The Lady Screams
Author: Amy Cross
Date: 2017-09-09 20:47:03+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: The year is 1888, and Doctor Charles Grazier has succeeded in reanimating the body of his dead wife. Even though she lacks a heart, Catherine Grazier is sitting up on the slab in the basement, but there's one problem. She won't stop screaming. As Grazier works desperately to fix the problem, he tells himself that eventually he will be able to get his wife back. Soon, however, he's forced to consider the possibility that his work has produced an unintended and terrifying side-effect. Meanwhile, in the present day, Maddie explores the house. Although she doesn't believe in ghosts, she soon start
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp Print Us

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

The year is 1888, and Doctor Charles Grazier has succeeded in reanimating the body of his dead wife. Even though she lacks a heart, Catherine Grazier is sitting up on the slab in the basement, but there's one problem.

She won't stop screaming.

As Grazier works desperately to fix the problem, he tells himself that eventually he will be able to get his wife back. Soon, however, he's forced to consider the possibility that his work has produced an unintended and terrifying side-effect.

Meanwhile, in the present day, Maddie explores the house. Although she doesn't believe in ghosts, she soon starts noticing strange sounds during the night. And then, when she meets one of the neighbors, she starts to learn a little more about the history of the house, and about the strange presence that is said to scare people away.

The Lady Screams is the fourth book in a new eight-part horror series, titled The House of Jack the Ripper. This book ends on a cliffhanger, and the story continues in the next book in the series.

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

The Lady Screams

(The House of Jack the Ripper book 4)

Prologue

“Oh Charles, you shouldn't have! You're so romantic!”

“I saw the look on your face,” I tell her, as she takes the earrings from my hand. “How could I not get them for you?”

“But can we afford things like this?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“But -”

“Let me worry,” I say firmly. “You must not concern yourself with such things. Everything is in order, and I would not have bought you these earrings if I could not afford to do so. Or do you think me to be a foolish man?”

“Of course not,” she replies, and something in her seems to relax, as if she accepts that I am right. “I shall try not to fret, Charles. I know you are correct in this, as in all things.”

It's a warm, sunny morning, and Mousehole is surprisingly busy. As other people walk past us, Catherine and I remain here outside the shop, and she seems genuinely in awe of the earrings. She even holds them up after a moment, to admire them as sunlight glitters against their sides. Once again, I am struck by the absolute beauty of her face, and by the fact that she looks so utterly happy.

“You must stop spoiling me soon,” she says with a smile. “Charles, I do not need to be a given a gift every single day.”

“It is our honeymoon,” I point out. “Let me indulge you.”

Still smiling, she leans toward me and kisses me on the cheek. Such a public display of affection might seem a little awkward, but in truth I do not mind. Catherine has awakened something in me, especially since our marriage. Perhaps I am overstating matters a little, but I truly believe that she is making me a better man. So long as I have her, I feel I shall be able to ignore all the little faults and fractures in my personality, and I shall strive instead to be a worthy husband.

“Look at the boats in the harbor,” she says after a moment, and I turn to see several fishing boats bobbing gently on the water. “They are so lucky to have somewhere they can shelter. I know the sea is so calm now, but when a storm strikes, they need protection.”

“You have an unusual way of seeing the world,” I tell her. “That is something is greatly admire.”

“The earrings are wonderful,” she continues, and I think perhaps I even see tears in her eyes. “I must find some special occasion to wear them.”

“Come,” I say, taking her arm and leading her along the street, “let us go to the tea room again. Perhaps they have more of those delicious scones with cream. And then perhaps later I shall arrange to have our photograph taken. That way, we can have something that will always remind us of this happy day.”

“Oh Charles, that would be wonderful, but the cost -”

“The cost is none of your concern,” I tell her. “You can protest all you wish, but I rather think that I have made my decision. Our photograph is to be taken, and it shall stand as a reminder of this trip. Of the beginning of our marriage.”

Everything is perfect. Catherine is perfect. And so long as we are together, I am certain that I shall be a good man for the rest of my life.

Chapter One

Doctor Charles Grazier

Monday October 1st, 1888

The scream is coming from Catherine's mouth, and her eyes are wide open too. The sound is now so loud that I fear my eardrums are about to burst. Somehow, though her body is without a heart and though I am not even halfway through the set of procedures I had planned...

Somehow, Catherine's face is contorted into a rictus of pain. And she is screaming.

“What is this?” I stammer, too horrified to even know how I should react. “Catherine, what is wrong with you?”

Chapter Two

Maddie

Today

It's so quiet in here.

Standing in the hallway, in a patch of moonlight that's streaming through the broken window, I look around at the dark doors. Straight ahead, the staircase rises up to the upper floor of the house. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the closed door that leads down into the basement. I stay completely still, half expecting to hear some distant creak or cracking sound, perhaps the slightest hint that something is moving.

But there's nothing.

I can't even hear any sounds coming from outside.

It's almost as if, as soon as I climbed back through the window, I entered a new world. A world where even the wound on my waist doesn't hurt so much. Reaching down, I pull my shirt aside and look at the stitches. Maybe I'm imagining things, maybe I'm being overly optimistic, but I swear the swelling actually seems to have gone down. When I touch the wound, I find that there's no soreness anymore. I guess I was right after all, and Simon was wrong. All I had to do was wait, and my body is starting to fix the problem by itself.

I let my shirt fall back over the wound, and then I look toward the staircase. If I'm going to wait here until Alex comes to find me, then I know what I have to do first. I have to make absolutely certain – once and for all – that I'm really alone in this place. Then again, that shouldn't be too difficult. The house is so utterly silent, it's hard to believe there could possibly be anyone else here. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, but every part of this place seems completely and utterly abandoned.

Whoever used to live in 9 Cathmore Road, they must be long gone by now.

Chapter Three

Doctor Charles Grazier

Monday October 1st, 1888

“Catherine, it's me,” I stammer as I step closer to her, and as her piercing scream continues. “Catherine, look at me.”

Her eyes are staring straight ahead, so I move in front of her so that she cannot help but see me.

“Catherine,” I continue, reaching out and touching her bare shoulder, “my darling...”

I pause for a moment, unable to believe that my dead wife is now sitting up like this, but finally I step forward and put my arms around her, hugging her tight. As I do so, I feel the open, cracked ribs pressing into my chest, but this disturbs me not one jot as I hold her and weep on her shoulder. Since her death a few days ago, I have dreamed so often of this moment, yet now that it has arrived I can scarcely believe that it is real. I want to hold her and hold her forever, and never let her go. Still, her scream is loud enough to threaten my ear drums, and after a moment I step back a little.

“Catherine, please,” I say, as tears stream down my face, “you must calm yourself. I have brought you back and now everything is well again.”

Stepping back, I reach down and take her hands in mine. I squeeze tight, the way I used to squeeze whenever I was promising her that things would be alright. This gesture, I am certain, will rescue her from this tumult and bring her back to the calm shore of our love.

“Do you feel that?” I ask, convinced that she simply needs to be reminded of her whereabouts. “It is I, my darling. It is your husband, Doctor Charles Grazier. Feel my touch, my darling. Feel my hands on yours, and remember how we used to -”

Suddenly Jack comes up behind her and places a hand firmly over her mouth, muffling her cry as he forces her mouth closed. At the same time, he mutters something under his breath, something that I do not quite catch. It is evident, however, that he is most displeased about something.

“Stop that!” I shout, horrified that the brute would dare manhandle my wife in such a manner. “Let go of her at once!”

“Sir,” he replies through gritted teeth, “you must see that something is not right here.”

“Stop it!”

Filled with fury, I grab the oaf's arm and force him away, immediately occasioning Catherine to resume her scream.

“It is me!” I tell her again, raising my voice this time in case she is having difficulty hearing me. “Catherine? It is I, Charles, your husband. You have only to look into my eyes, and you will see that there is nothing to fear.”

Pulling free of my grip, Jack quickly places his hands over her mouth again, and this time he rudely resists my attempt to force him away as the scream is once again muffled.

“Do you want people at your door, Sir?” he asks, adjusting his grip on her face. She tries to turn her head away from him, but he's holding her too tight. “Do you, Sir?”

“What are you talking about, you foolish -”

“A sound as loud as this will surely be heard from the street,” he points out. “How much longer do you think it could go on for, before somebody would realize where it is coming from? Why, there would be groups of men searching, going door to door in their effort to rescue whoever they deemed to be in trouble. Eventually they would narrow the scream down to this house. Then there would be questions, Doctor Grazier, and men would demand to find out who is in distress. There would be more and more knocks at the door. Perhaps you could make some flimsy excuse, but there is no excuse in the world that would suffice for long. And then eventually the police would be summoned, and they would not be so easily turned away. Do you feel confident in your ability to explain the situation to the police, Doctor Grazier?”

“I -”

“Think carefully,” he adds, speaking to me in a tone that I rather feel I do not like. “Could you explain everything you have done? And I mean everything! If the police came into your house right now, could you talk your way out of trouble?”

“They would have no right to enter my house!” I point out.

“The police have a right to enter any house.”

“Not mine! I am a pillar of society! Nobody would dare go against my wishes!”

“That protection might last for a while,” he replies, “but sooner or later, they'd start to wonder. Then they'd be in here, Sir, and they'd start looking around. And then, mark my words, you would be dragged away.”

“None of that matters,” I reply, with tears in my eyes as I look at Catherine's open eyes. “She has come back to me. Somehow I have brought her home, and that is the only thing that is important in the whole world!”

I wait for him to admit that I am right, but he is simply staring at me with an expression that I have never before seen on his face. Jack has always appeared rather confident and in control, yet now I see a note of fear in his eyes. I suppose the brutish aspect of his character has been stirred, and his attempt to present a gentlemanly facade is doomed to failure. Yet still his foul, crust-laden hands remain pressed against Catherine's mouth.

“That is my wife!” I declare loudly. “You will get your dirty hands off her face at once!”

“You are not thinking straight!” he snarls.

“I will not be lectured by the likes of you!” I snap, wiping tears of joy from my face. “I have been working so hard to revive her. You were the one who suggested the endeavor in the first place, or do you not remember?”

“I remember.”

“You were the one who told me that I could do this, and now I have done it!”

“Are you sure of that, Sir?”

“Am I sure?” I honestly cannot believe that the ruffian is asking me such things when the evidence is right before his eyes. Supposing him to be insensible beyond reason, I turn to Catherine and place my hands on her bare knees, and I once again feel myself struggling to hold back tears. My wife is clearly still trying to scream, prevented only by Jack's hands, but at least she is not flat on her back and dead on the slab. At least she is showing signs of revival.

She merely needs to be talked back to clarity.

“Focus, my darling,” I continue, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Look at me. Look into my eyes.”

I wait a moment, but she has not yet acknowledged me.

“Catherine,” I say again, “look at me. Catherine, please...”

Again I wait, but again it is evident that I have not managed to get through to her. Catherine always had such a calm and considered demeanor. Indeed, she was widely regarded as being one of the most composed ladies in all of London, with a temperament that put all others to shame. Even in the midst of a crisis, she could be counted upon to keep a cool head and to determine the correct course of action. This was one of the many, many qualities of hers that I so admired, and it seemed to be a founding element of her character.

And now she seems temporarily panicked.

“Catherine,” I whisper, leaning a little closer, hoping that perhaps the delicate aroma of my aftershave might serve to bring her around, “listen to me. Hear my soothing words and let me bring you back to wakefulness, the way a sailor brings a boat back to the shore. Do you remember the boats in Cornwall, in the harbor? Do you remember how they bobbed gently once they were safe? You will be like those boats soon, but first you must let me guide you.”

Reaching down, I stroke her hands. Again, I am replicating the manner in which she and I spoke during our courting days, and in the period shortly after our marriage. I remember those days so vividly. She, too, must remember them. We were so utterly happy then, and I am certain this is the best way to rouse her true spirit.

“Hush,” I continue, “and don't cry. I'm here.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack asks. “Something is clearly very wrong with her!”

“After everything she has been through,” I reply, glancing at him, “it is hardly surprising that she is a little upset. She merely requires a degree of clarity.”

“You are the one who requires clarity,” he replies. “Doctor Grazier -”

“Do not speak to me in that way!” I snap.

“She is -”

“Do not!” I roar, briefly raising my voice. “Remember your place, man! You came into my house from the street, and you know nothing of medicine, or indeed of science! So do not think to lecture me on such matters! What you think or believe is of no interest to me. Do you understand? Now keep your voice down, lest your common tones offend my wife's ear.”

His lips begin to move, as if he intends to argue, but then he falls silent. At least now the brute understands that he has no right to question me. He would do well to learn his place.

“Catherine,” I continue, turning back to her, “everything is quite alright. This is clearly a great shock for you, but you shall overcome the trauma. I am here to help you, which means that you are in no danger whatsoever. You must merely...”

My voice trails off, and I am starting to think that although Catherine's body is indeed sitting up and moving, her mind seems not to be quite engaged. At least not yet. Perhaps there is something I have missed, or some mistake I have made. Perhaps I have stumbled onto something that I do not yet understand. I had not previously considered the idea that the mind and the body might not come back in total synchronization, but I suppose that is a valid theory. Clearly I am on the right path, but I might yet need to make a few tweaks.

“This is not possible,” Jack points out, still holding his hand tight over her mouth. “Doctor Grazier, you cannot be blinded to the truth. Your work is not complete, yet your wife is animated again. How is this happening? It defies every natural thing in this world!”

“Do not lecture me on nature,” I whisper, peering closer into Catherine's eyes. “You know nothing of the subject.”

Slowly, my gaze is drawn down to her open, gaping chest. Her body is twitching a little as she struggles against Jack's firm grip, but for a moment I cannot help but stare at the space where her heart should rest. I have a heart for her, but it is soaking in a solution on the far side of the room, and for now the stumps of her various arteries are poking out from her flesh, waiting to be connected. She is bloodless, and she lacks several other organs as well. I have worked hard to understand how the human body works, and I have considered many possibilities, but this is one idea that never even occurred to me.

It is one thing for a woman to be brought back from the dead, but it is surely quite another for her to be up and moving about when she lacks a heart.

Chapter Four

Maddie

Today

“Hello?” I call out as I step into the second bedroom. “Is anyone here?”

That's the third or fourth time I've asked that question since I came up from the hallway. The first time, my voice was barely louder than a whisper and I admit that I felt like an idiot. Now, however, I'm starting to feel increasingly certain that I am alone, and I no longer have the sense that I'm intruding. In fact, as I stop in the middle of the bedroom and look around, and as I shine my flashlight toward the metal-framed bed, I'm starting to think that I can survive here, at least until Alex finally shows up.

“My name is Maddie,” I explain, just in case anyone can hear me. “Um, I guess I...”

I pause for a moment, trying to figure out how I can explain everything. The thought of somebody hiding in the shadows and listening to me, of someone watching my every move, is more than a little creepy. Fortunately, it's also pretty nuts, which is why I think I really must be alone. Of course, there's still a hint of doubt in the back of my mind, which I guess is why I keep repeating these arguments to myself over and over.

“I just needed somewhere to stay,” I continue, “and to keep out of the way for a while. I'm just...”

This is crazy.

“Listen,” I add, “if anybody's here, can you let me know? I think someone was here the other day, when I got my wound stitched up. If I'm intruding, can you just give me a sign? I'll leave if you want, but I'd really like to stay. Just one sign would be enough.”

I wait.

Silence.

“So I can stay?”

Again I wait, and finally I realize that there just can't be anyone here. I mean, the idea of some guy or woman hiding in the house, refusing to make their presence felt, is pretty insane. Especially if I factor in the idea that the person would have had to have crept out during the night and performed a little light surgery on my waist. In which case, there's only one logical explanation.

I stitched my own wound.

If I was able to hallucinate the shadowy figure in the street, and hallucinate an encounter with frigging Natalie, then I think I'm capable of stitching my wound in a kind of daze and then forgetting all about it. Sure, the idea's a little odd, but it makes more sense than anything else I can come up with.

So there's no-one here. There never was. It's just an empty house.

Case closed.

Making my way over to the dresser, I keep the light low, just in case there's any chance that it could be seen from outside. The windows are boarded over, so I'm pretty sure the place is sealed tight, but I don't want to take any risks. When I get to the dresser, I look down at the jewellery, and I can't help reaching out to touch the various necklaces and earrings. There's even a tiara here, so I guess the people who once lived in this house must have been pretty posh. The earrings, especially, are really beautiful.

No wonder they were among her favorites, although her absolute favorites were the others, the ones that ended up in my pocket the other day. Those were the ones she always wore whenever she was going to a particularly important evening, or when she -

Wait, what?

I pause for a moment, trying to work out why I suddenly felt such a strong belief that these earrings belonged to a specific person. I mean sure, they're nice, but there are other nice pairs too. I had a sense of a person, too, of a woman who owned this jewellery. That sense is already fading now, like a dream that slips away a little too fast to be remembered, but I'm still left with the feeling that I briefly knew something I've now forgotten.

I guess I just had a brain fart.

There was also a weird taste in my mouth, something sweet, but that's gone already.

Glancing at one of the photos nearby, which shows a happy couple, I peer at the woman and realize she looks very well-to-do. I can totally imagine her and her husband going to swanky balls in the old days, dressed to the nines and having fun with their fancy friends. In fact, as I pick the photo up and take a closer look, I can't help thinking that they both look like they're completely in love. I've never had that feeling with anyone, I've never even come close, and I really envy them as I see the light in their eyes. I bet they lived a long, happy life together, probably having some really nice kids. I hope that's what happened, anyway.

Then again, I don't quite know why their house would have ended up being abandoned. Even if they didn't have kids, there should have been someone to take it on. A long-lost relative, maybe, or a favorite charity. And if that didn't happen, then shouldn't there be some provision for an ownerless house to be re-used in some way? I mean, it's a decent house, and it's a shame for it to be standing empty like this.

I'm sure its former owners would like to think that somebody lived here now.

Setting the photo back down, I'm about to go back out of the room when I suddenly realize I can feel a very faint tingling sensation on the left side of my face, running down onto my shoulder and arm. I hesitate for a moment, convinced that the sensation will pass, but if anything it seems to be settling and becoming a little more persistent. After a few more seconds, I slowly turn my head and look to my left, and then I tilt the flashlight a little until I can see the metal-framed bed.

I swear, I can feel somebody watching me.

It's as if the tingling is some kind of physical manifestation of the sense that two eyes are watching me from the bed. No matter how much I try to ignore that idea, I can't help staring at the bed and watching the empty space, and I feel as if at any moment I'll see a pair of eyes staring back at me. I felt the same way the other night, as if there was a kind of presence on the bed, and finally I walk over and place a hand on the frame. The bed immediately creaks slightly, so I let go of the frame, but now the tingling sensation is all over my face.

I shine the flashlight this way and that across the bed, but all I pick out are the very old, very faded sheets that were left on the mattress. Those are kind of gross, and I can see faint stains, but I feel certain that there's something I'm missing.

“Anybody here?” I whisper, half as a joke.

I wait, but I don't hear anything.

So I start checking for cameras.

I know it's crazy, but right now the only remaining other explanation is that somewhere there's a hidden camera watching me, and that's what I'm sensing. I spend several minutes checking every possible spot where a camera could have been placed. After all, there are some seriously freaky people in the world, and cameras are getting smaller and smaller. I look in every possible space, even in the crack that runs along the wall, but finally I have to accept that there's nothing here. Sighing, I step back and look at the bed, and I still feel as if I'm being watched.

“Okay, then,” I add, turning and walking to the door, figuring that I'm never going to find anything. “Glad we settled that.”

The tingling sensation is on the back of my neck and shoulders as I leave, and then on the side of my face again as I turn and pull the door shut. The hinges creak loudly, too loudly for my liking, but once I've closed the door I find that the tingling immediately goes away. I consider opening the door again, to check whether the tingling comes back, but then I remind myself that it might be best to not go down that rabbit-hole. I take a step back from the door, and then I realize that I'm waiting in case there's a sound from inside the room.

This is not a haunted house.

There's no such thing as haunted houses.

This is just an old, abandoned house that probably no-one has been in for years and years. And, to be fair, the place has started to get under my skin a little.

“Okay, I'm staying then,” I say out loud, even though I know it's silly and pointless. “Just until my friend shows up, and then we can figure something else out. So if there are any ghosts here, just give me a break. Please?”

I wait, stupidly giving the house a chance to answer, and then I head to the stairs. As I make my way down, my footsteps sound so loud, as does the sound of my hand running against the banister. When I get to the bottom there's a thick layer of dust on my palm, which I wipe away on the side of my jeans. And then, a moment later, I spot some kind of shape carved into the wood on the bottom step.

Crouching down, I aim the flashlight and take a closer look.

