Voices whispered, barely audible.
In a makeshift grave near the edge of this place, in a bloody burlap bag, one of Lillian’s eyes opened; it saw only darkness as the eye on the other half of her head struggled to open.
The whispering…
She knew this whispering, and it grew louder in her ears. The voices were calling to her, awakening her, and she became aware.
John!
Her fury grew, and her sisters began to chant in her mind. They heard her mind screaming with the familiar vengeful scream of the murdered. The concentrated all of their powers unto her, their chanting never ceasing, and her cold, dismembered corpse felt a faint glow.
The two halves of her head trembled, and suddenly pressed into each other – the skin came alive with a tingling as flesh, muscle, sinew slowly melded together, her skull pressing in on itself, crunching and twitching….
Her heart began to beat.
The earthen graves were disturbed as soil was pushed aside, clawed at, and the flesh of the dead rose from unholy ground. Lillian felt her limbs inching into place, and connecting where they had once been chopped as a butcher would chop meat.
The dead gathered on the verges of their hallowed ground, the stench of death mingling with the mist that swirled around their sullen faces and rotting, blackened limbs. To the shallow grave of Lillian they made their way, until they all stood around the defiled ground.
Finally, she arose, a distorted version of herself, and she lurched toward the rest.
They stumbled and staggered through the woods, those blackened, charred by the fires of the hateful, and those with their necks snapped sideways, their heads dangling to one side or the other – they made their way through the woods, toward the one object they all craved with the same common retribution.
As it grew late, the pub quieted as many left, to wander home to their angry wives or to merely fall asleep next to a warm fire. John stood and burped loudly, and his companions humphed! and shook their heads. The mood had grown mellow, serious – most of the patrons left sat quietly contemplating whatever vague thoughts were drifting through their inebriated minds.
“I guess I’ll be going now. I could use a nice quiet sleep, maybe some bit ‘o food.”
“Well, you be careful, John,” Ian said.
“Aye, and watch out for the Ripper!” Cory said. “He’s probably out there right now, prowlin’ around in the alleys lookin’ to kill!”
Ian slapped him on the back of his head. “You quiet your trap! Our friend is about to ride off alone, and you bring up the Ripper. What are ya’ thinkin’?”
“Aw, ‘tis fine, Ian. Jack likes the dirty whores hangin’ around out there. They’re the ones that have to worry.”
“I’m sorry, John,” Cory said. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You’re fine, friend. You two be safe, now. With how ugly ya’ both are, Jack might just mistake ya both for woman!” He laughed deeply, and uttered another nasty burp. He waved at them. “I’ll be seein’ ya’.”
They grunted acknowledgment as John headed for the door. “We’ll be seein’ ya’, Jean.”
“We’ll see ya’, John,” she said, winking.
He left the pub for the dimness of the narrow street, glancing around at the pools of weak light from the scattering of gas lamps. He unraveled Sadie’s reigns and mounted the beast, urged it around and trotted away toward the edge of town.
A fine mist hanged in the air, and dampened the darkened buildings and cobblestones under hoof. He slowed as he passed several women in tattered dresses talking under a street lamp.
“Ya’ lookin’ for a little company?” One of them asked. She posed with one hand on her hip, and John chuckled.
“Thank ya’, miss, but I think I’ll pass. Besides, I’ve seen better lookin’ sows out at the farm, I have.”
“You just keep your sorry ass moving along – you’re stinkin’ up the place,” the other croaked.
“I’ll do just that,” he said over his shoulder. “Say hello to Jack for me.”
The two prostitutes replied in a nasty tone, but the distance had grown between them, and the words fell short. John shook his head and smiled; and glanced to his right as he trotted past an alley. His smiled suddenly vanished, and his heart quickened – he saw what looked like the form of a woman lying on the ground, with a figure wrapped in a cloak kneeling next to her.
It was a man, John was sure, and he sure as hell was making stabbing motions at the body! Yes, surreal, surrounded by shadow, an unspeakable act, to be true!
