then full-out running. He rounded the corner and saw several firefighters from the Metropolitan Fire Brigade running willy-nilly, some shouting orders, others simply doing the best they could to fight the raging flames.
Cecil stood staring at the disaster. Flames leapt high into the air and thick black smoke billowed from the windows of the brick flat as the inside was consumed. In spite of the best efforts of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade, they would not be able to extinguish the fire in time to spare poor Edward.
Cecil covered his face and pushed his way toward the burning flat. The heat was blistering and unbearable.
“Hey, you there . . . get back before you scorch yourself.”
Cecil ignored the warning and hurled the medical bag into the flames.
A firefighter grabbed hold of Cecil’s arm. “Step away from here,” he said.
Cecil jerked his arm away and rushed off, pausing at the corner long enough to look back at the fire one last time before disappearing into the London fog . . .
* * *
April 24 th , 1891
“ . . . right here on the East Side,” a stocky newspaper vendor called out around the fat cigar in his mouth.
A lanky man wearing black trousers, an overcoat, and a black hat rounded the corner and bumped into the vendor.
“Look where you’re goin,’ bub,” the vendor grumbled.
The lanky man halted, glanced at the newspapers in the vendor’s hand, and dug two cents from his pocket, which he handed the vendor in exchange for a copy of the New York Times.
CHOKED AND MUTILATED!
A MURDER LIKE ONE OF JACK THE RIPPER’S DEEDS.
WHITECHAPEL’S HORRORS REPEATED IN AN EAST SIDE LODGING HOUSE.
Cecil smiled at the headline. He tucked the paper under his arm and went on his way. He whistled happily and thought about Edward.
Too bad he wasn’t here to share the glory.
The Thing in the Attic
The story I will now tell may seem at times to be the ravings of a madman. Indeed, I may be such a creature. The events described here, however, are no less valid in light of my condition—a condition owed, no doubt, to the situation I now place before you.
That said, let me begin my tale.
It was cold that winter morning, black outside my window but for the flurry of snowflakes that gently made way to the ground. I was sitting in my small study. The room was lit by a single desk lamp—one that provided just enough light by which to work.
I am a writer by way of vocation, and as such, generally destitute. I spend many late nights with my fingers humming gracefully about the keys of the old, battered Remington I use to create my masterpieces.
The guest house I was renting at the time of this incident was set back quite some distance from the main house, giving the impression of isolation. I quite preferred it that way, though at times I felt a loneliness that burned at my very core.
I’ve always been an overzealous worker, content to shun the rest of the world in favor of my typewriter, and had it not been for the occasional generosity of my landlord, I dare say I might have been dead some time ago.
Enough chatter, though.
It was the third month of my stay in this guest house that a rather unusual situation began to make itself known. After having completed yet another twenty manuscript pages, I decided to treat myself to a good cigar. I augmented the smoke with a snifter of brandy, silently toasting the extent of my progress on the new book.
The sound was distant at first. It was a noise much like the scraping of a lonely tree branch upon the roof in the middle of the night, and indeed I would have taken it for such had not the sound been coming from behind the north wall of my study.
I was far from concerned at first, taking the sound to be a rodent of some sort, though, I might add, a beast of considerable magnitude. I returned at once to my work, blocking the sound from my mind. It was not an easy task, for the noise grew more insistent with each passing minute. I struggled to
Cecil stood staring at the disaster. Flames leapt high into the air and thick black smoke billowed from the windows of the brick flat as the inside was consumed. In spite of the best efforts of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade, they would not be able to extinguish the fire in time to spare poor Edward.
Cecil covered his face and pushed his way toward the burning flat. The heat was blistering and unbearable.
“Hey, you there . . . get back before you scorch yourself.”
Cecil ignored the warning and hurled the medical bag into the flames.
A firefighter grabbed hold of Cecil’s arm. “Step away from here,” he said.
Cecil jerked his arm away and rushed off, pausing at the corner long enough to look back at the fire one last time before disappearing into the London fog . . .
* * *
April 24 th , 1891
“ . . . right here on the East Side,” a stocky newspaper vendor called out around the fat cigar in his mouth.
A lanky man wearing black trousers, an overcoat, and a black hat rounded the corner and bumped into the vendor.
“Look where you’re goin,’ bub,” the vendor grumbled.
The lanky man halted, glanced at the newspapers in the vendor’s hand, and dug two cents from his pocket, which he handed the vendor in exchange for a copy of the New York Times.
CHOKED AND MUTILATED!
A MURDER LIKE ONE OF JACK THE RIPPER’S DEEDS.
WHITECHAPEL’S HORRORS REPEATED IN AN EAST SIDE LODGING HOUSE.
Cecil smiled at the headline. He tucked the paper under his arm and went on his way. He whistled happily and thought about Edward.
Too bad he wasn’t here to share the glory.
The Thing in the Attic
The story I will now tell may seem at times to be the ravings of a madman. Indeed, I may be such a creature. The events described here, however, are no less valid in light of my condition—a condition owed, no doubt, to the situation I now place before you.
That said, let me begin my tale.
It was cold that winter morning, black outside my window but for the flurry of snowflakes that gently made way to the ground. I was sitting in my small study. The room was lit by a single desk lamp—one that provided just enough light by which to work.
I am a writer by way of vocation, and as such, generally destitute. I spend many late nights with my fingers humming gracefully about the keys of the old, battered Remington I use to create my masterpieces.
The guest house I was renting at the time of this incident was set back quite some distance from the main house, giving the impression of isolation. I quite preferred it that way, though at times I felt a loneliness that burned at my very core.
I’ve always been an overzealous worker, content to shun the rest of the world in favor of my typewriter, and had it not been for the occasional generosity of my landlord, I dare say I might have been dead some time ago.
Enough chatter, though.
It was the third month of my stay in this guest house that a rather unusual situation began to make itself known. After having completed yet another twenty manuscript pages, I decided to treat myself to a good cigar. I augmented the smoke with a snifter of brandy, silently toasting the extent of my progress on the new book.
The sound was distant at first. It was a noise much like the scraping of a lonely tree branch upon the roof in the middle of the night, and indeed I would have taken it for such had not the sound been coming from behind the north wall of my study.
I was far from concerned at first, taking the sound to be a rodent of some sort, though, I might add, a beast of considerable magnitude. I returned at once to my work, blocking the sound from my mind. It was not an easy task, for the noise grew more insistent with each passing minute. I struggled to
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