In fact, there are several shapes carved crudely into the step. One of the shapes looks like a square with half a triangle in its lower half, another looks like a circle with spikes on one side, and the rest of the shapes are similarly odd. I don't remember seeing these when I was here the other night, but then I guess I was in no fit state to really notice much at all. Reaching down, I run a fingertip against the shapes and feel their rough, jagged edges. It's as if somebody took a pocket knife and started carving directly into the wood. The lines aren't particularly straight, either, so maybe the person was in a hurry.

I guess some vandals must have come here at some point. When Alex said nobody ever dared approach the house, she was probably exaggerating a little.

After examining the shapes for a moment longer, I look back up the stairs. Tilting the flashlight, I stare at the landing, and for a moment I stay completely quiet. Then I realize that I'm once again waiting for any hint of a creak or some other sound, and as I get to my feet I realize I need to force myself to quit with all the superstition. Stepping past the pile of Alex's things, I grab my backpack and carry it into one of the rooms, and then I sit down on the bare wooden floor.

Leaning back against the wall, I decide to just rest my eyes for a moment before I go check out the rest of the house. After all, there's a lot to explore. I can't afford to go to sleep, not yet, but at least I can rest. Just for a minute or two.

Chapter Five

Doctor Charles Grazier

Monday October 1st, 1888

“Doctor Grazier,” Jack says yet again, still holding his hand firmly across Catherine's mouth in order to keep her from crying out. “How is she able to move when she lacks a heart?”

I pause for a moment, before glancing over at the bowl on the counter. There is a heart resting there in a solution of my own devising, and my theory was that I could place the heart in Catherine's body and then induce it to start pumping again. I went to a great deal of trouble sourcing and preparing that heart, even going so far as to carefully clean it both inside and out. This was to be one of the most important parts of the procedure, and it never occurred to me – not for one second – that Catherine could be revived without having a new heart.

Yet as I turn back to look at her again, I see that she is still trying to scream.

“I do not know,” I whisper, as I feel a cold shudder pass through my chest. “This does not accord with any of my theories.”

“Then evidently something is wrong with your theories.” He pauses. “I am sorry, Doctor Grazier,” he adds finally, “I mean no disrespect. I am certain that you will determine the truth.”

I hesitate, before tilting my head slightly as I note some new quality in Catherine's eyes. Although I am standing directly before her, I cannot help but realize that her gaze is fixed not on me but on some space behind me. I turn and look and, seeing nothing of importance, I turn back to her. When her gaze remains pointed fractionally away, I step to one side and lean down a little until I have forced her to make eye contact. Even when I have achieved this, however, I feel as if she is not really looking at me in any meaningful manner. I have merely maneuvered myself into this position, and she is not focused on me at all.

“Catherine, it is me,” I say finally. “I cannot begin to imagine what you have gone through, and how many questions you must have. I can explain the whole thing to you, but for now it is enough for you to understand that I have brought you back. Do you realize what this means? You were taken from me, my darling, but I promised I would get you back and I have fulfilled that promise. We are together again!”

I wait, but although her eyes are now fixed on mine, there is no sign of acknowledgment. No hint of recognition, or of understanding.

Or love.

After a moment I move slightly to one side, to check whether her gaze follows me.

It does not.

She is still staring at the far wall, still twitching as she tries to scream despite Jack's hand on her mouth. Indeed, as I look into her eyes, I cannot deny that something seems very wrong. It is almost as if Catherine has returned as nothing more than a screaming creature, as if her body can scream and scream but does nothing else. There is certainly no sign of her true self staring out from these blank, glassy eyes, and I cannot believe that she would react with such horror at seeing my face again. Indeed, I almost feel that she does not see me at all. And yet I know that she loves me, and I remain convinced that this love will provide a strong enough bond. She just needs to be reminded.

“What can we do?” Jack asks. “Can you sedate her?”

“Sedate her?” I reply, shocked by the idea.

“Until you can arrive at a better understanding of what is happening.”

“Of course we can't do that,” I mutter. “It's completely out of the question. I did not work to bring her back, only to immediately put her back under. Besides, until I understand the mechanisms that are at work here, I cannot be sure that I would ever be able to wake her again.”

“Then what is the alternative?” he continues, his voice filled with tension. “With all due respect, Doctor Grazier, I do not think I can silence her like this forever.”

“But -”

“She's not even breathing!”

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but then I realize that he is right. Catherine's body has been screaming for several minutes now, and she has not even paused to take a breath. Indeed, I do not even understand the mechanism by which this can be happening.

“Catherine,” I say finally, hoping against hope that I can get through to her, “my darling, listen to me.”

I place my hands on her shoulders, trying to create some kind of physical link that might stir her mind. I have tried this already, of course, but I still cannot give up. Not yet. There has to be some spark of Catherine's true self, something I can contact with words and with the touch of my hand.

I am not a man who believes in souls, but if I did, I would say that it is her soul I am attempting to reach now. She is in there somewhere, perhaps trying desperately to speak to me.

I must help her, and encourage her. And perhaps most of all, she needs time.

“You were gone for a few days,” I explain. “You were so sick and so hopeless, and I do not blame you for what you did to yourself. If that is your fear, that you shall face recriminations, then I promise you nothing could be further from the truth. You have experienced something that nobody else in the history of mankind has ever experienced, and it is all because I – your husband – managed to cheat death on your behalf. Your body is...”

My voice trails off for a moment, as it occurs to me that this explanation is hopeless.

She is not listening. And as I look into her eyes, I cannot help but wonder whether she is even capable of listening.

“Perhaps we should screw her mouth shut,” Jack suggests.

“Do not say such things!” I snap.

“Or wrap wire around her jaw.”

“Stop saying such things!” I reply. “That is an order!”

“It would work, would it not?” he continues. “As a temporary fix, I mean. Merely while you determine the nature of whatever is happening to her.” He pauses for a moment, as if he expects me to suddenly agree. “Doctor Grazier, surely you understand that something has gone wrong. While you check your notes and try to decide what we should do next, it is imperative that her scream is somehow silenced.”

“You would have me force my wife's mouth shut?” I ask. “As if she is a common dog?”

“I would have you help her,” he says firmly, “and if that requires her to be compelled into silence for a time, then yes, I would have you force her mouth shut. Would such a move really be that much more of an indignity than all the other things you have done so far?”

“You came here to help me, did you not?” I reply. “To support my work. That is what you told me.”

“I did, and -”

“So remember your place,” I continue, as I realize that I must check my notes and try to work out what to do next. “Keep your hand over her mouth, by all means. You are right to worry about people hearing the sound. The world is filled with people who know not how to mind their own business, so it is imperative to ensure that they do not come knocking at the door. Nobody is to be allowed into this house until I have determined a solution to this situation. The risk is simply too great.”

I pause, staring at Catherine and feeling my heart break as I realize that she is still trapped somewhere in there, unable to break free.

“And you are not to move until I came back,” I add, turning to Jack. “Is that understood? Keep your hand over her mouth. Not too hard, but enough to ensure her silence.”

“You want me to stay exactly like this?” he asks, with his hand still over Catherine's mouth.

“Is there some reason why you cannot?”

“Well, I...”

He looks at the side of her face.

“For how long?” he asks finally.

“For as long as it takes, man.”

“But...”

He seems lost for words, as if he can't believe that this is what I want from him. Perhaps, in his simple-minded way, he is starting to feel overcome by fear. If that is the case, he is in grave danger of losing his usefulness.

“Hopefully you can at least follow simple instructions,” I mutter, before taking a sheet from the counter and arranging it over Catherine's torso, so as to afford her a little dignity.

After all, she has always been a proud woman, and she would not want to be exposed to Jack's eyes in this manner. He has already seen too much.

“I shan't be long, my love,” I continue. “I must go up and conduct some research. The answer is in my books, I am sure of it. Either that, or perhaps in my own notebooks, where I have set down my ideas. It might take me some time to go through all those pages, but I shall not rest until I have determined the answer. When I am done, I shall come back down and make you more comfortable. Just hold on for a short while longer, my darling. We have made it this far, and I am certain we are through the worst of it. Do you understand?”

I wait, hoping desperately for a reply, but her face merely twitches as if – should Jack moves his hand away – she will scream again.

“I shall not let you down,” I add, allowing myself a faint smile. It feels good to encourage her. “The hard part is done. Now I simply have to arrange the details.”

I cannot help but give her a chance to reply, even though I know deep down that she is not going to speak just yet. I tell myself that I can still get through to her, that this perpetual scream is merely a stumbling block, yet as I look a little longer into her eyes, I must confess that I see no trace of the real Catherine, of her true self. I try to spot something, anything, that might give me hope. A lesser man would most certainly be able to fool himself, yet I am too strong for such things. I must face the cold, hard truth of the situation, yet I also know that there is no task beyond my reach.

Again, if I believed in the concept of the soul, then I would say that it is her soul that is missing. I do not believe in the soul, however, so there must be some other explanation. Something scientific and rational, far removed from superstition. And whatever that explanation might be, I shall find it, and then I shall ensure that Catherine is saved from this nightmare.

Chapter Six

Maddie

Today

When I wake up, I immediately realize that something has changed.

I must have fallen asleep.

It's morning, and I must have fallen asleep here on the floor, with my back against the wall.

Sitting up, I reach down and move my shirt aside, and I see that there's barely any swelling around my wound. Pressing my fingers against the edges, I feel absolutely no pain at all. It's as if the wound went down overnight, and the stitches look to have settled back into place. What's more, I realize after a moment that my head feels clearer, as if all the doubt and fear and dread has faded away. It's hard to believe that I could have experienced such a sudden improvement, but I can't deny what I'm feeling.

Still, I examine the wound for a moment longer, gingerly nudging the stitches to make sure that they're really secure. There's a flicker of pain, which is to be expected, but for the most part everything seems fine. I press gently against the areas that were swollen last night, feeling nothing amiss, before lowering the edge of my shirt and looking around the room.

Morning light is showing around the edges of the boarded-up window, and a few seconds later I hear the sound of a car driving past the house . The outside world seems to be carrying on as normal, but I don't need to look out and see the street. In fact, the idea of looking out fills me with a sense of unease, so I get to my feet and make my way through to the hallway, where I stop again and listen to the silence of the house. Here, I can hear the sound of bushes rustling outside, and I think the distant boom of a plane passing over, but at the same time I can also hear the silence of the house itself. It's the kind of silence that can exist independently, even if there are other sounds nearby.

Again, I check my wound, convinced that I have to be wrong, but it's still alright. I guess maybe miracles do happen after all.

With light streaming through the broken window, I don't even need the flashlight to see as I start shuffling across the hall. I glance over at the stairs and look at the strange carvings on the bottom step, but I guess there's no way I can figure out what they mean. They're probably nothing, anyway. Just a bunch of random shapes left behind by someone who stopped here in the house for a while. I bet this place has some pretty big secrets locked away in its history, although as I stand here now I can't help thinking that the place actually seems kind of peaceful.

Calm, even. Like -

Suddenly I hear a loud rattling sound, and I turn to see that the handle on the front door is being turned repeatedly.

I freeze, too scared to move, as I realize that somebody is trying to get into the house. The handle turns several more times, and I hear the door bumping against the lock, and then finally the whole thing falls silent again as abruptly as it began.

Terrified, I wait for the sound of keys jangling, but a moment later I hear footsteps outside, which means that somebody is walking around the side of the house. I look over my shoulder just as I hear the footsteps stop in the garden, and after a moment I look up at the broken window. Whoever's out there, they must be just beneath the window, and for a few seconds I worry that someone might suddenly try to climb up.

I should go and hide, but then I'd make a noise.

Suddenly the footsteps start again, going back around to the front of the house before fading away entirely.

I wait, too scared to make a move in case I attract attention. I'd assumed that nobody would ever come near the house, but now it's obvious that I need to be a little more careful. Fortunately the person clearly didn't have a key, so I guess the only way in or out must still be the broken window. And whoever they were, the person didn't shout either, which suggests that maybe they weren't onto me after all. Although my mind is racing with thoughts of people who might try to break in, I manage to calm my fears by focusing on the fact that the person didn't come in. I mean, the window's right there...

Finally I dare to take a step forward, but I'm still worried about making too much noise. And then, a moment later, I hear my stomach gurgling. If I'm going to stick around here for a while, I'm going to need food and water, but I don't dare go outside just yet. After all, somebody might be watching the house.

I don't know how long I wait, listening out for any hint that the person has returned, but it must be more than half an hour. Closer to an hour, maybe, which is pretty crazy. Then again, I need this place right now, so I can't afford to take any risks. And gradually, as time passes, I start to feel just a little safer.

Sure, someone came to the door and almost got inside, but they didn't get inside.

Finally, telling myself to hold my hunger until it gets dark later, I make my way over to the nearest door and peer through into what turns out to be some kind of old study. I'm really starving, but I'll just have to distract myself for the rest of the day. I make my way to the far side of the room and take a seat on a dusty chair behind a dusty old desk. I guess the guy who lived here must have been some kind of a big deal, and as I lean back in the chair I can't help trying to imagine what he was like. I saw his name when I was here last time, he was called Doctor Charles Grazier and there are loads of his notebooks upstairs.

I wanted to be a doctor once.

I could have had a desk like this, and deep down I still wonder whether it's too late. Common sense tells me that homeless girls don't end up at medical school, no matter how much they might try to get back on their feet, but the dream is still there in the back of my head and I guess I just can't get rid of the hope. At the same time, I -

Suddenly I hear a bell ringing upstairs.

The sound stops after just a couple of seconds, but I remain completely still in case it comes back. I remember hearing a bell when I was here before, and I even found an old bell in one of the bedrooms. For a moment I feel a slow sense of unease creeping through my gut, until suddenly I realize that there's a completely obvious solution.

Getting to my feet, I head over to the doorway and look up the stairs.

How did I not realize the truth before?

“Puss?” I call out. “Hey, is there a pussy cat in here?”

It makes total sense. There's probably a local cat who likes coming in here every so often, and he has a bell on his collar. I know it's crazy, but suddenly the idea of having a cat for company feels pretty good, so I head over to the stairs and start walking up. By the time I reach the top, I'm more and more convinced that there's a cat, and I guess this might even explain my earlier sensation of being watched. While I was searching for a camera, there was a cat lurking somewhere in the shadows and keeping his eyes on me. After all, cats are really good at hiding.

“Hey, pussy cat,” I say as I go and check the first bedroom. “Where are you? Don't worry, I'm totally friendly. Want to come out and play?”

I wait, but now there's no sign of the little critter.

I get that.

In fact, it makes total sense.

He or she is probably scared. Probably used to having the place without any intrusions, too.

“Can I at least get a meow?” I ask, trying to sound friendly. “Come on, at least say hello. Or a growl, if you're not feeling friendly. Anything, really.”

Silence.

“What if I get some food for you?” I continue. “Would that lure you out? I'll get something you'll really like.”

Spotting the bell that I found last time I was here, I pick it up and give it a ring, hoping to prove to myself that it's not the same sound I heard just now. Before I get a chance, however, the ringing part falls out and lands on the floor, which I guess means that I know this bell can't be the culprit going forward.

“Great,” I whisper, setting the bell on the nightstand.

Crouching down, I look around, hoping to maybe spot a cat peering out at me from somewhere. I'm pretty certain that there is a cat here, since its presence would basically explain almost all of the weirdness I've noticed since I arrived, but I'd still like to actually see the little fellow's face. Plus, I don't want it to suddenly jump out at me like in some horror movie, because I'm pretty sure I'd scream my lungs out.

“If you don't come and show yourself soon,” I say with a smile, while making sure to not raise my voice too much, “I'll give you a really embarrassing name. Like Princess Buttercup or Mister Stinky Pants. You don't want that, do you? So really, it's in your interest and mine for you to come and introduce yourself. You don't want to be rude, do you?”

I wait, but there's still no sign of the cat.

The poor thing must be terrified, and I totally understand that.

Getting to my feet, I head through to the next bedroom and peer through, just in case there's any sign of the cat. Seeing nothing, however, I step back onto the landing and hesitate for a moment, before realizing that there's really only one way I'm ever going to lure the little guy out. Later, once darkness has fallen outside again, I'll go to the shop and pick up some cat food, and then maybe I'll make myself a friend in this creepy old house.

It'd be good to have some company while I wait for Alex.

Chapter Seven

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

“The brain stem revitalizes the nervous system,” I mutter, sitting at my desk and poring over another notebook, “which in turn reconnects the brain in a meaningful manner to the rest of the body. And the heart, provided it is accepted, will keep the blood circulating until it needs to be switched for another.”

Pausing for a moment, I realize that my theory – which I admit seemed a little extreme at the start – appears to have been proven perfectly. There is one problem, however, which is made thoroughly clear to me as I turn to the next page and see my drawing of a woman's torso complete with its new heart. I take a moment to read through my annotations, which explain the precise process by which I believed – and indeed still believe – a human body can be revived. The annotations are clear and direct, and they still make absolute sense, and they are focused on the position of the heart.

The problem is that I have not yet placed the new heart in Catherine's body.

“This cannot be,” I whisper, my mind racing as I try to understand this miracle. “A body without a heart just cannot function. This is a fundamental principle of human biology.”

I can say these words out loud as much as I want, of course, and they do not change anything. They do not alter the strange sight that I witnessed in the basement.

“The heart,” I continue, trying to set things straight in my mind, “is at the root of everything.”

I start drawing a diagram, setting my thoughts out. After a moment, however, another fancy strikes me and I sketch a second figure next to the first. Muttering under my breath, I draw a series of lines, and I realize that a new idea is slowly emerging from my thoughts. Even as I set the layout down, I know that this particular idea is far too wild, even by my standards. Why, such a thing is not possible and should never be considered, yet as I continue to add to the drawing I cannot help but feel that there might just be a chance if...

My mind is racing as I add more and more sections to the drawing. I know this idea is impossible, yet deep down I am beginning to wonder whether I might – thanks to my brilliance – be able to make it work.

Two bodies, side-by-side and -

Suddenly there is a tremendous rattlings side outside the house, and I turn to see that a carriage has bumped against the railings at the front of the house. A moment later I hear voices shouting as the carriage is steered back toward its proper place in the street.

“Quiet out there!” I shout, although I cannot help sighing as I realize that there is no point. The fools won't hear me, and with luck they will be off to cause trouble somewhere else. Indeed, as I continue to look over at the window, I see that the carriage is already rattling away out of view.

How can a man be expected to work in such conditions? My train of thought is ruined and, when I look down at the drawing, I see now that it is truly impossible. A wild concept, to be certain, but not one that is worthy of any more consideration. It was simply another dead end down which I had to wander as I continue to search for a solution.

Glancing over at a photograph that stands on my desk, I see a portrait of my dear Catherine. The image was captured many years ago, when I arranged for us to be photographed while we were visiting Cornwall. In the picture, she is smiling so happily and so sweetly, and it is impossible to reconcile this view of her with the withered, torn-open figure that even now sits in the basement with Jack's hand across her mouth. And when I move the photo closer, I cannot help but smile as I see the beauty in Catherine's eyes.

That is what is missing from the eyes of the thing that has woken downstairs.

There is no beauty in her expression now. I am thinking not of mere ephemeral physical beauty, but of the beauty that comes across in a person's smile, or in the way they look at the world. This is an intangible beauty, difficult to define, but Catherine has always possessed this quality in abundance. I wish I could say otherwise, but in truth I have not seen this aspect in her eyes since she woke. When I do, that is how I shall know that she is truly back.

“My darling,” I whisper, “I shall resolve this. I promise. Do not lose faith in me, not when I am on the brink of success.”

And then I hesitate, as I realize that I must have spoken those exact words so many times before. First when Catherine's illness became apparent, and then almost every day as she grew weaker and sicker and more pained. Then I spoke them again on the eve of her death, and now here I am speaking them again. For a few seconds, I wonder whether I have perhaps become a wretched and pathetic figure, sitting here making a promise that I cannot keep.

But no. There is a solution to this madness, and I shall find that solution.

I am a brilliant man, capable of great feats of analysis, yet even I cannot even begin to fathom how a woman's body can function when there is no heart beating in her chest. The whole thing seems more like witchcraft than medicine, although I quickly remind myself to avoid thinking in such a manner. After all, I know that this is not witchcraft, and that the answer lies somewhere in my notebooks.

I just have to find that answer, and then I shall know what to do next.

Yet I have been sitting here now for several hours, and I am starting to think that perhaps I am too exhausted to work properly. I cannot possibly sleep, of course, so I have no choice but to turn to the next page in the notebook and then the next. When I came up from the basement, the sun had not long been down, and now I already see the morning sky beginning to brighten outside the window. And as I continue to stare at the photograph of Catherine, I feel a sense of great dread in the pit of my stomach.