He abruptly whipped the reins and galloped away without looking back, and did not slow until he reached the verges of town, where the buildings had grown scarce. The road changed from cobblestone to the packed earthen road channeled with the sunken wheel tracks from years of travel. He slowed Sadie to a walk, and considered what he had seen. He could not erase the image from his thoughts.
Yet, John Claybourne cared no more about a murdered whore (if that was, indeed what he had seen), than he had for Lillian. Oh, bloody hell, he thought. ‘Twas only a stinkin’ whore. They know better.
He galloped toward the farm, tossing his worries to the wind. It was only shortly that he reached his property, and he sat atop Sadie as he went past one of his fields and passed the house, and the well and vacant chopping stump outside the cabin, until he reached the stable.
He dismounted and led his favorite horse inside the darkness. He fumbled for some matches that he always kept in his pocket, and found a few sticks. He could see the glint off the glass of the lantern, and he made his way to it, struck a match and lifted the glass to light the wick.
A breeze shot through the stable, stinking and foul like carrion in the field; the match went out. John heard shuffling in the hay and dirt, and the stench grew stronger. He hurriedly lit another match and touched it to the lantern’s wick. He shook it out and lowered the glass over the flame, lifting the lantern up to illuminate the stables.
The faces, the ruined and burned faces of the dead surrounded him! They glared with dull eyes planted in putrid flesh, and John’s heart jumped, the scream caught in his throat. He tried to bolt, but the hands of the dead clutched his clothing and his hair, and his head was pulled back; he glanced down and saw scorched flesh, half torn from the bone, bluing flesh grasping, clutching.
John screamed, and tried to fight his way loose, but they over powered him, dragged him out of the stable and into the dim light of the half moon. He was still clutching the lamp in one hand. The arms, the hands, pushed him forward toward a figure standing by the chopping stump.
“Stop this madness!” John screamed, but he only felt more hands snatch up hair, and in the light of the lantern he could now see the dead, with their rotting, skeletal faces, and madness nearly ensued. A blackened hand latched onto the lantern and forced it higher, and John saw Lillian’s face, a scabrous wound splitting it in half.. The flesh had somehow molded itself together on her grotesque countenance and around her neck; and she wore the same dirty dress that she had worn every day.
Though her mouth and jaw had been split, she managed to speak, her voice quavering in liquid motion: “John…to Hell, with us!” The dead cackled around him, and forced him down, snatching the lamp from his grasp.
“No! You’re dead! YOU’RE DEAD!” He screamed, and his lunatic’s mind laughed at the madness of it all, and then he sobbed. The forced him down onto the stump, facing up into Lillian’s face. She produced the axe and held it out for his inspection. “No, Lillian! No, please!”
Lillian raised the axe high into the night air, and John’s pleading was abruptly cut short. With the axe still buried in the stump, John’s mouth was agape, still trying to speak words of desperation, his eyes saucers. They bulged and saw the axe lifting up high again, but conscious understanding faded, and all was darkness.
John’s eyes opened, and all was a blur. He blinked, and memory returned second by second. He saw a figure standing near the trees, a figure in a black cloak, skin of a green hue. It was a woman with long, dark hair, and she merely stood and stared at John.
He tried to stand, but nothing cooperated; and he could not look down to see exactly why this was so, and then he recalled the axe.
Lillian! The dead! He wanted to scream, but could not. Tendrils of flesh and arteries and ligaments dangled from his neck, quivering around the stick upon which his head post been impaled.
His eyes switched desperately around, and he realized he was in the cemetery. The other graves were covered, and all was silent. He could almost feel his limbs that were buried in the burlap bags in different parts of the cemetery. They twitched and struggled, his hands clenched; and yet, all he could do was stare from atop his crude stick.
His mind went mad, and inside, he screamed and laughed and cried…
The figure turned and drifted away through the mist….
The following evening, Ian and Cory sat in the Goat’s Head with a copy of the London Times. “Well, the Ripper struck again last eve, Cory.”
“Aye, and we were sitting right ‘ere with John. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“Aye – ‘ave ya’ seen that brute?”
“No, but I’d say he’ll be headin’ this way soon.”
Ian said, “Yup. After that witch of a wife left him, he seems happier. He’ll show his ugly mug, ‘e will.”
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