had come to claim me.
Goat Skull with smoky background
FIFTY-ONE
SATAN EMERGES
MURDER CASTLE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
19 FEBRUARY 1889
He stepped from the shadows into the burning light cast by the incinerator. His skin was tinged red from the flames, which seemed to grow in his presence, his eyes dark from the shadows, which had yet to relinquish their hold in this underground dominion. It took a moment for my mind to cast my demons aside and realize he’d turned the fire up on the incinerator. He was planning on burning another body.
Mine.
In a sudden panic, I stumbled toward the corridor of bones, cursing wildly when I noticed what I’d tripped over—a dismembered torso. I’d interrupted him disposing of another victim. I fell to the ground, ignoring the pain that shot up my spine as I scrambled back, away from the White City Devil.
My fingers dug into the packed earth, my nails splintering as I searched for purchase. Something sliced my palm and I nearly cried out as warmth flowed down my hand. I bit my tongue instead, taking the blade with me as I moved backward. I didn’t dare glance at it, but it felt like a long, thin dinner knife. It was the exact weapon Uncle had described during that first lesson I’d attended about Jack the Ripper’s kills. I held on to it like it was my only salvation. I was almost certain he hadn’t seen me grab it. Since it was covered with dirt, he’d probably dropped it a long while ago and forgotten it was there.
He left his dark work and stalked after me. I was grateful for the dim light—it would make it hard for him to notice the trail of blood I knew I was leaving.
He was silent in his pursuit, taking steady, unhurried steps. I needed to become fearless, but it was hard when faced with my personal nightmare. I finally managed to heave myself into a standing position and stopped in the center of the bone corridor. My sudden halt made him pause. I didn’t think he was used to his prey growing their own claws and striking back.
He stood just inside the doorway between the incinerator and the skeleton corridor, giving me time to think. I needed to come up with a plan. And it needed to happen this instant. I knew the door in the room I’d woken up in was locked. There was no getting out of there. If he cornered me in that space… I refused to think in those terms. I was not prey, but predator.
“A devil mask is a bit theatrical,” I said, surprised to hear how smooth and unafraid my voice sounded. He canted his head to one side, seeming as surprised by my statement as I was. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy such things. But then I recalled your letters to Scotland Yard. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. The devil… I suppose I understand in theory why you chose it, but it seems a bit contrived.”
My taunt worked as well as I’d hoped it would. I’d been playing this game with Jack for too long now. He might believe he knew me, but I’d gotten well acquainted with him, too. His vanity would be his undoing. I was counting on it. If I could get him to talk about himself and his crimes, it might give me an opening to spring my own trap.
A skeleton that hadn’t yet been strung together lay in a heap near the door to the incinerator. If I could trick him back into that room, I could secure him inside by wedging the femur in the handle. It would purchase me time to work the grate off the wall. Then I could flee without him capturing me and making me into his latest prize.
“Is the concept of a devil truly far-fetched?” His voice was another part of his deception. It sounded pleasant. Charming. His conversational tone was meant to be disarming, and if I hadn’t known who he was, I, too, might have fallen for his façade. I’d learned, though, that fallen angels were beautiful creatures. Mephistopheles had reminded me to be wary of them. “You of all people should know that darkness walks among us. Satan might be a fantastical legend meant to frighten, but aren’t his acts real?”
“No,” I said. “Men are monsters who use fantasy to ease their minds. They find it easy to blame their actions on good and evil. It’s much harder to face the truth—that you enjoy the pain and fear you inflict, for no other purpose than your own wicked pleasure.”
“We are all wicked. More than flesh and blood, our very souls harbor evil. Don’t you see it in the bodies you carve? In the choices people make? The man who beats his wife is as terrible as the person spreading lies out of spite.”
I must have a made a disgusted noise, because he paused.
“No?” he asked. “Who sets the scales for what’s more evil? Why is physical violence deemed terrible, yet an assault on one’s mind or emotions less so? What of the person wounding you with their words? What of their desire to watch you bleed tears? They, too, guzzle your pain. Their hearts beat with hate. They gain pleasure by spreading their noxious negativity.” He shook his head. “Hatred. Jealousy. Vengeance. Evil is all around, Miss Wadsworth. There’s a devil in us all as much as an angel. Right now, which one is speaking to you?”
He glanced at the blade I slowly held up, no doubt recognizing the determination coursing through me. I hoped he might step backward. He knew I’d seize upon any opportunity to kill him. And how sweet that justice would be—having a woman use the very blade he’d slain so many other women with to end his cursed existence.
He didn’t move. And now I’d revealed my hand.
“Is your evil dressed up in righteous indignation?” he asked, taking a small step forward. “Do you walk that morally gray line of what’s ‘good’? If you thrust your blade in my heart, what lie will you tell yourself at night, what story will you spin, casting yourself as the hero?”
For a moment, my resolve faltered. I bit the inside of my cheek, regaining my senses. “By taking one life, how many others might be saved? How many have you murdered in this castle of horror alone?” I didn’t take my attention from him, but I motioned at the skeletons clattering around like a morbid audience. “One hundred? Two? How many more will you collect and kill and maim to satisfy your wretched hunger?”
He smiled. It was the sort of angelic look that convinced countless women to trust him, never remembering Lucifer had once been an angel, too. He prowled closer, yet was careful to stay out of reach. Here was one man who remembered my claws were also things to be feared.
My grip tightened on my found blade, which only seemed to deli
ght him more. Thomas had been correct—he’d coveted me. He’d been savoring the idea of this encounter for months. He wanted to draw this out for as long as he could before his knives tasted my blood.
“You, my dear, may be more of a villain than I am. I accept my horns; I know the blackness in my soul. I was born with the devil in me. But so were you, Miss Wadsworth.”
“I do not believe in such nonsense as Heaven and Hell.”
“But you do fear your darkness.” I cringed and he smiled knowingly. “I recognized it in you the moment I first saw you. I wanted to help you, you know. Unleash the potential I knew was writhing in your soul. It was difficult, holding myself back.”
He was a cat batting a mouse around before it snapped its neck. I would not be toyed with. I lifted my blade, hand steady. “We’ve only just met in Chicago.”
“Have we?”
He shifted, his devil mask catching the light. Here, outside of the incinerator room, I saw it had been dusted with gold. It looked like metallic flames danced across his flesh. No matter how hard I tried, I could not contain the shiver that vibrated through me.
“Or did I first make your acquaintance in a London alley?” he asked. “For a moment, I was certain you’d seen me, lurking in the shadows we both love. You remember, don’t you? The finger of trepidation that slid down your spine, the shiver despite the summer heat.”
“You’re lying.” I glanced around the room, noticing a thick door I hadn’t spotted before, propped open on one side. It appeared to be a vault. It would take maneuvering, but if I could lead him to it, it might be even better to lock him in there than in the incinerating room. I’d have to weave through the hanging skeletons, though. I took a careful step back, my shoulder brushing into someone’s limb, and hoped he’d mirror my action.
He prowled in the opposite direction, stepping between the row of skeletons farthest from me. I’d not succeed in tricking him into a corner. He was an unsparing predator—a murderer with untold skill. If I was to beat him, I’d need to be more cunning, more ruthless.
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