“It is you,” I say out loud, hoping to steady my nerves. “I know it is, Catherine. I must simply stay the course.”

And then I see that I have somehow smeared blood on the photograph. I quickly wipe the blood away, and then I set the photograph down.

“As soon as you are well enough,” I continue, “we shall have our photograph taken again. As a sign of our -”

Suddenly I hear her bell ring briefly.

I set the photograph down and get to my feet. In my sleep-derived daze, my first reaction to the sound of the bell is to assume that Catherine wants something. I must go up to her bed and see if she is okay, and it takes a few seconds before I remember that Catherine is no longer in her bed. She is down in the basement with Jack, and there is nobody upstairs at all.

Yet I heard the sound of the bell.

I hesitate for a moment, before stepping around the desk and walking over to the doorway. Stopping again, I listen to the sound of the house, and then I head to the door that leads down into the basement.

“Did you call for me?” I shout.

I wait, but there is no reply.

“Jack!” I shout. “Did you ring?”

“Are you coming back down, Sir?” he calls out from far below.

“Did you ring a bell?”

“A bell, Sir?”

“Never mind,” I mutter, realizing that he was not the cause. Besides, deep down I know that the sound came not from the basement but from one of the bedrooms upstairs.

Turning, I make my way over to the foot of the stairs and look up.

The house is so utterly quiet.

“Have you come to a new idea, Sir?” Jack calls out from the basement a moment later, his voice filled with a rather uncharacteristic hint of worry. “Sir? Are you coming down, Sir?”

Ignoring him, I start making my way up the stairs. I believe I hear him shout out again, but I told the man to wait and he must simply do as he is ordered. Indeed, by the time I get up to the landing, I can no longer hear him at all. Making my way over to one of the doorways, I stop and look through into the room in which Catherine lay while she was so sick, and I immediately spot her bell resting next to the bed.

There is nobody in the room.

There is nobody on the bed.

Yet I know the sound of that bell, I have lived with it for so long, and I am certain that just a moment ago I heard it ring.

“Is anybody here?” I ask, affecting a calm and measured tone. “If there's anybody here, I insist that you show yourself at once. This is a private residence and I shall not tolerate foolish games.”

Yet as I wait for any reply, and as I hear only the silence of the house, I realize that there is indeed nobody hiding anywhere. Is it possible, then, that I somehow imagined the sound of the bell? After all, my senses are surely being affected by lack of sleep, and the sound of that bell is deeply ingrained in my consciousness. If any sound were to replicate itself in my thoughts and then return unbidden to my waking mind, in moments of fatigue, then I am sure it would be the bell. It sounded so real, though, and so deliberate, and I am not yet ready to write it off as a symptom of tiredness.

Making my way over to the dresser, I pick up the bell and give it a gentle shake, causing it to briefly ring out through the house.

It is the same sound that I heard a few minutes ago.

I am certain of that, and yet -

Suddenly sensing somebody behind me, I turn with a start, half expecting to find that Jack has disobeyed my orders and come up from the basement. Instead I find that I am still quite alone, although there is still a strange feeling that somebody is in the room. Indeed, as I slowly look around, I feel a very faint tingling sensation on my left side, and after a moment I find myself staring at the metal-framed bed in which Catherine languished during her illness. I had thought several times to throw the cursed thing out now that it is no longer needed, and this idea only strengthens in my mind as a shudder runs through my chest.

Stepping over to the bed, I reach out and gently shake the frame, which emits a loud creaking sound.

“Rusty old thing,” I mutter, finding my mouth to be a little dry as I speak.

I pause for a few seconds, before wondering to the window and looking out.

The street is rather busy this morning, with more carriages rattling past. If even one more of those wretched things hits my wall, I am liable to go out there and shout at the driver like a madman. It is perhaps fortunate that the street is so noisy, at least on this occasion, since the general tumult would surely go some way toward hiding any untoward sounds that might emerge from the house. Still, I know that eventually a scream would be heard. If Catherine is allowed to cry out, people will eventually come to the front door and demand to know what is happening, and no doubt they will refuse to accept any explanations that I am able to come up with. For now, Jack is able to keep Catherine silent, but this situation cannot last forever.

I am so close to getting her back. And as I watch the street for a moment longer, I realize that deep down I do know how I might advance the situation. I have merely been delaying the moment of true horror.

Chapter Eight

Maddie

Today

Pulling open the hatch in the bedroom, I look down at the muddle of notebooks and other items that I found last time I was here. I reach in and gather a selection of them up, before gently lowering the hatch again.

***

“The brain stem revitalizes the nervous system, which in turn reconnects the brain in a... something...”

I can't quite make out the rest of the spidery handwriting, but to be honest it's not the writing that's the most fascinating part of these notebooks. No, it's the bizarre anatomical drawings that look like something out of some terrible, vivid nightmare.

Take the one on the next page, for example, which shows two female figure side by side. Their chests are both open, and it looks like there are all sorts of wires or tubes running between them, connecting them together in some manner that makes absolutely no sense to me. There are some scrawled annotations, complete with arrows, but I genuinely can't figure out what I'm supposed to be seeing here. I mean, I've flicked through textbooks in the past, and I like to keep abreast of the latest news, but I've never heard of anything like this being done to people. Some of these drawings look more like something from a science-fiction movie about a mad doctor.

Maybe this Charles Grazier guy was some kind of complete fantasist. Maybe he liked coming up with ideas of new operations that he never actually got around to performing. I mean, it's not like anybody would ever agree to let him do something like this. For one thing, I can't believe that any patient could survive having their chest torn open so brutally, and for another I doubt this type of thing would even be possible today, let alone back in the Victorian age. I mean, it looks almost as if he was outlining plans for a head transplant, or at least for a -

Suddenly I hear a loud banging sound coming from outside the house, as a car backfires in the street. Turning to look over at the boarded-up window, I feel a brief ripple of irritation at the intrusion, and I wait a moment and listen to the sound of the car driving away. I guess I've been sitting here in silence for so long, I'd almost forgotten that the world is right outside.

And then, noticing a strange taste in my mouth, I take a moment to lean back in the creaking leather chair. I lick my lips, but the taste seems to be coming from way back in my throat. It's like I've been eating peaches, although I honestly can't remember the last time I had a peach.

Figuring that the taste will pass, I start flicking through some more pages and I find several sets of notes. I can decipher a few words here and there, even some complete sentences, but for the most part these notebooks seem to have been designed for a man who wanted merely to remind himself of his thoughts. There's certainly nothing to suggest that they were intended for anybody else to read them, and for a moment I try to imagine this Grazier guy sitting right here at this desk on the ground floor, furiously scribbling his ideas down. It looks like he had a kind of shorthand that he used, and which I doubt anybody else could ever fully decipher.

Maybe he was a complete madman.

Or then again, maybe he was just ahead of his time.

Suddenly I'm filled with the idea that Charles Grazier might well have been working on something that other people – his contemporaries, maybe even people today – would have had trouble understanding. What if he was working away in secret, trying to achieve some goal against all the odds, driven by some kind of brilliance? Maybe he...

As suddenly as it came, the idea fades and I'm back to staring at these seemingly fantastical drawings. At the same time, I notice that the peach taste has faded.

I start looking through the notebook again, and then I stop as I reach another page and see a pretty gruesome sketch of a naked women with her belly all torn out. The picture is nasty enough, but I can't shake the feeling that I've seen something like this before. It takes a moment before I finally remember the bizarre figure I hallucinated in an alley a couple of days ago, back when I was wandering the city in a daze. I thought I saw a woman whose belly had been ripped open, and I thought I heard her asking something about a missing child. I even ended up calling Officer Wallace and getting him to go take a look, although he said he found nothing.

Holding the notebook up to get a better look, I can't help thinking that the woman in this sketch looks a lot like the woman I hallucinated. Even her hair and facial features are strikingly similar.

I guess coincidences can be pretty weird.

Turning to the next page, I'm surprised to see that suddenly the handwriting has completely changed. Whereas before I couldn't make out very much at all, now I'm able to read whole sentences. This particular handwriting is much messier than the scribbles that came before, and barely even keeps to rigid lines across the pages, yet in some way it's a lot easier to read whatever the person wrote.

“...at every threshold,” I whisper out loud as I follow the text with a fingertip, “to ensure there is no transgression.”

Then there's something I can't make out, followed by a few legible lines.

“If it is her,” I read, “she can be held in this manner.”

I pause for a moment, trying to work out what those lines mean. Unfortunately, when I turn to the next page, I find that the handwriting quickly becomes a mess again, and I can only pick out a few occasional words.

I flick to the next page, and to my surprise I see that there are some shapes and patterns in the same handwriting. The crazy thing is, these shapes look very similar to the carvings I found on the bottom step, so I take the notebook and head out into the hallway.

Crouching down at the foot of the stairs, I take a moment to compare the two sets of symbols, and I realize with a growing sense of curiosity that they're exactly the same.

“Huh,” I mutter, turning to the next page and finding more of these symbols, and then finding more again on the page after that. In fact, it's clear that somebody was getting really obsessed with these carvings. I guess maybe Doctor Grazier – assuming that it's still his handwriting, which I suppose I shouldn't assume at all – was maybe trying to decipher the symbols, but it doesn't look as if he got very far.

I spend a few more minutes looking at the symbols, and then I flick back through to the front of the book. The drawings and sketches are pretty fascinating, although I'm still not convinced that they're anything more than the jottings of some complete fantasist. For example, one sketch even shows what looks to be a severed human head with various tubes running out of the bottom. I start looking through the pictures for a second time, fascinated by their invention, but then I stop as soon as I spot one that I saw earlier.

This is the picture of two bodies side by side, connected somehow, but I'm only now noticing one particular detail about the surface beneath the body on the right.

I hesitate for a moment, before getting to my feet and heading over to the basement door and then making my way down the steps. I have to switch on my flashlight so that I can see properly, and when I get to the bottom I head straight over toward the slab in the center of the room. Setting the book down, I take a moment to examine the deep grooves and channels that cover the slab's surface, and then I turn and take another look at the drawing.

The cuts in the slab are identical to the cuts on the slab in the drawing. It's clear that this Doctor Grazier guy was designing some kind of procedure that he intended to carry out right here in the basement. It's also clear that some of his ideas were completely nuts, but that he seems to have taken them very seriously. In fact, there's just enough detail in these old, slightly stained pages to make me thing that he intended to actually try these procedures. And when I look over my shoulder, I see all the tools still resting on the counter next to the far wall, and a faint shiver runs through me.

What happened in this house?

Chapter Nine

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

“Hold her still, damn you!” I mutter, as Catherine twitches again and as her broken ribs scratch against my wrists. “How can I be expected to work when you keep letting her move in this manner?”

“I am sorry,” Jack replies, his voice tense with the effort. “I shall endeavor to be firmer.”

“But do not hurt her,” I continue, looking up at Catherine's face and seeing that Jack's hand is still clamped tight across her mouth. Such a dirty, rough hand, not fitting for the task at all. I am starting to wish that I had acquired a better assistant, someone with a little more refinement. Then again, I suppose he will be sufficient for now.

“I am sorry,” Jack says again.

“Hold her still,” I explain, “without being overly strong.”

“I -”

Jack hesitates, clearly rather troubled by this instruction, but then he adjusts his grip on her face.

“I shall find a way,” he says finally. “I can still feel her trying to open her mouth, Sir. If I let go, even slightly, her scream will most certainly ring out once more.”

“Then do not let go,” I reply. “Just remember that it is my wife you are manhandling here. She is a good woman, and she deserves the utmost respect.”

“Do you think she can feel what is being done to her?”

I open my mouth to reply, but in truth that is a question I have avoided asking myself. I look at Catherine's eyes for a moment and see that she is still staring straight ahead. Since she woke suddenly last night, she has not once looked directly at me, or really acknowledged my presence in any manner. I have supposed this to be due to a sense of shock, yet in truth even this is not a matter of which I can be certain. It is almost as if the scream is the only part of her that is animated, although I quickly remind myself to put such ideas out of my mind. The real Catherine is in there somewhere, locked in her mind, and I am certain that the restoration of her heart – well, of a heart, at least – will encourage her true self to return.

Looking back down at the heart that rests in my hands, I realize that once again I am delaying the moment.

I move the heart into Catherine's open chest and then, supporting it with just one hand, I maneuver the organ until it is roughly in its proper place. Then I use my other hand to take hold of the black wire that I have already begun to thread into the heart, and I move the tip up to the stump of the primary artery. There is a part of me that wishes to delay some more, but instead I start pushing the sharp tip through the artery's side, and slowly I begin the process of sewing the heart into Catherine's body.

After a moment I look up at her beautiful face, watching in case there is any sign of pain, but her expression seems not to have changed one jot. How that can be, I do not understand, yet she is still simply staring straight ahead. Perhaps, then, the answer to Jack's question is that Catherine does not feel any of this, which I suppose would be a blessing. Hopefully when she awakens more fully, and when she is back to her old self, she will not remember any of this horror, and I shall not hesitate to lie and tell her that the process was smooth. She does not need to know what really happened.

Glancing at Jack, I see the fear in his eyes.

“Keep her still, man,” I mutter darkly, annoyed by his reaction, and then I look back down at the heart and focus on threading the wire through another section of the heart. “Don't make me tell you again. If she moves too much, I am liable to make a mistake, and then you shall bear the full burden of blame.”

Thankfully he says no more, but I have no doubt that I shall hear more of his incessant prattle at some point. Indeed, as I continue to sew the heart into Catherine's body, it occurs to me that Jack seems much changed today, almost as if he has been shaken to his core. When I first met him, he was gleeful and gloating, and he seemed to think that he was in charge of everything. Now he struggles with questions, and this pleases me.

It is good that he finally understands his lowly place in the world.

***

“There,” I whisper, finally daring to remove my hand from the heart, letting it hang from the stitches in Catherine's chest. “It is in place. She has a heart again.”

I pause for a moment, before taking hold of the broken ribs and starting to force them back into their proper position. The task is not easy, and in truth the final result does not appear very normal, but at least the shape is roughly approximate to that of a rib-cage. I then take hold of the flaps of skin and fold them over until Catherine's chest is more or less closed, with one bare breast on either side of the thick, bloodied cut that runs down from her collarbone to her belly. I know I shall have to open her up again soon, but I hope very much that the main task is now complete.

“Are you done, Sir?” Jack asks.

“The heart is in position.”

“What of the kidneys and the liver? What of the -”

“I shall get to those,” I reply, interrupting him. “All in good time. For now, I wish to give her some better form of appearance. Catherine has always paid a great deal of attention to her appearance.”

“But if -”

“Cease with this constant barrage of questions,” I add, already starting to sew the edges of Catherine's skin together, so as to close her chest. “You would not understand the answers, even if I were to explain fully.”

“I suppose I would not,” he says dourly.

“There, Catherine,” I continue, forcing a smile as I briefly look up at her face. “You must have been horrified when you awoke and saw the tattered state of your body. Now that it is being sewn up, you can start beating your heart again, and then all will be well. Do you understand? Nothing is stopping you. Once your heart beats, the other parts of your body will start to function properly and then your appearance will improve. Not that you do not look beautiful at the moment, of course. You look as divine as ever.”

I hesitate, before leaning down and kissing her bare knee, although I immediately regret that move. After all, her skin feels so cold and rubbery against my lips. When I look back up at Catherine's face, I cannot help but see the disgust in Jack's expression.

“Do not watch me!” I say firmly.

He immediately looks away.

“I am sorry, Sir,” he says, his voice filled with a sense of distraction.

“Even your gaze is filthy,” I continue. “Try to look at Catherine as little as possible. Her beauty should not be sullied by your eyes.”

“Indeed, Sir.”

“Do not fear the brute,” I continue, looking back at Catherine's chest as I resume the task of sewing her shut. “He is here to help me, and nothing more. I know his hands must feel harsh against your delicate mouth, but soon he shall be gone and then you shall never have to endure his touch again. You and I shall be together again, and our lives shall go back to how they once were. Perhaps soon we can take a holiday. We can get out of London, perhaps we can go to Cornwall again, and then -”

Before I can finish, a section of skin tears away from her chest and falls into my hands, leaving a gaping hole that exposes her broken ribs and part of her new heart.

“Never mind that,” I mutter, setting the piece of skin aside before turning my attention back to her chest. “A few cosmetic issues are to be expected. They are easily fixed.”

I attempt to draw the remaining skin tighter, to cover the hole, yet this merely causes another section to come away in my hands. I try a few more times, with the same result, until I realize that I am in danger of tearing her apart. Already, the weight of her left breast seems to be pulling another section of skin loose, and I am worried that any more damage will cause her entire chest to come away.

“Perhaps we shall find some other method of covering this section,” I explain. “After all, who but I will ever see this part of you? Why, I shall purchase the most beautiful dress for you, my dear, and nobody will be any the wiser. Indeed, you sometimes spoke of wanting to lose a little weight. I always told you that you looked perfect, but now you are getting your wish. Albeit in a rather different manner than one might have imagined.”

Realizing that I am rambling, and that I am on the verge of sounding nonsensical, I resolve to focus on the task at hand. Instead of trying again to stretch Catherine's remaining skin, I simply work to stitch the sections that naturally come together, while leaving several gaps. The overall appearance is rather disturbing, and as I come close to finishing I cannot help but wonder whether there is some other idea that I might try, but at least I am doing something. Most husbands, when their wives die, simply accept this fact and become widowers. I, however, have stepped up to the challenge.

Until this moment, I never realized that I could be so romantic.

“And there we go,” I say with a smile, as I set the wire aside. “What a beautiful woman. Truly beautiful.”

I turn and tidy my tools, although after a moment I realize that I am avoiding the moment when I shall have to turn back to Catherine and admire the sum total of my handiwork. There is no reason for this avoidance, of course, yet I still find it difficult to force myself to look, and it takes a few minutes before I finally accept that the moment has come. First, though, I try to remind myself that Catherine can never look anything less than stunning.

Taking a deep breath, I turn and see that she has not moved at all, that her eyes still stare straight ahead, but that at least now her chest is partially closed and sewn shut. And somehow that closed chest makes her look more normal, more like her old self. There might still be a long way to go, but at least I can now see that we're on the right path, and that eventually all this work is bound to pay off.

“I must fetch her favorite dress,” I mutter, turning and heading toward the door.

“Sir?” Jack replies, sounding a little more worried than before. “Are you leaving me down here with her again?”

“She will feel more like herself once she is wearing her own clothes,” I continue, ignoring his pathetic question. “And jewellery, too. Some earrings and a necklace. She always loved dressing up for an evening out, so it is only natural that she will react favorably when I bring a few things down for her to see.”

“Are you sure this is the right moment for such things?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Simply that you have not yet finished putting all her new organs into her body. Should that not be your focus?”

“I hardly think you know what you are talking about,” I reply, stopping and looking back at him for a moment. “Do not question me. I believe Catherine will benefit from some reminders of her life.”

“But -”

“And that is final!” I snap. “I am in charge here! I am in control! If you question me again, there will be consequences! Do you understand?”

He pauses.

“Yes, Sir,” he says finally. “I am truly sorry, Sir.”

“You will wait here,” I add, turning and heading out of the basement. “And when I return, you will cease these constant interruptions.”

He mutters something as I hurry up the stairs, but I pay no attention. He is nothing more than a laborer, someone whose job is to do what he is told. Already he talks too much, and the only consolation is the knowledge that very, very soon I shall be able to get rid of him. After all, Catherine is on the verge of being fully back, and – as I cross the hallway and then start making my way up to her bedroom – I feel more certain than ever that I have made the most astonishing breakthrough.

Soon, Catherine and I shall have our old lives back, and everything will be wonderful again.

Chapter Ten

Maddie

Today

These blades are covered in blood. At least, I think it's blood. Holding up a large saw so that I can see its serrated edge in the flashlight's beam, I realize that I was right. The metal has been stained by something dark, and the saw's teeth look a little blunt in places, so I guess this thing saw some use in its day.

And then all this equipment got left behind.

Nobody came back for any of it. Nobody even cleaned it properly. It all just stayed right here, in the basement of an abandoned house. I might be the first person who's touched any of this stuff in over a century. It's sad in a way, to think that a place like this was left completely undisturbed, and I can't really understand how that could happen. Somebody must have noticed the house, and must have wondered who owns it now. It's hard to believe that in the twenty-first century, a house can just stand unnoticed like this.

Setting the saw down, I pick up a scalpel and see that this, too, shows sign of wear and tear. It's difficult to believe that anybody would have carried out actual operations down here, but then I guess maybe things were different back in the Victorian era. Maybe it was totally normal for people to show up at a doctor's house and ask for treatment, and for him to lead them down into the basement and start cutting into them. If that is what happened, the agony must have been overwhelming. There must have been a lot of screams down here.

I guess standards were pretty slack back then, but still...

“Give me anesthetic any day,” I whisper, as I peer more closely at the scalpel's edge and see more tell-tale dark stains. “There'd be no -”

Stopping suddenly, I see another scalpel resting on the counter. Picking it up, I see that this too is stained, but that in this case the stain seems a lot more vibrantly red, almost as if it was used more recently. I run the side of my finger against the metal, and sure enough a faint hint of blood wipes away against my skin. I'm not exactly an expert, but it's hard to believe that blood could have lasted for so long, especially when all the other scalpels are dry and old. For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe someone else has been down here, but then I realize that there's one other possibility.

The other night I came to this house in a really bad way. I was bleeding, I might even have been dying, yet later I woke up and found that my wound had been taken care of and stitched.

What if I really, truly did all of that myself?

My first thought is that the idea's crazy, that it's impossible. I'd have likely passed out from the pain, or at least from the loss of blood. I can't seriously believe that I performed minor surgery on myself, in the dark, with no experience at all, while I was shivering and sobbing. And yet, the more I think about the idea, the more I start to feel as if I'm peeling away layers and getting closer to what really happened.

I remember coming down here, and I remember realizing suddenly that I was bleeding a lot more than I'd noticed. I really panicked for a moment.

I remember I'd left bloodied foot-prints.

I remember collapsing, toppling onto my side. For a few seconds, I think I actually began to wonder whether I'd ever get back up again, or whether I'd die right here in this dark, forgotten basement.

Then the next thing I remember is waking up for a moment on the slab, and feeling the most excruciating pain. Those few seconds between blackouts are still so vivid:

Gasping, I realize I can feel something digging into my waist. I reach down and immediately feel my fingers brushing against some kind of thick black wire. I have no idea what's happening, but I think I'm flat on my back.

I remember whimpering, and then...

No, wait.

I think I finally remember something else from that night.

The whole thing seems crazy, but I think I remember climbing up onto the slab myself, with a scalpel in one trembling hand and a load of black wire in the other. I'd forgotten until now, but suddenly I have a very distinct memory of settling back against the table and then reaching down to touch my throbbing, bleeding wound. I was shaking with fear, and with cold, and I was absolutely terrified. I think I was whispering to myself, although I don't remember what I was saying. And then I started cutting away some loose sections of skin, slicing them from the sides of the wound so that I could get rid of them. I remember the pain was getting worse and worse, but I was determined not to scream.

And I could taste peaches in my mouth, really strongly.

I can't taste peaches now, but I remember the taste. It was overwhelming, but at the time it didn't really seem important. I guess I was more focused on the fact that I was bleeding to death.

I remember stitching the wound shut. I drove the black wire through my own skin, reaching into the wound to draw the wiry ends out so that I could keep going. My hands were covered in blood, but something was driving me onward. Even though the pain was intense, I never slowed or faltered. It was almost as if – despite the agony – my hands had a mind of their own and were simply getting on with what needed to be done. Somehow I managed to keep working.

But I did scream.

Now I remember. I tried for so long to stay quiet. I bit my bottom lip, but the pain was too strong. Eventually I screamed louder than I ever thought possible. I kept working, I didn't even slow, but my head was tilted back and I was screaming in the darkness. Frankly, it's a miracle that nobody heard me and came to check the house out, but I guess maybe the sound didn't travel too far from the basement. And now that I remember my scream, I'm genuinely shocked to think that I could ever have forgotten about it in the first place.

I was crying, too.

Tears were running down the sides of my face as I lay flat on my back. I felt so alone and scared.

In the memory, I can see every moment of what I was doing, but now it occurs to me that I was actually in absolute, pitch darkness. It's as if somehow I simply knew, instinctively, how to sew that knife wound shut. I worked slowly and methodically, pushing through the pain, until finally the stitches were complete and then I used the scalpel to cut the end of the wire. That's when I finally stopped screaming and simply lay sobbing instead, and then...

And then this memory links into another part that I remembered already:

I try to sit up, but an excruciating pain rips through my waist and I let out a brief whimper as I settle back down. My hands are still shaking and my fingers are getting wrapped deep in the wire, causing the wire's loops to tug at the wound, and my fingers are wet and sticky with blood. I try to pull my hands away, and finally I'm able to disentangle the fingers of my right hand from all the wire.

I was so confused. I barely even realized I was on the stone slab at the time, but then I was about to scream again when suddenly:

Suddenly a hand clamps tight over my mouth, pushing down hard as I try to scream.

It was my hand. As soon as my hands were free of the wire, I reached up and put my own hand on my mouth, to keep myself from screaming. And I kept it there as the storm raged outside, and I stayed conscious all through the night with that overpowering taste of peaches in my mouth. I didn't pass out at all, not even for one second. I simply stayed on the slab, still shivering and still whispering to myself, for hours and hours.

I think the sound of the storm even soothed me a little, until it eventually died down.

And then morning came, and the taste of peaches vanished in an instant, and I blinked and suddenly I felt as if I was waking up, even though I'd been awake the whole time. I didn't remember stitching myself, and I even entertained the idea that maybe there was somebody else here in the house with me. I imagined some brilliant but shy surgeon who was hiding in the shadows, when the truth is that I'd performed the entire procedure myself.

I remember clambering off the slab, dazed and confused, and stumbling toward the steps. Somehow, I'd completely forgotten everything that I'd done to myself. I must have been out of my mind.

Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the early stages of a fever, but I must have been almost insane. I guess in my panicked state I somehow managed how to figure out a way to stitch myself shut, using equipment that's more than a century old. It's no surprise, then, that I ended up with an infection. In fact, what's surprising is that I didn't die from that infection. I know I used to read medical books sometimes as a kid, when I was dreaming that I might be a doctor some day, but it's still hard to believe that I retained enough of that knowledge – even on a subconscious level – to actually stitch my wound together.

Then again, there's no other possible explanation.

I guess it's true what they say. When you've discounted all the impossible ideas, what you're left with – however crazy it might seem – has to be the answer. And unless I'm going to start believing in ghosts or mysterious saviors who come in the night and then vanish, I have to have been the one who performed the procedure, down here in the dark on an old slab with really old tools. I guess when you're really injured, and it's a life or death situation, the survival instinct really kicks in hard.

I've got to say, as the peach taste briefly returns and then fades again, I'm actually slightly impressed that I did any of that at all. And that I screamed so loud.

Chapter Eleven

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

“These are perfect,” I whisper, holding up the pair of earrings that I found on Catherine's nightstand. “Her favorites. They will surely remind her of the good times. And fill her heart with thoughts of what is to come.”

Indeed, I distinctly recall purchasing these earrings for her while we were in Cornwall. We walked past a shop and she stopped, clearly taken by the sight of them, and I could not bear to see her disappointed. I have always wanted nothing but the best for my darling wife, and I marched straight into that shop and purchased the earrings without further ado. Nowadays, I could purchase ten such pairs every day, but back then I was far less secure and the cost of the earrings caused me considerable worry. Yet I did not regret my decision, not at all, because I saw the pure delight on her face when she realized what I had done.

I knew from that moment that the sole purpose of the rest of my life would be to make her as happy as possible.

I also remember the first time she wore these earrings. They glittered as she come out to join me on the terrace for dinner. Again, I was rather extending my finances in an effort to make her happy, but I was at the beginning of my career and I simply had faith that I would eventually rise to become the man I am today. I don't know that Catherine ever realized how much strength she gave me, and how she was partially responsible for my success, but I shall make sure that I tell her once she has recovered. And one day, we shall go out to dinner again, just like the old days.

How I long to feel that happiness again.

Looking down at the earrings now, I am momentarily moved to wonder whether they will even stay put when I slip them onto her ears. I have studied her damaged body a great deal, but I do not believe I have paid great attention to her ears. It is possible that the earrings will now be too heavy, and that they might tear through the lobes. That would be a great shame, and I worry that the effect might be to dampen rather than heighten her spirits. It might be best, then, to wait until I have had a chance to inspect Catherine's ears and, if necessary, to strengthen the lobes.

It is with some reluctance that I set the earrings back on their little hook, but I make myself one very important promise. The next time these earrings are touched, it must be by Catherine herself, when she comes up here to get ready for our next night out. I look forward very much to the day when I stand at the door and see her sitting right here at her dresser. I would even like to hear her complain about some minor error of mine, just so that I can hear her voice again. She is the best part of me, and I cannot last much longer without her.

After a moment, realizing that there are tears gathering in my eyes, I take a deep breath and resolve to remain focused on the task at hand. Deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, there are doubts gathering. Those doubts are poison, and they must be ignored, so I turn and head out of the room. Catherine needs me to remain calm and steady. She needs me to bring her the last little part of the way home.

***

“Take your hand from her mouth.”

“Doctor Grazier, I -”

“Do it, man. Stop questioning my orders and just do it.”

I wait for Jack to obey me, yet he seems hesitant. Still standing just behind Catherine, with his hands holding her mouth shut, he stares at the side of her face with an expression of pure fear. In truth, I am seeing a different side of him today. It is as if all his confidence has faded away, and now he is scared of what might happen next.

“Don't make me tell you again,” I say finally. “She will not scream, I am sure of it. She has had long enough to get used to her new heart. Take your hands away from her mouth, and the heart will surely start beating.”

Again I wait.

Again, he does not obey.

“She will not scream,” I say firmly. “Of that I am certain.”

I can tell that Jack is still not convinced. He remains silent, however, and finally he sighs before starting to gently move his hands away.

Immediately, Catherine's mouth opens and she lets out a shrill, ear-piercing scream. I instinctively take a step back and put my hands over my ears, and Jack quickly places his hands back over her mouth, quieting her again.

“As I warned you,” he says, sounding a little breathless now, “there has been no change.”

“That is quite impossible,” I reply, although my mind is racing as I try to determine exactly what I have done wrong. “Try again.”

“Sir -”

“AGAIN!” I shout.

He moves his hands away, and again Catherine screams. This time, however, I reach out and force Jack to keep his hands down, and I wait for Catherine's agonized cry to end. As the seconds tick past, I feel more certain than ever that at any moment she will come to her senses, although finally I have to admit that – if anything – the scream seems to be getting louder. Still, I wait for as long as I dare, until I feel as if the scream is at risk of shattering my mind.

I let go of Jack's hands, and he immediately places them back across Catherine's mouth, forcing her to fall silent again.

“What have you done to her?” I ask, turning to him.

“Me, Sir?”

“I have not made a mistake,” I continue, trying to stay calm, “so the only explanation is that you have done something while I was upstairs.”

“I have not, I swear.”

“You simply stood and held her mouth shut?”

“I promise.”

“And you were not tempted to take matters into your own hands again? You do, after all, have a history of meddling.”

“I assure you, Doctor Grazier,” he replies, “I did what I was told, and nothing more or less. I have learned from the mistakes I made in the past. I cannot claim to know what is wrong with your wife, but I am absolutely sure that it is not of my doing.”

I wish dearly to blame this oaf, but in truth I cannot. Somehow, deep down, I know that he is not responsible for Catherine's continued scream.

“I do not understand,” I mutter, unable to shake a sense of panic. “Why would my wife make such a horrific sound?”

“Are you sure that it is your wife, Sir?” Jack asks.

I turn to him again. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I am sorry,” he continues, “I do not mean to trouble you, but I have been down here with her for several hours now while you have mostly been upstairs in the rest of the house. And in all that time, Doctor Grazier, I have seen not one thing, not one aspect, of this woman that makes her seem even remotely...”

His voice trails off.

“Remotely what?” I ask after a moment. “Spit it out, man.”

“I do not want to say. I do not wish to offend either of you.”

“Tell me what is on your feeble little mind!”

“She does not seem human, Sir,” he adds, and then he flinches slightly, as if he expected me to hit him. “I am sorry.”

“Human?” I reply. “Of course she is human. She is my wife. She is merely struggling to deal with the horror of everything she has endured, but the real Catherine is in there somewhere. I can see it in her eyes.”

“But -”

“Look at her, man!”

“Sir, I -”

“Look at her!”

He does as he is told, but I can still see the fear in his eyes. If he has never earned the love of a good woman, perhaps he does not understand how one can see another person's true character in their expression. Jack is, after all, little better than a worm.

“It is her,” I continue. “Of that, I am certain.”

And yet as I say those words, I look at her eyes and see nothing that I recognize. Indeed, I might be wrong but I believe her eyes have gained a yellowish tint over the course of the day, and this is a disturbing development to which I must attend before too long.

Stepping closer to her, I look down at the gap in her chest, and I see the pale, still heart that I sewed into place just a few hours earlier. At the time, I believed that through sheer force of will Catherine would be able to make this heart start pumping, but now I realize that I was overly optimistic. Indeed, it is becoming ever clear to me that it is the heart that is preventing Catherine's true mind from emerging, in which case I have only one option.

Slowly, my mind turns to the drawing I made in my notebook earlier. At the time, the drawing seems fantastical, and in truth I was merely sketching out an idea that I knew to be too wild. Now, however, I am starting to think that the drawing has some value, and that it represents a technique that I could attempt to utilize. Perhaps desperation is driving me onward, forcing me to consider ideas that I would previously have discarded, but I cannot deny that my mind is racing and that I think perhaps I have a fresh option. And as I think of that drawing, and of the notes that I added at its side, I realize that there is no reason why it should not work, provided I work carefully.

I shall, of course, have to take the most terrible risk.

“I must go out for a short while,” I whisper, feeling a tremendous sense of dread in my chest. “I must go for a short walk.”

I turn to Jack. In truth, I need him to come with me, yet I cannot countenance any other method of keeping Catherine's mouth shut.

“It is the middle of the day,” I continue, “but I must go out.”

“Why, Sir?” he asks.

“You know why.”

“I had suspected.” He pauses. “I should come with you, Sir. I must.”

“Out of the question.”

“What is it that you need? Another heart?”

“More than that,” I reply, filled with fear at the thought of what I must do. “I know what I need, and I suppose I know where I shall get it.”

“Then let me go and acquire the items.”

“No, it must be me. I must be there to select the specimen.”

“What if I -”

“I cannot trust your judgment!” I snap. “I must go!”

“In broad daylight, Sir? The risk is far too great.”

“I have an idea.”

I hesitate, before taking a step back. I feel sick to my stomach, yet I must not delay. I fear that while she screams, Catherine might be suffering some form of degeneration in her mind, and there is a chance that this could be permanently damaging her brain. If I do not act fast, I might never be able to bring her back.

“Sir,” Jack continues after a moment, “I must protest. I do not know how long it has been since this scream began. It feels like decades, yet I believe in truth that it must only be nine or ten hours. Still, that is too long, and I cannot stand here like this indefinitely.”

“Of course you can,” I tell him. “It is your job.”

“But -”

“Or do you intend to resign your position as my assistant?”

“No, of course not, I merely -”

He hesitates for a moment, and I believe I even see tears in his eyes.

“I shall remain, of course,” he says finally. “Forgive me, Doctor Grazier. I suffered a moment of weakness, but it is over now.”

“You are forgiven this once,” I reply, turning and heading toward the door. “Mind that it does not happen again.”

“Take care when you are out,” he adds. “When you find your victim and kill her, it would be best to -”

“Did I say that I was going to kill anyone?” I ask, stopping and looking back at him.

Seeing the added fear in his eyes, I feel a heavier weight of dread in my chest.

“That is not my plan,” I continue. “Not the entirety of the plan, at least. If only things were so simple. What I am going to do, Jack, is the one thing that I swore would never be possible. And yet somehow, I am going to make it work.”

Chapter Twelve

Maddie

Today

Suddenly opening my eyes, I sit up straight and find that I've been fast asleep at the desk downstairs.

For a moment, startled and feeling a little nauseous, I look around the gloomy room and try to remember how I got here. I was down in the basement, and then...

The notebooks are laid out in front of me.

I guess I must have come back up at some point, and then I must have fallen asleep. I've barely slept for days, so it's not exactly surprising that I'm exhausted, but it is a little odd that I don't remember coming back upstairs. I sit completely still for a moment, trying to think back to what must have happened, but nothing comes. Still, when I check my wound I find that it's neither swollen nor painful, so I suppose the fever isn't coming back. Maybe my body is fighting it off, or maybe – just maybe – I've been supremely, ridiculously lucky.

“Stay focused,” I say out loud, to make myself feel a little stronger, and then I get to my feet.

If I stay here at this desk, I'll just end up falling asleep again. There'll be plenty of time to look at the notebooks later, while I continue to wait for Alex, and right now I think I need to keep moving so that I don't nod off. Fortunately, there's one part of the house that I haven't even begun to explore yet.

Chapter Thirteen

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

She is but a simple washer girl, sitting at the back of her owner's establishment and tending to some shirts in a bucket. From my vantage point here at the opening to the alley, I perceive her to be no older than twenty-one or twenty-two, with long dark hair and a rather plump build.

Plump but healthy.

In every other regard, she looks utterly ordinary. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine anybody caring much for such a creature, or even noticing if she were to disappear. I am quite certain that such girls exist all over London, living out their miserable, meaningless lives and eventually dying without having left any impact upon the world at all. They take up resources and give back nothing of value, in which case it might even be said that I am doing society a favor by getting rid of some of their number. The girl might not be a whore, but in all other respects she is the same as the previous donors.

I am in the alley that Jack showed me the other night, the one that runs close to my own home. The one that I had not even noticed until it was pointed out to me. Now, in the midday light, the alley appears very narrow, which I suppose will grant me some added protection from prying eyes. I have been watching the girl for fully half an hour now, and it seems that she is being left entirely alone by the establishment's other workers. Indeed, she looks rather lonely as she works on the shirt, and I cannot help but think that only a very simple girl could sit like this for so long, washing the same shirt with such great care for such a long time.

Perhaps she is daydreaming. Or, more likely, she is simple in the head.

Looking down at my gloves, I take a moment to adjust their fit. Then, noticing that my bandaged wrists are showing a little, I pull my sleeves straight, and then I realize that I am delaying the inevitable.

I must do this.

Catherine is waiting.

There is a risk to my plan, that much is certain. It is not, however, the first risk I have ever taken. Indeed, I still recall the first night I went out seeking body parts. I ventured into Whitechapel half a dozen times, stalking the filthy streets but returning home empty-handed on each occasion. It was only on the seventh or eighth night, once Catherine's condition had deteriorated further, that I summoned the courage to go through with the killing. I took a risk then, and every time I went out hunting, just as I shall take a risk today.

I only pray that today's risk will be among the last.

I take a deep breath, and then I start walking along the alley. As I do so, I glance at nearby windows, checking to make sure that nobody is watching me. Finally I get closer to the girl and I slow, looking down at her hands as she works on the shirt. A moment later she glances at me and smiles a simple, plain smile. It's the kind of smile that these foolish working women often flash, but it at least allows me to see that my initial assessment was correct. This girl is definitely on the plump side, which means that she is absolutely perfect for my work. In this instance, her slightly above-average size should mean that she has a little extra strength.

“You seem rather lonely out here,” I say to the girl, stopping next to her. I need to seem casual, so that I can get close enough to strike. “Is it your job to simply sit and wash shirts like this?”

“It is, Sir,” she replies meekly, and I think I even spot a hint of a blush in her cheeks. “I'm sorry, Sir.”

“Sorry?” I ask. “For what?”

“I don't quite know, actually,” she says, and now she is most certainly blushing. “I'm sorry.”

“Do you often apologize for no reason?” I ask.

“Did you want something, Sir?” she replies. “Mrs. Martin doesn't usually take laundry after seven in the morning, not unless the gentleman would be willing to wait until tomorrow for its return.”

“Laundry?” I ask, shocked to learn the nature of this business. “Do you mean to tell me that there is a common laundry in Cathmore Road?”

“Newly opened, Sir,” she says, and now – ironically – she does not apologize. “If you wanted some shirts cleaned, Sir, I think -”

“I have an arrangement with another service,” I reply, interrupting her. “I simply did not realize that such a business would have the resources to settle in a well-to-do street. The whole situation is rather baffling. One would expect to find a laundry in some of the coarser parts of the area, but certainly not here.”

“I wouldn't know about that,” she says, and still she seems to be blushing slightly. “I was just glad of the job.”

I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure that there is nobody else here with us, and then I turn back to see that the girl is getting on with her work. Her hands look rough and scarred, and I suppose she has been working for most of her life.

Reaching into my pocket, I take out the cloth that I earlier dipped in a homemade solution. I hesitate for a moment, wondering whether I should perhaps engage the girl in some more conversation, so as to put her at ease. Finally, realizing that she seems barely to even remember that I am here, I tell myself that I should simply get on with the task at hand, no matter how uneasy it might make me feel.

I am not a bad man.

Stepping up behind the girl, I still hesitate for a moment, trying to judge the perfect moment.

She looks up at me, and it is clear that she feels a little awkward. She does not ask what I want, however, and she quickly looks back down at the wet shirt in her hands. I imagine she understands now that it is not her place to speak until she is spoken to. It is good, I suppose, that she has come to this realization, even if it is now unfortunately too late in her life for her to put this new understanding to practice.

“There will be pain,” I say suddenly.

She begins to turn to me.

Without a second though, I grab the back of her head and pull her toward me. Then, before she can cry out, I press the cloth against her mouth and wait for her struggles to fade.

“Your life will be given up so that a better woman can live,” I whisper into the girl's ear as she continues to fight back. “Does that not fill you with joy?”

As I anticipated, it takes only a couple of seconds before I feel her fall limp against me. Now all that remains is to carry her – covered by a sheet, of course – back to the house, via the gardens of the neighboring properties.

Then I shall be able to give Catherine the blood that she so desperately requires.

Chapter Fourteen

Maddie

Today

Peering out through the broken window, I watch the garden carefully. I've been up here for several minutes, daring myself to go out but not quite summoning the courage. I haven't seen any sight of anybody out there, but at the same time I can't help thinking about the person who banged on the door earlier.

I can't risk getting spotted.

“Come on, you can do this,” I whisper, trying to remind myself that nobody can see into the garden. Not unless they're really making an effort, at least. There are high walls on every side and, anyway, why would anyone be watching this house. It's probably stood completely empty for years, to the point that no-one really thinks about the place much.

Finally, after a few more minutes, I haul myself up and climb through the window, and then I drop down in the long grass outside. I wait again, staying low, listening in case there's any sign of life nearby. If I hear so much as a cough or a mutter, I'll climb back through the window and I won't risk coming out again during daylight hours.

For now, however, I don't hear anyone at all. Frankly, it's as if the rest of the world is far away, even though I'm slap-bang in the heart of London.

Slowly, I get to my feet. I'll wait a few more minutes, just in case I hear anyone, and then I'll dare to leave the shadows at the rear of the house. After all, I can't be too careful. And if I end up getting chased away from this place, I'll be completely lost. Like it or not, I need this house right now.

Chapter Fifteen

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

So far, everything is going perfectly. Indeed, I have not hit so much as a single hurdle.

As soon as I step through the back door, I let out a gasp and set the unconscious girl down on a bench in the kitchen. I had intended to carry her straight down to the basement, but in truth my arms are aching and I feel I must take a rest. In fact, I suppose that carrying her any further would be absolutely exhausting.

“Jack!” I call out, realizing that the brute should be the one to do all the heavy lifting. “Get up here and assist me!”

I wait, but I do not hear him coming.

“Jack! You must -”

Stopping just in time, I remember that not only can he most likely not hear me very well while he is down in the basement, but he also cannot leave Catherine without allowing her to scream again. In other words, I shall have to carry the girl myself, but first I must rest for a few minutes. I am by no means a sickly man, and I dare say I could carry my own weight and then some, yet still I feel a few twinges of pain in my back, and in my knees as well. It would be wise, I think, to give myself a rest for a few minutes.

Heading across the kitchen, I make my way into the hall so that I can -

“Doctor Grazier!”

Startled, I see that Delilah Culpepper is standing right in front of me, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” she continues, almost tripping over her words in her haste to speak. “I just... I... I mean...”

Her voice trails off, and it is evident from her expression that she is not quite sure what to say.

For a moment, I am too shocked to say a word. Delilah Culpepper was the absolute last person I expected to run into upon my return. Indeed, I have given neither the woman nor her husband a second's thought all day. It is a sheer miracle that I did not carry the unconscious girl through here, in which case I would have had to come up with some explanation to satisfy Ms. Culpepper's curiosity. As things stand, it would appear that I arrived not a moment too late.

“I just came to return this,” she says suddenly, reaching into her pocket and taking out a handkerchief. “You gave it to me yesterday when I was feeling a little faint. Well, I thought it wouldn't be right to keep it, so I brought it back.”

“And you let yourself into my home?” I ask.

“The front door was unlocked. Indeed, it was slightly ajar.”

“That seems unlikely,” I reply.

“I thought the same, yet it had not been closed properly. In fact, I worried that perhaps something was wrong.”

“So you came inside?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“How long ago?”

At this, she hesitates. “Well, I -”

“How long ago?” I ask again.

“Just a few minutes.” She pauses again. “I didn't mean to intrude,” she adds finally, “but I thought I might be permitted to come just so far as the hallway, and to leave the handkerchief somewhere for you. Once I was in the house, however, I wasn't sure of the proper protocols in such situations, and I'm afraid I rather panicked.”

She falls silent for a moment.

“As a woman,” she continue, “I am rather prone to such things. I'm sure you understand.”

“I'm sure I do,” I reply dourly.

“Are you upset?” she adds.

I glance at the door to the basement and see that it is open, just as I left it when I departed earlier.

“I am not upset,” I say cautiously, turning to her again. “Tell me, though. Have you just been in the hallway, or have you ventured into any other parts of the house?”

“Oh, just the hallway,” she replies. “I assure you, Doctor Grazier, I did not go scurrying about your entire house. Why, that would be terribly rude, and utterly unwarranted. I merely came into the hallway, and nowhere else. I did call out, hoping that somebody would be here. I was just about to place the handkerchief on the table and leave, but then I heard somebody coming in through the door at the rear of the house and -”

“You called my name?” I ask, interrupting her.

“Yes. Yours and... I must confess, when you did not answer, I also called the name of your manservant Jack.”

I pause for a moment, watching her carefully. I have never seen Delilah Culpepper as anything more than a simple, timid little thing, and it is no surprise to find that she seems to be in a state of utter panic. She is rather pathetic, and completely harmless.

“You called out for Jack?” I ask cautiously.

“Was that wrong of me?”

“And... Did he reply?” I add, unable to keep from glancing briefly at the basement door.

“Oh, no, he absolutely did not,” Delilah says as I turn back to her. “I was starting to think that nobody was going to be home.”

I glance yet again at the open basement door, and for a moment I think of Jack lurking down there with his hands clamped across Catherine's mouth. It is as well that he did not answer Delilah's call, and it is good to know that he has at least some degree of common sense. Had she ventured down those stairs, she would undoubtedly have seen Catherine in her current state, and that would have been... undesirable, to say the least.

“I'm really very sorry,” she says, holding the handkerchief out for me. “It has been washed, I assure you.”

I turn to her.

“What has?”

“The handkerchief.”

It takes me a moment to remember what she means, and a moment longer to realize that I should take the cursed thing from her hand. Still, my heart is racing and I cannot help but look over once more at the door to the basement.

Suddenly Ms. Culpepper turns and looks the same way, almost as if she heard something. She is so terribly timid, I worry that she might leap out of her own skin at the slightest provocation.

“Does your husband know that you are here?” I stammer, hoping to distract her.

“I believe he is at his club for lunch,” she replies, turning back to me. “He is meeting Doctor Markham and Doctor Shaw, and I believe Doctor Cecil Harlingham as well. I must tell you, Doctor Grazier, that I do not like Doctor Harlingham at all. There is something about him, some indefinable quality that disturbs me. The man makes my skin crawl. I wouldn't be surprised to find that he is hiding something.”

“I barely know the gentleman,” I reply, “but I am sure he...”

Pausing for a moment, I realize that I must simply get this woman out of my home as quickly as possible.

“There was no need for you to bring the handkerchief back,” I point out, trying to seem as normal and as relaxed as possible, yet at the same time stepping past her and attempting to lead her toward the front door. “Especially in your condition, Ms. Culpepper. You should rest as much as possible.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, “but I just thought that perhaps...”

She pauses, and then she looks past me, almost as if she is waiting for somebody else to appear from the kitchen. As nervous as she seems, I cannot quite shake the feeling that she is hiding some ulterior motive for her visit here today. After all, it is quite common for ladies to keep handkerchiefs, and it is certainly not common for them to come alone through the city streets simply to return one. Indeed, the more I consider her explanation, the more I begin to realize that she is definitely hiding something.

And I believe I know what she is hiding.

“Jack is not here,” I tell her.

She turns to me immediately, with a striking expression of shock.

“I beg your pardon?” she asks.

“My manservant is out on business,” I continue, raising my voice a little so as to ensure that Jack can hear us. “I do hope, Ms. Culpepper, that the possibility of encountering him did not in any manner impact upon your decision to come here today.”

“And how would it do that?” she asks, noticeably stiffening.

“I would not like to speculate,” I tell her, although I can see the discomfort in her features. Perhaps it is necessary to offend her a little, if I am to drive her away. “A lady such as yourself should not be associating with common men from the streets. Why, what would have happened if you had arrived here and found Jack here while I was gone? That happened yesterday, and he ended up touching your bare leg.”

“I had cut myself!” she protests.

“And what would the excuse have been today?”

I begin to smile, but suddenly she slaps me hard. I turn slightly away, feeling the sting but refusing to show any pain. Still, I cannot help but smile a little as I realize that I seem to have touched a nerve.

“How dare you?” she snaps.

I turn back to her.

“You should mind what you say, Doctor Grazier,” she continues, her voice trembling now with anger. Or is it fear? “I did not have you down as a salacious peddler of gossip and innuendo. I'll have you know that I am a lady, the wife of a doctor who just so happens to have been a colleague of yours some years ago. You would do well to remember that.”

“If you believe you have been besmirched,” I reply, “then by all means, tell your husband all about your visit today. Every detail. But let me assure you, Ms. Culpepper, that under no circumstances should you come back here and try to see Jack again. The man is a brute and a monster, and I cannot guarantee your safety if you ever find yourself alone with him. I'm sure I do not need to describe in detail what a man like that would do to a young lady if ever he got the chance.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but now at least she seems to understand that she is out of her depth. For a moment she seems too stunned to know how to react, and then she mutters something about going home as she turns and hurries to the front door. As she leaves, it strikes me that I have never before seen a woman look so utterly guilty

She will undoubtedly tell her husband that I was rude, but Thomas is an intelligent man and he will surely assume that his wife is simply being too sensitive. The fact that she is pregnant should also make him suspect the veracity of any claim she might make.

Still, as I lock the front door I tell myself that at least she is gone, and hopefully for good. And when I make my way back to the kitchen and see that the washer girl is still unconscious, I realize that there is no time to waste. Reaching down, I check her pulse and find that she has a good, solid heartbeat. I feared the solution might make her ill, but she seems to be very strong.

If I believed in any god, I would ask him now for strength. Since I do not believe, however, I simply gather the girl up into my arms and – still feeling the sting on my cheek – start carrying her down to the basement.

Chapter Sixteen

Maddie

Today

The house's garden is so completely overgrown, I almost rethink my decision to explore.

Evening is drawing in now, darkening the sky, and the high walls on either side mean that people from the neighboring houses wouldn't be able to see me anyway. I still glance around, worried that somebody somewhere might be able to spot me, before starting to push my way through the high grass and the unkempt bushes. After spending all day in that empty old house, I figure it wouldn't hurt to get some fresh air and explore the garden a little.

The first thing I find is the collapsed shed that I was hoping to use for shelter the other night. Now that I can see it properly, I realize that it's less of a shed and more of a weird, makeshift wooden hovel. Whatever it was supposed to be back in the day, it looks as if it was nailed together by someone who didn't really know what they were doing, and I guess it's not really much of a shock that it ended up falling apart like this. I crouch down and try to peer inside, but the whole thing is just a mess and as I get to my feet I tell myself that there's really no point fussing over something so inconsequential.

Still, I reach out and give the shed's remains a gentle push, causing the broken wood to creak slightly. As rundown as the thing looks right now, I'm sure that once somebody was very proud of it, and probably used it often. This whole house – and its garden – must have once been so alive.

For a moment, it occurs to me that there's no point exploring the garden any further. After all, there looks to be nothing more than an overgrown mess out here, but then I look back toward the house and watch the boarded-up windows for a moment. I still don't believe in ghosts or any of that junk, but at the same time I figure it'd definitely be a good idea to spend some time outside. Besides, there's always a chance that the overgrown grass is hiding something interesting.

Making my way past the side of the old shed, I push my way through the bushes. It's getting harder and harder to make any progress at all, but I force myself to keep going for a little while longer until finally my legs ache too much and I stop to take another look around. I can't believe that anyone has been this far down toward the far end of the garden, at least not for a very long time, but all I can see is more grass and more bushes and then – a little further off – a high wall. I don't really know what I was expecting to find, and now I feel pretty silly for coming out here. I mean, it's not like there was going to be some hidden treasure left to find.

I turn to head back the way I came, but then I spot something glinting high above me, hanging from the branches of a tree.

Squinting, I try to work out what I'm seeing. All I can tell from down here is that it appears to be some kind of metal shape twisting gently in the light breeze. In fact, it actually seems to be a knife, although I know that's not exactly likely. Why would anyone hang a knife high up in a tree? I mean, sure, I could imagine kids climbing over the walls and playing here, but a knife seems pretty excessive.

Looking around, I see that this tree is actually perfectly climbable. After all, somebody must have climbed up there to put the knife in place. I used to climb trees a lot as a kid, and – although I'm definitely out of practice these days – I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have too much trouble getting up there. I head over to the main trunk and look for some footholds, and slowly I start to realize that I'm actually going to do this.

I thought my tree-climbing days were behind me, but it might feel good to get some exercise.

Reaching up, I start hauling myself toward the lowest branch. This was much easier when I was younger, and I almost give up several times, but finally I get to the branch and stop for a moment to reflect on what feels like quite an achievement. I mean, sure, I'm a little breathless, but at least I've made it this far, and the wound in my belly hasn't begun to hurt at all. I probably should have been more careful when I decide to climb up, but I reach down and feel the stitches, which seem to be firmly in place.

I'm a little breathless, and my heart is pounding as I sit here dangling my legs over the side of the branch, but I also feel pretty good. Like a kid again.

For the next few minutes, I carefully make my way along the branch, until finally I'm close enough to see that I was actually right earlier: there's a knife hanging up here, suspended at the end of a short piece of rope. The rope itself looks very old and worn, with several sections of thread already coming loose. I can't even begin to imagine why somebody would have hung a knife in a tree, but I guess there can be some weird types around. When I look down, all I see is the overgrown grass far below, but I guess maybe the knife has been hanging here for a while. The rope certainly looks ancient, to the point that it's actually hard to believe that it hasn't snapped.

Taking care to hold onto the branch carefully, I reach out to take the knife, grabbing the -

As soon as I touch the handle, the rope breaks and the knife falls, slipping between my fingers and plummeting to the ground. I watch it land, and then I sigh as I realize that the rope looks to be rotten. In fact, the closer I look at the rope, the more I start to wonder how it was even managing to hold the knife up here. Sure enough, when I reach out and touch the rope again, I find that it starts disintegrating at the slightest touch, turning to powder.

“Huh,” I mutter. “Must've been really old.”

***

The knife, it turns out, landed on its point and dug deep into the ground. So deep, in fact, that it takes me several minutes to find it in the tall grass.

Reaching down, I take hold of the handle and slide the knife out from the soil. It must have landed with real force, which seems surprising since it wasn't that high up. Then again -

“I give the gods their chance, and then I go about my day.”

Turning, I look around, convinced that I just heard a voice. There's no sign of anyone, of course, and I'm already starting to realize that I didn't so much hear the voice as remember it, even though I'm pretty sure nobody has ever said those words to me. It's as if those thirteen words just flitted through my mind for some reason, popping into existence out of nowhere and then vanishing just as quickly. I guess the subconscious Maddie can throw up some weird stuff from time to time.

I pause for a moment, before looking down at the knife again.

I can taste peaches.

“What is that?” I mutter under my breath, licking my lips several times as the taste gets stronger.

“I cannot deny that the ritual gives me a certain spring in my step,” the voice continues suddenly. “Perhaps even a feeling that I have been explicitly granted permission to live another day.”

I stay completely still, worried that maybe I'm slipping back into some kind of madness. After all, I hallucinated a lot over the past few days, and I guess it's too easy to think that everything has gone back to normal already. Maybe some deep part of my brain is still misfiring slightly, offering up weird – and strangely specific – fragments of imagined conversations. Or maybe I'm half-remembering lines from films I watched years ago. I guess there are plenty of ways for a tired mind to go a little crazy.

And still the taste of peaches is getting stronger. So strong, in fact, that I want to taste something else – anything else – just to shake the weirdness.

I swear, this is the freakiest sensation, and it persists for a few more seconds before once again fading. I'm starting to get seriously freaked out, and I'm a little worried that maybe I've got some kind of neurological problem. I'm sure I've heard that people with brain tumors start getting weird tastes in their mouths, although this particular taste is very strong and I'm absolutely certain that its the same every time it comes.

Peaches.

Maybe I'm about to do a Billy from Ally McBeal and keel over.

And yet a moment later, the taste of peaches fades as quickly as it came.

Taking another look at the knife, I pause for a moment before starting to head back toward the house. As I walk, I swing the knife against the long grass and make a whooshing sound, trying to distract myself from some of the creepier things that have been happening. And then, as I reach the wall and look up at the broken window, I see that the sky is already much darker than before, which means that maybe it's finally safe for me to go to the corner shop.

“Better leave you behind,” I say under my breath, setting the knife on the window-ledge before turning and walking over to the gate.

Chapter Seventeen

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

“What are you going to do?” Jack asks cautiously, watching as I settle the washer girl on a temporary table next to the main slab.

Ignoring his latest question, I take a pair of scissors and start cutting at the girl's clothing. The blades catch a little on the fabric, but I do not have time to find another pair. Even a delay of a few minutes could make a difference between success and failure.

“Doctor Grazier? What is your intention?”

I pull the girl's clothes aside and let them fall to the ground, and then I trace a fingertip down the front of her chest as I try to work out the precise order in which this procedure must be carried out. Ordinarily I would take time to sketch these things out, yet today I must improvise and come up with ideas as I work. I remember the sketches I drew in my notebook, and they alone shall be my guide.

“Did you really steal her from the street in broad daylight?” Jack asks. “Doctor Grazier, how can you be sure that you weren't seen?”

“I took her from the alley,” I reply, as I press my fingertip against her belly and feel the faint pulse of her heartbeat. “Nobody was watching her. I doubt she is missed, even now. And I brought her back under a sheet, through the gardens of my neighbors.”

“But still -”

“I accept that it was a risk,” I add, moving my hand further up the girl's body and taking a moment to feel for her ribs. Her skin is so warm and soft, with plenty of fat beneath the surface. She is a good, strong girl in her early twenties, which makes her perfect for what I am planning. “I was careful,” I continue, “and I ensured that I was not observed. Perhaps I do not need you after all.”

Turning to him, I see that he is watching the girl with a growing sense of apprehension.

“She is young,” he points out, rather unnecessarily. “Almost a child.”

“Nonsense. She is in her twenties.”

“You once told me that you would never hurt a child.”

“Indeed,” I reply, “and I have not broken that vow.”

“Not yet,” he says darkly.

“Not ever,” I tell him. “Please, do not think that you are in a position to cast aspersions on my character. Not a man such as yourself.”

“Why could you not simply remove what you needed in the alley?” he asks. “Why take the risk of bringing her back here alive?”

“Because I do not intend to remove very much from her at all,” I reply. “Not in the same manner as before, at least, and I need her alive for the procedure.”

“And what -”

“You cannot possibly comprehend what I am planning, Jack,” I continue, “so do not even try. It is far beyond your uneducated mind. Even when it is done, I doubt that you will be able to make sense of my brilliance. Your job is to do what you are told, and your reward is to be present at a great moment in medical history. Please focus, and try to take in as much as you can manage”

I pause for a moment, before taking some black wire and stepping around to the top of the table, where I stop to look down at the girl's face.

“There is not much of her that I care to damage,” I mutter, “but her mouth is of no interest to me. And she will surely wake at some point during the procedure, so it would be best to prepare for that moment.”

With that, I start sewing her lips together. The wire slips easily enough through her skin, and the pain does not wake her. Not quite, anyway. She lets out a very faint murmur, but I am able to work quickly and within just a few minutes I have sewn her mouth shut entirely. I even take the time to thread an extra line, to make doubly sure that the wench cannot scream, before stepping over to the counter and starting to select the tools that I shall need for this procedure.

“Doctor Grazier?” Jack says after a moment. “Forgive my impudence, but I must ask again... What are you going to do? What am I going to witness here?”

“Are you scared?” I ask.

“I have seen some awful things in the world,” he replies. “In the dark streets of Whitechapel, and at the shores of the Thames. I thought I had seen more than was possible, and I was certain that nothing could ever shock me again. Yet I must confess, Doctor Grazier, that I am nervous at this moment. Nervous and apprehensive.”

Smiling as I pick up one of the scalpels, I turn and look at him, and then I walk back to the girl. In some strange way, I actually feel emboldened by Jack's concern.

“I am going to use her to force Catherine over her final hurdle,” I explain, before reaching down and pressing the scalpel's tip into the girl's skin at the point between her breasts. I push a little harder, causing a bead of blood to emerge, and then I push harder still until I feel the blade hit bone. “It will be a temporary measure, just enough to -”

Suddenly the girl's body jerks as her eyes snap open, and she immediately starts to struggle against the restraints I placed around her wrist and ankles. At the same time, she tries to cry out, but all she can manage is a faint murmur as she looks around with panic in her eyes. Blood is running from the stitches in her lips, but she has no hope of securing her freedom, even as she tries frantically – and fails miserably – to tear her mouth open.

“I am sorry,” I tell her calmly, “but you must be alive for this. That is the whole point of the procedure.”

She continues to struggle as I run the scalpel down through her chest, across her belly and all the way to her groin. Then I make more deep incisions, above and below her breasts as well as around the edges of her naval. Once that is done, I take a moment to wipe away some of the blood and then I set the scalpel down, exchanging it for a saw that I intend to use on her breastbone. There is already more blood running down her side, but not enough for me to worry. I have planned ahead, and I have determined how much blood I can allow her to lose.

Her body is still shaking wildly as she tries to get free, but that is only a mild inconvenience. She cannot escape, but I suppose she retains some sense of self-preservation. Indeed, it occurs to me now that the more she fights, the more she exercises her heart and gets her blood pumping, so this brief period of panic might in fact help the procedure.

“Must she really be alive for this?” Jack asks.

I do not even bother to answer such a foolish question.

“If she can be killed now,” he continues, “then kill her. Surely -”

“Do you suddenly want to bestow mercy?” I ask, surprised by his reaction. “You made no such suggestion the other night, when we were in the street.”

“But then they died quickly,” he points out. “Their suffering was over in just a matter of seconds, whereas here...”

His voice trails off, and he seems genuinely upset.

“I do not have time for this,” I tell him. “She needs to be alive, so I shall keep her alive. And in the grand scheme of things, Jack, the suffering of one meaningless girl is of no importance. Especially not when it can greatly assist in the recovery of a woman such as Catherine.”

I wait, expecting him to whine some more, but finally he looks back down at the girl. She, in turn, is looking up at him as she continues to struggle. It is almost as if, in her agonized delirium, she thinks he might intervene and try to save her.

If he dared try something like that, of course, I would kill him and then get back to work.

I place the saw against one side of her breastbone, and then I begin to cut my way through. The constant flow of blood makes it difficult for me to see exactly what I am doing, but I have to work fast so I simply peer closer and rely on my superior knowledge of human anatomy. The flap of skin on her left side of her chest keeps curling back over, so after a moment I have to stop and tear it a little further away until it falls against her upper arm, and then I get back to work. As soon as I have cut the ends of four ribs, I start working on them, and eventually I manage to start lifting the small rib sections away until I can see the girl's heart beating furiously.

And yet her incessant trembling is causing the table to shake, in a manner that is finally starting to irritate me.

“Why can she not be quiet?” I mutter, feeling as if the noise is liable to push me into make errors. “She must realize by now that she cannot be saved, so what is the point in all this fuss?”

Suddenly I hear a tearing sound, accompanied by an anguished, gurgling cry. Startled, I look at the girl's face and see that she has torn one side of her mouth open, ripping the black wire through her lips so that she can cry out. Bubbles of blood are frothing in the opening, spraying against her shoulder, as she tries desperately to scream.

“Stop that!” I shout, hurrying over and using my hands to push her lips together. “How am I supposed to work in such conditions? This is worse than a darkened street!”

Keeping her mouth shut with one hand, I use the other to take some black wire and start re-sewing the girl's lips. She struggles wildly and more bubbles of blood spray between my fingers, but I have no time to waste so I force the wire through her cheeks until her mouth is once again sealed. As soon as I let go, however, I realize that soon she will tear it loose again, and then she will most likely try to call for help.

I hesitate for a moment, trying to work out how I can silence her more permanently, and then I come up with a rather elegant solution.

“Jack!” I bark angrily. “Step this way a little!”

Turning to him, I see that he is staring in horror at the girl as she continues to struggle futilely against her restraints. Looking down, I realize that already she is tearing the new stitches, even though she is in the process starting to rip the black wire down through her cheek. Tears are mixing with the blood, and a muffled gurgle is coming from her throat.

“Jack!” I say firmly. “Step between the two tables.”

This, finally, seems to stir him a little, and he looks at me.

“Why?” he asks plaintively.

“You will understand in a moment,” I continue. “For now, just do it!”

He does as he is told, and I realize that the moment has come. The woman is squirming and struggling still on the table, but her efforts are futile. She has no hope of escape, and I must now move on to the main part of the procedure. Taking another scalpel in my hand, I step closer to her, and somehow her struggles become wilder still, to the extent that she is causing the entire table to rattle.

Good.

She has plenty of life and fight in her.

And it is those qualities that I intend to use, to strengthen Catherine's body.

Slowly, I reach the scalpel into the washer girl's open chest and move the blade toward the spot where I intend to make the first incision.

Chapter Eighteen

Maddie

Today

The guy behind the till gives me a weird look as I set some tins of cat food on the counter along with a few sandwiches and some bottles of water.

That's okay. I'm used to weird looks.

***

As I cross Cathmore Road, heading back toward number nine, I glance over my shoulder to make sure that I'm not being watched. This is the first time I've properly been here when there's any light, and I'm surprised to see that Cathmore Road seems to be a pretty sleepy place. Still, I doubt the locals would be very impressed if they saw me, so I make doubly-sure that I'm not being followed and then I head down the side of number nine. Only after I'm out of sight, and once I'm sure nobody can see me at all, do I slip into the safety of the overgrown back garden.

Shutting the gate, I feel a flash of relief, and then I head over to the broken window. If I can just -

“So I was right,” a voice says suddenly, startling me enough to make me spin around and drop everything I just brought from the shop.

A scruffy-looking man is watching me from just a few feet away. He's wearing an old beige overcoat with several tear marks, and his face is mostly hidden beneath a dark green fishing hat and a huge gray-black beard. The knife is still resting on the window-ledge, where I set it before I left, and the man apparently hasn't noticed it at all.

“I thought I spotted someone breaking in last night,” he continues, taking a step toward me. “Something tells me, young lady, that you don't have a key to the front door.”

***

“Relax,” Jerry says as he makes his way across the kitchen, in his house next door to number nine. “I haven't calls the cops and I'm not gonna, either. I'm not the kind of person who'd rat someone out just for seeking shelter. And that's what you're doing in that place, isn't it? Seeking shelter?”

“I...”

My voice trails off as I try to work out how much I can trust this guy. Standing here now, with tins of cat food and a bunch of other items gathered in my arms, I feel as if I probably look a little ridiculous.

Suddenly hearing a faint thudding sound nearby, I turn and see that one of Jerry's cats has jumped up onto a book-covered table. The cat slips expertly between the various piles, somehow managing to keep from knocking any of them over. Purring as he goes, the cat finally reaches the table's far end and settles down with a faint purring sound, and a moment later I see that two more cats are entering the room. I guess it's totally possible that it's one of Jerry's cats that has entered the house next door, although I can't help noticing that these particular cats seem not to have bells on their collars.

Okay, it's not one of his in the other house. It's some other cat.

“They've been rounding you folk up, haven't they?” Jerry continues, examining the crack on a mug before setting it down. “I saw it on the news. Maybe I'm being cynical, but I get worried any time I see a government herding people into any kind of camp. Family matters, you understand. Which is to say, I understand why you wouldn't want to go anywhere near one of those things. It's smart of you to stay out.”

“I'm not a thief,” I stammer. “I didn't even break the window, it was -”

“It's been broken for years,” he replies, waving away my suggestion before setting another mug down. “I know, I know. It's been broken since as long as I remember, which is actually a rather long time. Now for a more important matter. Would you like some tea?”

“Uh...”

I honestly don't know how to respond. To be honest, there's a part of me that thinks maybe I should just turn around and run.

“Don't overthink it,” he says, as if he's sensed my uncertainty. “The question's simple enough. Would you, or would you not, like a cup of tea? If you don't know, err on the side of caution and accept.”

“Well, I...”

Again, I fall silent.

“It's not a trick!” he splutters, before mumbling something under his beard and setting a tea bag in each mug. “Well, you're getting one,” he continues, “whether you like it or not. And you should like it, because it's tea, and because tea is the answer to all of life's problems. Well, not all of them, but some.”

He turns and shuffles to a cupboard. When he pulls the door open, I see a truly impressive selection of biscuits.

“The window next door has been broken since forever, as far as I can tell,” he explains as he examines the various packets. “I was born in this house and I'm seventy-four years old now, so you can figure that out. In all the time I've been here, I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen anybody go near number nine. Do you know, the council keeps sending me letters, telling me that my house is untidy and that I have to fix my front garden? Did you know that?”

“I didn't,” I reply cautiously, wondering why he's telling me about that.

“And yet that place next door,” he continues, “they let stay rotten and empty. Doesn't it strike you as odd that those busy-bodies aren't poking their noses in?”

“I guess.”

“They're scared,” he says with a sigh. “I saw a man there once, I'm sure he was from the council. He stood outside the front door of number nine for at least half an hour, and then he wrote something on a clipboard and walked away. If you ask me, the people they send just kick the can down the road. They know, they sense, that something isn't right about that place.”

“But -”

“And no-one owns it now,” he adds. “Not as far as I can tell, anyway, and believe me I've traipsed round to every council office in the borough. I've knocked on doors, I've phoned people, I've been online, and there are no records of ownership. That house is probably the only place in London that has just fallen through the cracks like that. If you ask me, it should be knocked down and the ground should be salted, and then it should be left alone for a hundred years, maybe even two hundred. Long enough for the evil to fade away. After it's been checked out and documented, of course.”

He finally takes one particular packet of biscuits and brings them over to the breakfast bar.

“Would you like a biscuit?” he asks. “And consider your choice very carefully, because if you give the wrong answer, I'll murder you and shove your chopped-up body parts down the drain.”

He opens the packet and holds the biscuits out toward me.

“That was a joke,” he adds, “in case you hadn't realized. From the look on your face, I think maybe you hadn't.”

“Thank you,” I reply, taking a biscuit.

“You're homeless,” he continues. “Don't even bother to deny that. I can see it in your eyes, and your clothes. Heck, I can even smell it. You can use my bath some time if you like. In fact please, use it some time. If the wind changes, I'll smell you from a mile off. How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” I lie.

“I'd say you're seventeen.”

“Well, I'm eighteen.”

“Well, I think you're lying,” he replies, “but that's okay, I won't take it personally. You're bad at lying, which suggests you don't do it very often.”

“Sure I do,” I reply, before realizing what I just said. “I mean, I don't. Honestly.”

He chuckles.

“I'm not a kid!” I tell him, and I know I sound too defensive. “Please, don't call the police. I'll run if you do.”

“I already promised I wouldn't do that,” he says with a smile. “The more you mention it, though, the more I start to wonder what's going on with you. Then again, I suppose it's none of my business, is it? All I care about is what you've been doing inside that house.”

Turning away, he bumps against one of the desks, almost knocking over a pile of books. He mutters some obscenities under his breath, before stopping and looking around.

“What was I doing?” he asks. “Oh yes, I was making tea. And I was telling you that I don't believe you're eighteen. Seventeen, maybe. That I'd believe. Now, you said your name's Maddie, didn't you?”

I nod.

“Is that your real name,” he continues, “or a fake one you give people?”

“It's my real name,” I tell him. “I wasn't quick enough to think about giving a false one.”

“Huh.” He stares at me for a moment, before heading back over to the almost-boiling kettle. “Well, I believe you on that point. See? We're making progress. Now tell me, were you in the house a few nights ago? I know someone was, I spotted a figure leaving the place the other morning.”

“That was me,” I reply.

“Good, now you're telling me the truth all the time. I like that.”

“I didn't take anything,” I add, even though I can't stop thinking about the earrings that somehow ended up in my pocket. I guess maybe I did take them, but I don't remember. “I just needed somewhere to go for a while. I was hurt and I had to get off the streets.”

“Hurt? How?”

The kettle finishes boiling, and he immediately starts pouring water into the mugs.

“It's a long story,” I tell him.

“Fine, keep it to yourself.” He lifts the mugs one at a time, examining their undersides, before coming over and setting the red one in front of me. “You can have the cup that isn't leaking a bit,” he continues. “It's got Justin Bieber on it, although it's faded so it's hard to tell. Still, you probably like him. I'm going to take a wild guess that number nine no longer has any kind of water supply. Or anything much at all.”

“I haven't checked.”

“Nobody's been paying the bills,” he explains, shuffling back to his mug and picking it up, taking a moment to peer at the drips that are coming from the underside. “The place is abandoned and no-one wants to go there. Seeing as you've been inside, I'm going to guess that you've already figured out why.”

“Not really,” I reply, still holding the various tins and bottles I bought at the shop.

I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in thought for a moment as he stares down at his mug.

“I pay attention to that house,” he says finally, with a hint of fear in his voice. As he turns to me, I see that I was right about the fear. In fact, he looks genuinely terrified. “I pay a lot of attention to it. You might even say that I've been keeping records of the place. Strictly from the outside, of course. I never go in. I've never been in, not in all my life.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Something awful happened there a long time ago,” he says, fixing me with a dark stare, “and there are ghosts to prove it. I mean, come on... Do you seriously not know the history of the place? Do you not know about Doctor Charles Grazier and his wife and the great tragedy that took place in that house, back in October of the year 1888?”

Chapter Nineteen

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

“It is done,” I whisper, as I stare at the miracle that I have created. “It... I believe it is working.”

I pause for a moment longer, genuinely shocked, before finally taking a step back. There is still a part of me that thinks this is impossible, that believes I have finally overstepped my limits. While I was conducting the procedure, I worried that perhaps I had become delusional, and in truth I was constantly expecting something to go wrong. Yet nothing did go wrong, at least so far as I could tell, and now my trembling hands have done their work. I have focused so firmly on the details of the task, and this is my first chance to see the full marvel.

And what a marvel it is.

The washer girl's heart still beats in her opened chest, but it does not pump blood around her body. Instead, thanks to a series of connections and artificial tubes, it pumps blood over to the slab and into Catherine's body, from which the old heart has now been removed. The connections between the tubes are not perfect, and blood is already dribbling out, but that is something I can fix in a moment. For now, I cannot help but marvel at what I have created.

And somehow, improbably, the heart still beats. I suppose it knows not to where it pumps its blood, or from where it receives a fresh supply in return. It knows only that it has a job to do, and it has been tricked into believing that it must still work.

“Can I let go now?” Jack asks.

Having almost forgotten that he was even here, I look at him and see that he is standing at the head of the slab, with his left hand over Catherine's mouth as she sits upright and his right hand on the face of the girl. Perhaps the lighting in here is a little off, but I cannot help noticing that Jack appears rather pale.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “You must wait a little longer.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking down at the washer girl's face. “She cannot possibly cry out now. Her head is no longer connected to her heart. There is no blood being pumped into her brain or -”

“You are not the medical expert here,” I point out. “Do not think to offer me advice. You will stay in that position until I tell you that you are free to move. If the past few days have taught us anything, it is to be prepared for surprises.”

In truth, he is almost certainly right. The washer girl is surely far beyond the point of return, yet I wish to punish Jack for his insolence, so he will keep his hand on the girl's mouth for as long as I deem it necessary. Indeed, I might have him keep his hand there for the rest of the day and through to the next morning, or for even longer if he continues to ask foolish questions. Quite frankly, I could have him remain in that position until I need him for some other task.

When it comes to Jack, I can do whatever I want.

Stepping around the side of the slab, I make my way closer to Catherine and look at the tubes running in and out of her chest, and then I look at her eyes. She is still staring straight ahead, her expression unchanged ever since the moment she first woke, and Jack's left hand remains clamped firmly over her mouth. I want to believe that the scream will be over now, yet I can already see that Jack is still struggling to keep her silent. Beneath his hand, Catherine's jaw still twitches.

“This cannot work,” he says suddenly.

I turn to him.

“Look at what you have done,” he continues. “It is monstrous, and what is more, it cannot function. Not for any length of time, at least. Blood is leaking and -”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” I tell him.

“I can see what is in front of me.”

“You were the one who told me I could achieve this,” I point out. “You were the one who stirred this idea in me and reminded me of my capabilities. Are you now, after all you have seen, losing faith?”

“No,” he replies, “but this...”

He looks down for a moment at the washer girl. Poor Jack. His cretinous little brain cannot comprehend what he is seeing. He tries, and I suppose that is admirable to some degree, but he simply lacks the ability to understand my work. An ant would have a better chance of understanding a lamppost.

“There were supposed to be rules,” he continues finally. “You told me you would never take someone from the street so close to your home.”

“I had no choice.”

“You also told me you would never take someone in daylight.”

“Again, circumstances compelled me.”

“What is next, Doctor Grazier?” he asks, with a hint of desperation in his voice. “A child? Or a -”

“Do not rush to judgment,” I reply, cutting him off before he can spew more of this nonsense. “It will take time for the fruits of this work to become apparent.”

“And must I stand like this for as long as you deem necessary?”

“Yes, you must,” I tell him sharply. “Unless you wish to forego the entire venture, in which case I can find another brute to take your place.”

I wait for an answer, and for a few seconds I actually begin to worry that he might accept this course of action. That he might remove his hands from the mouths of Catherine and the washer girl, and that I might have to cut his throat before taking his place myself. He is not indispensable, he is not remotely vital to the success of my work, but it would be a genuine inconvenience if I were to require a replacement at this juncture. Glancing over at the counter, I even see the very knife that I would use to kill him.

That I will use, when the time comes.

“I will not abandon you,” he says finally. “I believe in you, Doctor Grazier. This work might seem fanciful to me, but I lack your education and your knowledge. I defer to your better judgment.”

“That is very wise,” I reply, letting my gaze linger on the knife for a moment longer before turning to look at Catherine.

I suppose I had hoped for some quick, miracle change in her condition, but it is not to be. The fresh blood is still working its way around her body, so I must be patient.

She will come back to me soon.

My Catherine.

“She still tries to scream,” Jack adds.

“I supposed that to be the case,” I mutter, stepping around my wife and seeing that trickles of blood are running from the gaps in her chest. Some loss is to be expected, although this is a little much and I shall have to fix the leaks soon. “It will take time for the fresh blood to reach her brain, and for that blood to stir the necessary processes that will return her mind to its full capacity.”

As I speak those words, I know that they are rooted as much in hope as in medicine. Fortunately, Jack has no way of knowing that.

“For now,” I continue, “I must go upstairs and conduct more research. I usually plan these procedures in advance, but this time I had to rely on my brilliance without much prior planning. Now I must go back over my work and ensure that I made no mistakes. And you, in turn, shall stay down here and ensure that both mouths remain silent.”

“I can do that,” he replies. “So long as you do not add a third mouth to my task, I mean.”

Ignoring his attempt at humor, I make my way over to the door and then up to the hallway. Truly, my knees feel rather weak, and I cannot deny that Jack was correct when he implied that I have overstepped my earlier limits. It was rash of me to venture out in broad daylight and obtain that washer girl, and I am extremely fortunate to have managed to get her all the way back here without being seen. Then again, I worked quickly and I came up with a plan, and then I executed that plan without deviation. Perhaps I am better than I had anticipated when it comes to improvisation.

But now that I have gone past my limits, I shall return past them. This was just a brief foray to the extreme. Nothing permanent.

***

For the next few hours, I sit at my desk and work, going over every medical paper in my possession. I half expect to find something that dooms the latest procedure, but in truth the science actually seems to hold up. The only major leap I must make concerns Catherine's brain, and I must admit that there is a danger she has suffered irreversible damage. Then again, if even a part of her persists, I shall be able to adjust to a new life. All that matters is that Catherine is back in some form. Without her, I would have no appetite for life.

Without her, I would go back to my original plan. And this time, I would not allow Jack to save me and bandage my wrists. Else, perhaps I would find some other way to end my life.

No.

I must not think of these things.

I must work calmly and methodically, setting emotion aside as much as possible, until Catherine is fully recovered. And then I shall look back on these dark days as an aberration, as a brief period outside my usual limits. I am merely doing what is necessary, but these actions do not change me. I am still Doctor Charles Grazier, and I am still a man of principle and of honor.

Finally, as evening draws close, I hear a commotion outside the house. I ignore the babbling noise for a while, but eventually I get to my feet and head over to the window. When I look out at the street, I feel an immediate tightening fear in my chest as I see that several police officers are gathered a little way along Cathmore Road, near the alley from which I took the girl. For a few seconds, I try to fool myself into thinking that they are here in an unrelated matter, but I am quickly disabused of some a notion.

They are here about the girl.

And then, a moment later, I see Inspector Sanderson of Scotland Yard stepping away from the officers, and I realize that the washer girl's disappearance must have raised particular alarm. My first thought is that I am undone, yet I quickly remind myself that her loss was bound to be noticed. None of this means that my involvement is in any way suspected, and I force myself to focus on the fact that I am a gentleman of great standing. It is ludicrous to believe that anyone from Scotland Yard would even suspect that I am capable of these crimes. Indeed, just recently I was asked to advise the police on these matters, which would not have happened if they suspected my involvement.

Suddenly Inspector Sanderson turns and looks straight at me.

For a moment, no expression crosses his face. I consider stepping back, but I know that this might make me appear a little unusual, so I hold my position in the window until finally the man nods an acknowledgment.

I nod in return, and then he gets back to work with his officers.

Once I am certain that he is no longer going to look this way, I step back from the window. My heart is racing so fast, I feel I might even faint, but after a moment I am able to get myself under control. I know that Sanderson cannot suspect me, yet I cannot help but keep replaying his gaze over and over in my mind, picking at every aspect.

He does not suspect me.

He cannot.

I am safe.

He is a fool. He lacks the necessary intelligence to understand the truth.

He does not suspect me.

He is an intelligent man. He knows that I could not possibly be involved.

I am safe.

Chapter Twenty

Maddie

Today

“They say Charles Grazier was a great surgeon,” Jerry explains as we sit at his kitchen table. “A lousy man, maybe, but a great surgeon. Maybe a little too great. From what I've uncovered in my research, the man seems to have had something of an ego problem.”

“I think I saw a photo of him,” I reply cautiously. “There are some photos in the bedrooms.”

“There are?” He hesitates for a moment. “I'd like to see those some time. I'd be much obliged if you could bring them out so that I can make copies, maybe...”

His voice trails off, and finally he furrows his brow.

“Maybe that wouldn't be a good idea,” he adds finally. “Maybe things that are in that house, should stay in there. Don't want anything escaping, do we?”

“Escaping?”

He seems to be on the verge of saying something, but then he looks down at the folders in front of him. He takes a moment to sort through them, and it's clear that he was telling the truth when he said he'd done a lot of research. He seems to have a huge amount of documentation, as well as books filled with scribbled notes. At first, when he told me about his work, I assumed 9 Cathmore Road was just one of the topics he'd been studying, but now I'm starting to think that it's the sole subject of all these folders.

In which case... I don't know whether to be impressed or a little scared.

“After Charles Grazier committed suicide,” he continues finally, as he opens one of the folders, “the police went into the house. The man's wife had been sick for a long time, and nobody had set eyes on her. There'd been rumors that maybe she was already dead, but Grazier himself had apparently claimed he was close to curing her. Even his fellow surgeons gave him the benefit of the doubt. That should tell you how he was viewed. They put aside their natural skepticism and considered the possibility that he'd made a breakthrough. And then the police went into that place and saw the truth.”

“So what did they find?” I ask.

“They didn't find the wife, that's for sure. They found medical equipment in the basement, but the wife's body was gone. What he'd done to it, nobody ever figured out. The most popular theory at the time was that she'd died at some point much earlier, and that he'd been carrying out home-brew procedures to try to save her. When they failed, he probably burned her or got rid of her some other way. If you ask me, it'd be worth digging up the garden to see if that's where she ended up.”

“They didn't do that at the time?”

“Nobody wanted to spend much time there,” he explains. “Even the people who were sent to board up the windows refused to work there alone. From what I'm told, four men went in at any one time, and all four of them stayed together in each room. They even drew straws to decide who'd be the first to go into a room, with his buddies just a couple of paces behind. I'm sure you've noticed, the house has a certain... atmosphere.”

“It's empty,” I point out. “There's nothing wrong with it.”

“You don't feel it?” he asks. “You don't feel the sense of dread that everyone else gets when they're too close to the place?”

“I guess it's spooky,” I reply, “but ghosts aren't real.”

I wait for him to admit that I'm right, but instead he's fixed me with a determined stare. It's almost as if he thinks that I'm about to change my mind.

“You think they're real,” I say finally. “Don't you?”

“I think anyone would think they're real,” he replies, “if they'd lived next door to that house for long enough.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask. “Have you heard bumps in the night? Strange wailing sounds? Maybe a scream or -”

“I haven't heard a goddamn thing,” he says, interrupting me. “Not so much as a creak.”

Turning, he looks out the kitchen window. Beyond his garden wall, there's nothing but absolute darkness. And in that darkness, 9 Cathmore Road stands waiting. For a few seconds, there's a genuine sense of fear in Jerry's eyes as he continues to look out at the night.

“It's not a horror movie,” he whispers finally. “There aren't cries in the dark, or rattling chains. It goes deeper than that.”

“So have you seen things?” I ask. “Faces at the window?”

“There you go again,” he replies, turning to me. “Always going with the cliche.”

“Then -”

“How would I have even seen anything at the windows?” he adds. “All the windows are boarded up, all except that one at the back that's broken. And that's so high, it's impossible to see inside. The inside of that house has stood undisturbed for a very long time. Unseen, unheard, unregarded in every way. Until you showed up.”

“So why do you say it's haunted?” I ask.

Again, he hesitates. There's fear in his eyes now, and I can tell that he seems to genuinely believe everything he's telling me, even if I think it's clear he's a little too hooked on the idea of ghosts. After a moment he looks back down at the folders and starts sorting through some of the paperwork, as if he needs to anchor his thoughts in the work.

“I told you that Doctor Charles Grazier committed suicide,” he says finally. “I didn't tell you how. Have you seen those railings at the front of the place?”

I nod.

“The big ones,” he continues. “Tall. Pointed.”

“I know the ones you mean.”

“One morning in October 1888,” he adds, “Doctor Charles Grazier opened one of the bedroom windows on the house's top floor and climbed out onto the ledge. He was in the window to the left of the front door. Do you know the one?”

“I think so.”

“There weren't many witnesses, just a few people who saw from the other side of the road. But out he climbed, and they say he stood there for a moment before leaping off.” He pauses for a moment. “He landed on the railings,” he adds after a few seconds, and now his voice is trembling. “They say the spikes went in through his belly and straight up through the whole of his body, splitting him open all the way to the top of his head. Blood and guts splattered everywhere, all across the pavement. All that was left was a mess of skin and meat and bones and clothes impaled on the railings.”

“That's horrible,” I reply. “And... dramatic.”

“There was no note. Nothing to explain why he'd done it.”

“Not everybody leaves a note,” I point out, feeling a shudder pass through my chest.

“When I was a boy,” he replies, “there was an old story that you could still see him out there on dark nights. My friends at school all told different versions of the story, but the common element was the idea that when there was no moon, if you dared go all the way up to the railings, you'd see the ghost of Doctor Charles Grazier hanging there on the threads of his torn skin, with his guts spilled out all over the pavement.”

I can't hold back a faint smile. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I wait for him to laugh, or to at least admit that the idea is crazy, but instead he keeps his fearful gaze fixed on me. This is a guy who just told me I was resorting to cliches for asking about bumps in the night, yet now here he is telling me about a ghost that appears on dark nights and scares kids.

“So did you ever go and look?” I ask finally.

“Me?” He hesitates. “No. My friends Billy and Johnny did, and they both ran away screaming. They claimed to have seen his eyes staring down at them from the dark railings, and to have heard his gurgled death rattle. Scared me to death, they did, telling that story over and over. It wasn't until they were older that they admitted they'd made it up, but there were plenty of other people who swore they had seen him. If you ask me, some of them were lying and some of them were so freaked out by the idea, they managed to see something that wasn't there. At least, that's the explanation I choose to believe.”

“Okay,” I say cautiously, “so... I still don't get why you believe there are ghosts in the house.”

“While everyone was creeping about at the front,” he continues, “I'd go and play in our back garden here. There's just that path running between the two gardens, and sometimes I'd be out at night. And sometimes, not always, but... Sometimes I'd hear a faint sobbing sound coming from the garden of number nine.”

“That could have been anything,” I point out.

“And one night I actually dared to go all the way over to the gate and peer through.”

I wait for him to continue, but he seems to have paused for effect. I get the feeling that despite his protestations, he actually enjoys telling these stories.

“What did you see?” I ask, figuring that he's been waiting for me to prompt him.

“Ravens,” he replies. “A whole flock of them, bursting up from the dark garden and flying frantically into the sky. But then, as I watched them go, they suddenly disappeared.”

Staring at him, I realize that he's serious.

“Ghost birds?” I ask finally. “You're saying that you saw ghost birds?”

“They disappeared just as they flew across the threshold of number nine,” he tells me, with a hint of urgency in his voice. “Gone, just like that!”

“And this was at night?”

“A moonless night.”

“And ravens are black.”

“They are.”

“So...” I wait for him to see where I'm going with this, but then I realize that maybe he's a little too heavily invested in this whole idea. “I just figure it might be hard to see black ravens on a dark night,” I point out. “So maybe, you know, it wasn't easy to tell whether they disappeared or just flew away.

“They disappeared,” he replies, without a hint of doubt in his voice. “I watched them blink out of the sky.”

“That sounds... odd,” I admit, although deep down I'm starting to think that this Jerry guy might have been smoking something a little stronger than regular tobacco. “I get it,” I continue. “Number nine is the spooky, abandoned house in the street, and it's normal for there to be a load of stories about a place like that. Every street has a house like that, right? Honestly, I don't even think it's that weird for people to talk about it.”

“I'm the only one who ever talks about it,” he replies. “The rest, they all pretend it's not there. They won't even look at it. They feel a sense of great dread, which is why I'm so curious about you.” He leans toward me, as if he's trying to get a closer look at my face. “Everyone feels that sensation,” he continues. “They feel the dread, all of them. Everyone who ever went near that house. Everyone except you.”

I swallow hard.

“So what's different about you?” he continues. “Why do you feel relaxed there?”

“I didn't say I felt relaxed,” I reply. “I just said I don't feel like there are ghosts all around me.”

“And nothing weird has happened to you there?”

For a moment, I think back to the sound of the bell, but I quickly realize that there's no point mentioning that to Jerry. It'd probably just set him off, and then he might get me worried, and I still have to go back to the house and sleep there tonight. I'm not scared at the moment, and I'd like to keep it that way.

“Are you going to call the cops on me?” I ask, hoping to change the subject slightly. “Please don't do that. I won't stay for long, I promise, but I just need to wait for a few days until my friend shows up.”

“I'm not going to call anyone,” he replies. “If there's one thing I hate more than ghosts, it's the police. I want you to do something for me, though. A favor, if you like. In return.”

“Sure. I'll do anything you want. If I can, I mean.”

“There's something in that house that I want,” he explains. “Something that will help me with my research into another matter that might or might not be related to Doctor Grazier and his work. I can't go in myself and find it. Even if I could get through that window, I just couldn't bring myself to enter the house. Please, if I described it to you, will you find this thing and bring it out to me?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Doctor Charles Grazier

Tuesday October 2nd, 1888

“These will help,” I whisper, once again looking at the jewellery in Catherine's dresser. “They will make her feel more like herself.”

In truth, this is the fourth or fifth time that I have come up here to fetch jewellery for her, and each time I have ended up changing my mind and going back downstairs empty-handed. This time I am determined to fetch something – a necklace, perhaps, or her favorite earrings – although after a moment I hesitate yet again. It is as if I am locked into a perpetual cycle of actions that seem to bring me no closer to a resolution.

Finally I pick up one particular set of earrings, and I watch as the light catches their edge. No wonder they were among her favorites, although her absolute favorites were the others, the ones I bought her in Cornwall. Those were the ones she always wore whenever she was going to a particularly important evening, so I pick those up instead, and immediately I think back to those happier times. After a moment, I realize that there is a curious, rather fruit-like taste in my mouth, although it is gone after just a few seconds more.

And then, when I look at Catherine's mirror, I see that there are tears in my eyes.

I do not understand how or why, since I am not a man who cries easily, but tears have arrived unbidden and now they will not go away. I keep wiping them, trying to dry my eyes, yet more tears quickly emerge. It is as if once again my body is sabotaging the efforts of my mind. Finally, feeling a tremendous lump in my throat, I lean against the dresser and try to take a moment in which I might regather my thoughts. Until today, I was able to keep myself focused, but now it is as if my mind is failing.

Catherine is coming back.

That is the most important thing, the one thing I must remember.

Everything else is pointless and futile. All that matters is the simple fact that Catherine is coming back to me. Indeed, she is almost back already. There is just a small way still to go.

Whenever the task seems impossible, I have to focus on the fact that I have already achieved so much. She was dead for some time, but already she is sitting up and trying to cry out. That in itself is a sign of life, and a sign that I am on the right track. I just have to come up with some new approach, with some method of drawing her true mind out of the screaming chaos.

The hard part is over.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I focus on slowing my breathing so that this panic might subside. And then, as I wait, I realize that I can feel the hairs starting to stand up on the back of my neck. I tell myself that I am merely imagining things, yet the sensation continues until I have no option but to open my eyes and look over my shoulder.

There is nobody behind me, of course.

All I see is the metal-framed bed.

Yet just as I am about to turn away, I realize that I can feel a gaze coming from that bed. I know the idea is ridiculous, yet I feel very strongly that I am being watched. Earlier, when Inspector Sanderson looked at me through the window, I could feel his eyes fixed upon me, and that is the same sensation that troubles me now. I can only see the bed with its old sheets, yet I am quite certain that somebody is watching me. I wait, convinced that the sensation will pass, yet if anything it seems to be getting stronger and stronger.

I turn away and look back at my own reflection. I can immediately see the fear in my eyes, and I can feel the hairs still stirring on the nape of my neck.

I look over at the bed again. Still, there is the sense that I am being watched by something that is manifesting its presence with more and more power. I know such things are impossible, of course, and I try to remind myself that the human mind can throw up some very powerful – though patently false – impressions. I should turn away from the bed, indeed I should leave the room and shut the door, yet I cannot help but watch the empty space in case suddenly I find that I am being watched. This fear is totally irrational and completely unbecoming of a man such as myself, and yet...

And yet I cannot banish it from my mind.

“There is nobody there,” I whisper, still staring at the bed as a cold sweat begins to ripple across my brow. “There is... There is nobody on the bed...”

I can hear the desperation in my own voice.

I can also feel a sense of frustration as I realize that I have sunk this low. I am talking to myself!

Deep down, I know now that this fear will last for as long as I allow it. I am a man of medicine and science, and I am a man of great intelligence. I shall once again overcome the fear of the body, and replace it with the calmness of the mind.

To that end, after a moment longer, I force myself to turn away from the bed, and I look into the mirror to check that my tears are gone.

And then I see her.

“It's not me!” Catherine sobs, her reflected image sitting cross-legged on the reflected bed behind me. “Charles, you have to realize, it's not me down there. Oh Charles, it's not me!”

Gasping, I turn and look back at the bed, which is once again empty.

I turn to the mirror, but now I see only the reflection of the bed. There is nobody there, yet just now I saw...

“Catherine?” I whisper, turning and heading over to the bed. “Catherine, where are you?”

I wave my arms across the bed, across the very spot where I saw her, yet now there is nothing. Feeling utterly frantic, I crawl onto the bed and continue my search, even going so far as to pull the pillows away. I know she is not here, but I cannot stop trying to find her and my frantic hunt goes on and on until I even begin to rip the sheets away.

“What did you mean?” I stammer. “Please, Catherine, you must come back! What did you say to me?”

Tugging on the last of the sheets, I tear them from the bed and then – still finding nothing – I take hold of the mattress and start pulling it away from the frame. Insensible in my panic, I cannot help but search everywhere for Catherine, convinced that some devilish trick is being played on me and that I must find her if only I keep hunting.

“Catherine!” I call out as fresh tears stream down my face. “I saw you! Why do you hide from me now? Catherine, come back to me! Catherine, I am right here, all you have to do is come to me and everything will be alright! Catherine!”

“Sir?”

Startled, I turn and see that Jack is standing in the doorway. He is watching me with the most peculiar, surprised expression on his face, as well he might. I look over at the mirror and see myself kneeling here on the bed, then I look down at the sheets and pillows I have disturbed, and then I look back over at the doorway. My heart is beating at double speed, perhaps even faster, and I feel utterly distracted.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, finally clambering off the bed and getting to my feet. I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks. “What has happened?”

“Are you alright?” he asks. “I thought I heard you saying the name -”

“What has happened?” I ask again, raising my voice this time before looking down at his hands. “Who gave you permission to leave the basement? Why are you not still down there?”

He pauses, before raising his right hand.

“A hand?” I stammer. “What about it, man?”

“The girl is dead,” he says after a moment. “Even her heart stopped beating.”

“But Catherine -”

“Sir, your wife...”

He slowly raises his left hand, and he stares as if he is somehow mesmerized.

“Why did you leave your position without permission?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “I did not tell you that you could come up here!”

I wait, but he is simply holding his hands up as if he expects this to have some significance.

“You insolent oaf!” I sneer. “Are you trying to think for yourself? Are you -”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that the house is now silent. Even all the way up here, I would surely be able to hear her screaming in the basement. And Jack's right hand, which is raised before me now, should be the only thing keeping that scream at bay.

“Did you do something to her?” I ask.

“I did not.”

“Then -”

“It was a few minutes ago,” he continues, his voice filled with a hint of wonder. “I realized she was no longer twitching in the same manner, and it occurred to me that perhaps this meant she was calmer. The heart had some moments earlier stopped beating in the other girl's chest. The tubes had fallen from your wife, Sir, spilling the dead girl's blood on the floor, and... I cannot describe it fully, but I could tell that your wife had in some way reacted to this development. Finally I removed my hand very carefully and very slowly, lest it might be needed again, but her scream has indeed ended.”

“And has she spoken?” I ask, feeling a shudder pass through my chest.

“She has not, Sir.”

“She is just sitting there?”

“No, Sir. She...”

I wait for him to continue. After a moment I turn and look back at the deranged bed, at the spot where I thought Catherine was sitting just a few minutes ago, but I honestly cannot make sense of this situation. When I turn back to Jack, indeed, I am none the wiser.

“What, man?” I ask finally. “Speak up! What is she doing?”

Again I wait, but he still seems too shocked to speak.

“I must go to her,” I continue, slipping past him and hurrying to the stairs. I make my way down quickly, determined to find Catherine and check her condition, yet when I reach the hallway I stop again. My knees feel so weak, I am not certain that they can even hold me.

The door to the basement is open ahead, and I can hear a sound coming from down there.

A slow, intermittent shuffling sound.

Moments later I hear footsteps over my shoulder, and I realize that Jack is coming down after me. I do not turn to him, however. Instead, I continue to stare at the open doorway that leads down into the poorly-lit basement. I do not know why I have not already rushed through, why I have not gone to my darling Catherine, but some sense seems to be holding me back. A feeling of dread, perhaps, in the very deepest pit of my stomach.

And still the shuffling sound continues.

“What is that?” I whisper, feeling a cold shudder pass through my chest.

I wait for an answer, still keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the open doorway.

“Tell me, man!” I continue. “What is causing that noise?”

“She has begun to move about, Sir,” he says cautiously.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Very slowly,” he continues, “but I did not try to stop her. I mean, I told her that perhaps she should rest, but she ignored me. I spent several minutes attempting to get through to her, all in vain. In truth, it was almost as if I was not in the room at all. When I say that she is moving about, perhaps I should be clearer. She certainly tried to walk, but her legs seemed unable to support her and she quickly dropped to her knees and then... I am sorry, Sir, but she ended up crawling.”

“And you did not help her up?”

“I tried speaking to her, but -”

“She is a lady!” I snap. “Did you not try to help her up?”

“I did not, Sir.”

“What is wrong with you?” I ask, before finally heading to the doorway. Evidently Jack does not understand the role of the gentleman in such a situation, yet when I get to the top of the steps I hesitate again.

The sense of dread in my stomach, which already seemed as bad as it could possibly get, is now easily doubled.

I can still hear the shuffling sound coming from down in the basement, but now there is another sound as well. If I did not know better, I would say that I am hearing the guttural growl of some foul wild animal drifting up from the darkness below.

“This is not right, Sir,” Jack says after a moment.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the dark, empty space at the foot of the steps, waiting for Catherine to come into view.

“She is once again without a heart,” he continues. “I might not be an educated man such as yourself, Doctor Grazier, but a body cannot function without a heart. That much I am sure of. Yet I have seen with my own two eyes, and you shall see soon too, that she is mobile. And she has no breath, Sir. When I had my hand over her mouth, I could tell that she is not breathing. I believe that when she was screaming, she was expelling air that was in some manner entering her empty chest.” He pauses for a moment. “This is not right. I am not a superstitious man, not by habit, but I cannot ignore the evidence I have seen with my own two eyes. This is beyond all understanding.”

“There is an explanation,” I tell him. “I do not know what it is, not yet, but I shall uncover it before this day is through. The answer is in my books, I'm sure of it.”

“I would greatly appreciate that,” Jack replies. “I fear that if your explanation does not come soon, I might start believing in...”

His voice trails off, yet still I do not turn to look at him. I can well imagine the fear in his eyes.

“I might start believing in things that I have hitherto dismissed,” he adds cautiously. “I might not be able to help myself. I did not meet your wife while she was alive, Doctor Grazier, but I cannot believe that she was in any manner similar to the... thing that is down there now in the basement.”

“She is a lady of the highest repute,” I whisper, as I once again feel tears in my eyes. “She is known throughout London for her elegance and grace. Why, even though she has not been out in such a long time, people still talk about her many wonderful qualities.”

“Then with a heavy heart,” Jack continues, “I must beg you to listen to me, Doctor Grazier. I know this might be difficult for you to hear, but I am sure of it now. That thing in the basement, that thing that you brought back from beyond the brink of death, that even now is crawling this way... is most assuredly not your wife.”

“What are you talking about, man?” I reply. “Of course she -”

“IT IS NOT HER!” he shouts, stepping in front of me and grabbing me by the shoulders, and shaking me in a most ungentlemanly manner. “Do you not see that?”

I open my mouth to tell him that he is speaking nonsense, but I cannot force the words from my dry throat. At the same time, I remember the words I heard come from Catherine's own lips just now in the bedroom.

“You must see, Sir,” Jack continues, almost pleading with me now. “Tell me you see. 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.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Maddie

Today

“There you go,” I say with a smile as I scoop the last of the cat food out of the can, onto a plate I've set out at the top of the house's main staircase. “Smells pretty good, huh?”

I look at each of the open doors in turn, half expecting to hear the sound of a cat slinking this way. All I see is the darkness of one room, then the darkness of the next, and finally the darkness of the third. There's no sign of a cat so far, but I guess the little guy must simply be more shy than I'd realized. Then again, I don't need to see him eat. I just want to know that he's really here, so I guess I can leave the plate out and come back later.

I wait a little longer, but all I hear is the silence of the house.

“Enjoy,” I mutter, getting to my feet and once again looking at the doors. “Maybe we can be friends, huh? Enjoy your dinner, and I'll give you some more in the morning.”

I wait a few more seconds, just in case the cat finally decides to show himself, but finally I realize that I just need to give him some space. Getting to my feet, I start making my way downstairs.

***

“Okay, smile,” I mutter, holding up the digital camera that Jerry gave me and pressing the button on the top.

A moment later, the camera's flash goes off, briefly illuminating the basement.

I don't quite know why Jerry asked me to take these photos. When he said there was something he wanted from the house, I assumed at first that he meant some kind of object, but then he grabbed a digital camera and told me that he was after detailed pictures of the whole place, especially the basement. He asked me what it was like down here, and I told him what I remembered, and he became very insistent that I should capture everything that's here.

Frankly, I expected him to insist that I stay out of the house, but he actually seemed kind of cool with the idea of me being here. Deep down, I think maybe he sees me as some kind of canary in a coal mine, and he fully expects me to eventually come running out with a bunch of ghost stories. At least he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'll double-cross me and go to the police.

I guess he's just a slightly lonely, slightly eccentric old guy who has too much time on his hands. In which case, I'll try to help him while I wait for Alex to show up. It's not as if I've got anything better to be doing, and it feels good to talk to someone now and again. I didn't realize how much I'd missed that.

After making my way around the side of the slab in the middle of the room, I stop and look through the camera's viewfinder again. I can't see anything, of course, until I briefly shine my flashlight ahead. Sure enough, I'm aiming at the far wall, so I lower the flashlight and then I hit the button on the camera, taking another photo. I alter my aim a few times, taking different shots so that I can be sure I've got enough coverage. I keep checking the shots after I've taken them, to make sure that they're good enough. Just as I'm about to turn and head over to another part of the basement, however, I spot something unusual on the last photo.

I switch to the viewing mode and bring the photo up, and then I zoom in on one particular section of the wall.

To my surprise, I see that there are various shapes carved into the stone. In fact, as I look at the shapes, I realize that they seem to be exactly the same as the shapes I found on the bottom step of the stairs. It's pretty clear that they were carved by the same person, and my memory's not great but I think they're even carved in the same order. I guess that's something I can check later, but for now I lower the camera and raise my flashlight as I make my way across the pitch-black basement.

Stopping at the wall, I look up and see that – sure enough – there are shapes carved in a long row that eventually starts edging down toward the floor. I reach out and run a fingertip against the carvings, and I find that they're pretty shallow, almost like scratches instead of proper carved symbols. I can't help thinking that whoever made these shapes, they must have been in a real hurry, hence the fact that they're only very loosely scratched into the stone. The whole thing is pretty weird, though, and finally I step back and shine the flashlight around a little more, and I see that there are carved symbols running along all four edges of the wall.

I didn't really look around properly the other day, but I guess the carvings must have been there then.

Maybe this is what Jerry was expecting me to find down here.

For the next few minutes, I take detailed photos of the symbols. They don't seem to mean anything, but I suppose they'll give Jerry something to obsess over for a while. And obsession does seem to be the name of his game, since his house was absolutely filled with books from floor to ceiling, some of them on the verge of toppling over. At the very least, he'll have loads more material for his folders. So as I take more and more photos of the symbols, I tell myself that I'm giving him exactly what he wants, and I keep going until suddenly there's a beep from the camera and I find that all this use of the flash has drained the battery dry. Left completely in the dark, I slip the camera into my pocket and fumble for my flashlight, switching it on and then turning to head back across the basement.

And then the flashlight flickers briefly before dying, and I'm left in absolute, pitch-black darkness.

“Great,” I mutter with a sigh. “I hope that's just batteries too.”

Fortunately I'm pretty sure that I know the way back to the door, so I fumble my way across the large, open space. I make sure to not go too fast, since there's the slab in the middle of the room, but after a couple of minutes I still haven't hit anything. I guess maybe I veered off course a little, so I keep going and -

“Damn it!” I hiss, suddenly bumping hard against the slab's edge, catching the exact spot where I have stitches in my waist.

I brace myself for the inevitable pain, but instead there's nothing.

Reaching down, I feel the wound and find that every last hint of the swelling is now gone. There should be some pain, but somehow the entire injury seems to be healing. That seems a little quick, but I guess I shouldn't complain.

Reaching down, I run my hands over the grooves in the slab's surface, and then I carefully make my way around. The slab feels very cold, almost damp, but right now in the dark it's my only reference point so I keep hold and continue to work around it until -

Suddenly my left hand brushes against something that seems to be on the slab.

My heart immediately starts racing as I realize that I can feel what seems to be a bare shoulder. I tell myself it's not that, of course, but it still takes a moment before I dare move my hand across the object. With a growing sense of fear, I realize I can feel the side of a neck now, but I still know that's impossible. I have to be imagining this whole thing, so I move my hand onto the side of the face, and finally my fingertips fumble against some kind of wire that seems to be criss-crossing the mouth.

It's not a face.

It can't be a face.

Taking a deep breath, I try to force myself to calm down and stop being so stupid.

Slowly, my fingertips brush against the wire, and I can just about feel a pair of lips underneath. Except I know that I must be wrong, that -

Suddenly the lips open, tearing free of the wire, and I hear a pained, gurgling gasp. I instinctively pull away and step back, only to trip and fall, landing hard on the stone floor. Then I stay completely still, listening to the silence that now fills the darkness, waiting for any hint of a presence.

There's nothing there.

There can't be.

Still, I wait a couple of minutes before realizing that I have to check again. The body on the slab was just another hallucination, I'm sure of that, but I'll always have a hint of doubt unless I actually check for myself.

I sit up, and then I slowly reach toward the slab again. In the dark, it takes me a moment to find the edge, but finally I move my hand across the surface and realize with a flash of relief that there's nothing. No body, no face, no nothing. Just an empty slab, which is what it always was, right from the beginning. I just let Jerry's crazy stories get into my head.

Getting to my feet, I start shuffling toward the spot in the darkness where I think I'll find the door. Finally I reach the far wall, although when I feel around a little I realize that there's no sign of the door at all.

I keep going, convinced that the door has to be just a few meters to the left or right, but after a few more minutes all I've managed to find is more and more of the basement's wall. I pause for a moment, trying to think back to anything distinctive that might help me find my way, but as far as I remember the wall was just a regular old wall with hundreds of bricks. I know I'm not trapped down here, and that I'll find my way out eventually, but I still start to feel just a tad claustrophobic as I make my way along a seemingly never-ending wall.

Suddenly I hear a scratching sound over my shoulder.

I turn and look back, but of course all I see is darkness.

“Don't do this,” I whisper, hoping to make my over-active imagination die down a little. “It's all just in your head. It's like the other things you hallucinated.”

Still, the scratching sound continues – furious and persistent, almost frantic – until suddenly it stops as abruptly as it began.

Rats.

That's what it must have been.

It was rats, digging against the stone or something. In fact, rats would make sense. Rats probably drew the cat inside, so everything kind of links together.

Still, I can't deny that my heart is beating at double-speed right now, and it takes a moment before I feel completely calm again.

Turning, I resume my search for the door, and finally after several more minutes my fingers brush against the stone archway. I know it's crazy, but I honestly don't think I've ever felt so relieved about anything in my life, and I can't deny that I'm on the verge of panic as I make my way carefully up the stairs. After what feels like an eternity I stumble out into the house's dark hallway, where the only light comes from a bluish tint that's coming through the broken window.

Everything's okay.

I just need to keep out of spooky basements until my head's sorted.

I try my flashlight a couple more times, just in case there's been a miracle, and then I set it aside before heading over to the window and starting to climb up. The last thing I want is to head out again, but I made a promise to Jerry and I figure it'd be a good idea to keep him on my side. So I clamber up and drop down into the garden, and then I make my way through the overgrown grass and bushes.

A moment later I realize that I forgot to bring him the notebooks. When I got back to the house earlier, I remembered the notebooks and realized he'd probably like to see them, and I was going to bring them now. Still, I guess I can give them to him tomorrow.

The street is so cold and dark and empty, almost as if the isolation of number nine is reaching out to quieten all the other houses.

When I get to his front door, he answers before I've even finished knocking, almost as if he was waiting anxiously. To be honest, it's a relief when the door swings open and I'm bathed in the warm glow of light from his hallway. I'm getting pretty sick of darkness.

“Sorry,” I explain, handing the camera to him. “The battery went out. If you want to charge it tonight, I can take some more pictures tomorrow.”

“What did you get?” he asks, turning the camera over in his hands and trying to see the pictures, even though I just told him the battery's drained. He taps the button several times, as if he doesn't quite understand.

“I got pictures of the hallway,” I reply, “and the rooms on the ground floor. And the basement.”

“The basement. That's good.”

He seems preoccupied, muttering something under his breath.

“I'll let you know if I need more,” he says finally, taking a step back and starting to shut the door.

“What time is it?” I ask, surprising myself.

He stops and looks at me. “Huh?”

“What time is it?”

As I say those words for a second time, I realize that I don't really need to know the time. I just panicked when he started to shut the door.

“It's almost midnight,” he says. “Ten or five to.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Stay safe in there,” he adds. “I'll charge the battery tomorrow.”

With that, he swings the door shut.

“Oh,” I say suddenly, “I also -”

But he's gone, and the door slams in its frame, and I realize that Jerry seems utterly focused on the photos. I guess I can tell him about the notebooks tomorrow. A moment later the light in his hallway switches off, and I'm left in darkness on his doorstep.

I briefly consider knocking again and asking if he has a spare flashlight, but then I remind myself that it doesn't matter. I'll be asleep for the rest of the night anyway, and there'll be light in the morning. And then hopefully Alex will show up, and she'll probably have some amazing plan all worked out, and we'll be out of here. One day soon, the house on Cathmore Road will be nothing more than a weird story I tell to people when they ask what it was like being homeless.

Turning, I walk away from Jerry's front door. I make my way to the pavement, and then I head to the narrow walkway that runs down to the back garden, but then I stop as I spot the railings at the front of the house. It's dark out here, almost too dark to see anything, and when I look up at the sky I realize that it's a moonless night.

I look at the railings again, and I hear Jerry's words echoing in my thoughts.

“When I was a boy,” he told me earlier, “there was an old story... that when there was no moon, if you dared go all the way up to the railings, you'd see the ghost of Doctor Charles Grazier hanging there on the threads of his torn skin, with his guts spilled out all over the pavement.”

The story sounds like some kind of schlock from a bad horror movie, but at the same time I can't help staring at the railings now. I've already had a few scares tonight, but I've always been a big believe in confronting your fears head-on, rather than hiding from them and letting them grow. Finally, even though I know I should get inside as quickly as possible, I start making my way along to the front of the house until I'm outside the window to the left of the front door, which Jerry said was the one that Doctor Grazier jumped from. I hesitate for a moment, staring at the railings, which I can just about make out in the darkness.

I know this is a load of nonsense, but I can't deny that there's a faint tightening sensation of fear in my chest.

Finally I force myself to step forward, edging closer to the railings until I'm pretty sure I'd be able to see any ghost that might be hanging here. In my mind's eye, I imagine a horrific, split-open figure suddenly leaning toward me from the darkness and screaming, but I wait a good couple of minutes and nothing appears.

Of course nothing appears. Everyone knows that ghosts aren't real.

I reach out and touch the railings, feeling the cold, rusting metal for a moment, and then I turn and head back around to the rear of the house. As I walk, I feel a little silly for letting Jerry's stories get to me, but I guess that's only human. And to be fair, given the crazy hallucinations of the past few days, I think I'm actually making some pretty good progress.

Once I'm back inside, I fumble through the darkness and make my way up the main staircase. I can't see anything, not until I reach the landing, by which point my eyes have adjusted just enough for me to be able to see the plate of cat food that I left out earlier. I was hoping to come back and find that the cat had ventured out in my absence. Even if I didn't see the cat tonight, I'd have liked to have seen evidence that it had been here, but the plate is undisturbed and nothing has touched the food.

I look at the open doors that lead off the landing, and I try to imagine the cat lurking in there somewhere, watching me.

“Eat up,” I say out loud, my voice sounding so small and cold in the darkness. “It's good food. Eat some during the night, yeah?”

I hesitate for a moment.

“Please? For me?”

I wait a few seconds longer, hoping for a meow, before looking at the plate of food again. And then, figuring that the cat won't come out while I'm here, I turn and head back downstairs, down to the hallway. I figure I'll sleep in one of the ground floor rooms, and I'll get up early and then Alex will probably show up tomorrow.

And the cat will eat during the night, I'm sure. Assuming he's not full from the rats in the basement. That plate'll be empty in the morning.

Coming Soon

A BEAST WELL TAMED

(THE HOUSE OF JACK THE RIPPER BOOK 5)

Maddie starts to notice more strange things in the house on Cathmore Road, but then she's startled by a new arrival. Meanwhile, back in the late nineteenth century, Doctor Charles Grazier tries to understand exactly what he has created, while Jack faces a crisis that leads him to make a terrible mistake.

Also by Amy Cross

THE ASH HOUSE

Why would anyone ever return to a haunted house?

For Diane Mercer the answer is simple. She's dying of cancer, and she wants to know once and for all whether ghosts are real.

Heading home with her young son, Diane is determined to find out whether the stories are real. After all, everyone else claimed to see and hear strange things in the house over the years. Everyone except Diane had some kind of experience in the house, or in the little ash house in the yard.

As Diane explores the house where she grew up, however, her son is exploring the yard and the forest. And while his mother might be struggling to come to terms with her own impending death, Daniel Mercer is puzzled by fleeting appearances of a strange little girl who seems drawn to the ash house, and by strange, rasping coughs that he keeps hearing at night.

The Ash House is a horror novel about a woman who desperately wants to know what will happen to her when she dies, and about a boy who uncovers the shocking truth about a young girl's murder.

Also by Amy Cross

HAUNTED

Twenty years ago, the ghost of a dead little girl drove Sheriff Michael Blaine to his death.

Now, that same ghost is coming for his daughter.

Returning to the small town where she grew up, Alex Roberts is determined to live a normal, quiet life. For the residents of Railham, however, she's an unwelcome reminder of the town's darkest hour.

Twenty years ago, nine-year-old Mo Garvey was found brutally murdered in a nearby forest. Everyone thinks that Alex's father was responsible, but if the killer was brought to justice, why is the ghost of Mo Garvey still after revenge?

And how far will the real killer go to protect his secret, when Alex starts getting closer to the truth?

Haunted is a horror novel about a woman who has to face her past, about a town that would rather forget, and about a little girl who refuses to let death stand in her way.

Also by Amy Cross

THE BRIDE OF ASHBYRN HOUSE

“I have waited so long for your return.”

In the English countryside, miles from the nearest town, there stands an old stone house. Nobody has set foot in the house for years. Nobody has dared. For it is said that even though the lady of the house is long dead, a face can sometimes be seen at one of the windows. A pale, dead face that waits patiently behind a silk wedding veil.

Seeking an escape from his life in London, Owen Stone purchases Ashbyrn House without waiting to find out about its history. As far as Owen is concerned, ghosts aren't real and his only company in the house will be the thin-legged spiders that lurk on the walls. Even after he moves in, and after he starts hearing strange noises in the night, Owen insists that Ashbyrn House can't possibly be haunted.

But Owen knows nothing about the ghostly figure that is said to haunt the house. Or about the mysterious church bells that ring out across the lawn at night. Or about the terrible fate that befell the house's previous inhabitants when they dared defy the bride. Even as Owen starts to understand the horrific truth about Ashbyrn House's past, he might be too late to escape the clutches of the presence that watches his every move.

The Bride of Ashbyrn House is a ghost story about a man who believes the past can't hurt him, and about a woman whose search for a husband has survived even her own tragic death.

Also by Amy Cross

THE BODY AT AUERCLIFF

“We'll bury her so deep, even her ghost will have a mouth full of dirt!”

When Rebecca Wallace arrives at Auercliff to check on her aged aunt, she's in for a shock. Her aunt's mind is crumbling, and the old woman refuses to let Rebecca stay overnight. And just as she thinks she's starting to understand the truth, Rebecca makes a horrifying discovery in one of the house's many spare rooms.

A dead body. A woman. Old and rotten. And her aunt insists she has no idea where it came from.

The truth lies buried in the past. For generations, the occupants of Auercliff have been tormented by the repercussions of a horrific secret. And somehow everything seems to be centered upon the mausoleum in the house's ground, where every member of the family is entombed once they die.

Whose body was left to rot in one of the house's rooms? Why have successive generations of the family been plagued by a persistent scratching sound? And what really happened to Rebecca many years ago, when she found herself locked inside the Auercliff mausoleum?

The Body at Auercliff is a horror story about a family and a house, and about the refusal of the past to stay buried.

OTHER BOOKS

BY AMY CROSS INCLUDE

Horror

The Soul Auction

The Ash House

The Camera Man

The Bride of Ashbyrn House

The Body at Auercliff

Haunted

B&B

Laura

Asylum

Meds (Asylum 2)

Annie's Room

The Farm

The Ghost of Molly Holt

The Curse of Wetherley House

The Ghosts of Lakeforth Hotel

The Haunting of Blackwych Grange

The Ghosts of Hexley Airport

The Devil, the Witch and the Whore (The Deal book 1)

Darper Danver: The Complete First Series

The Disappearance of Katie Wren

The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

The Printer From Hell

The Nurse

American Coven

Eli's Town

The Night Girl

Devil's Briar

The Cabin

After the Cabin

Last Wrong Turn

The Ghost of Shapley Hall

A House in London

The Blood House

The Priest Hole (Nykolas Freeman book 1)

Battlefield (Nykolas Freeman book 2)

The Border

Short Story Collections

Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories

Twisted Little Things and Other Stories

The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories

Thrillers

The Murder at Skellin Cottage (Jo Mason book 1)

The Return of Rachel Stone (Jo Mason book 2)

The Girl Who Never Came Back

Other People's Bodies

Dystopian / Science Fiction

The Dog

The Island (The Island book 1)
Persona (The Island book 2)

The Abyss (The Island book 3)