Cradle to Grave Read online

  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

  “We still don't know who he is. Sometimes he seems to be a madman, other times he seems calm and clinical. It's almost as if he's two different men at once.”

  Desperately in need of help, Maddie travels to Stratford so she can start hunting for her only friend. When she arrives, however, she discovers that the city's obsession with Jack the Ripper is getting worse. Soon marauding gangs are roaming the streets, and Maddie finds that her infected wound is causing a series of startling hallucinations. Finally she realizes that there's only one place where she can be safe.

  Meanwhile, in 1888 Doctor Charles Grazier struggles to revive his dead wife. As he takes more and more body parts from women and transplants them into Catherine, he realizes that he's in a race against time.

  Cradle to Grave is the third book in a new 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

  Cradle to Grave

  (The House of Jack the Ripper book 3)

  Prologue

  What's he waiting for?

  Why doesn't he come over here and end it right now?

  I don't know how long it's been since he reached the bottom of the stairs. My eyes keep slipping shut and my thoughts feel heavier and heavier, weighing down into my chest. I think maybe I've even lost consciousness a few times, slipping briefly but deeper each time into a kind of heavy emptiness. I keep suddenly jerking back from the edge of sleep, and every time I open my eyes I see that he's still over there in the doorway.

  Still watching me.

  Still waiting for...

  For what?

  He could take me easily right now.

  Sure, I'm still holding a knife in my right hand, and I'm ready to fight back. But he's taller than me and bigger than me and he hasn't been all cut up, so it wouldn't even be a fair contest. Why's he waiting, then? What's he got to lose by just coming over and finishing me off right now?

  “Do it,” I whisper, but my lips barely move.

  The truth is, I know that there's nobody around who can come to help me now. Alex is dead on the floor, on the other side of the basement, and Matt...

  “Maddie, run!” he screamed at me earlier, the last time I saw him. “Maddie, get out of here!”

  Then the door shut between us, and his voice was cut off just as he tried again to tell me to run. I remember the brief gurgle that I heart a moment later. I want so much to believe that he's still alive, but I can't fool myself any longer. He tried to save me and he ended up alone in the room with this monster, and that can only mean one thing.

  “You killed him,” I whisper, staring at the silhouetted figure as my eyes start to slip shut again. “Why did you have to do that? He never did anything to you.”

  My head dips and my eyes close all the way, and for a moment my thoughts roll to a stop. It's as if I'm tipping forward, about to fall head-first into a vast, endless void of nothingness. Then I remember where I am, and that I have to fight, so I open my eyes and lift my head until I can see the figure again. He hasn't moved, and now I think I know why. I've lost so much blood, and I'm losing more and more all the time, so he doesn't have to come over and deal with me while I can still fight. He just has to wait.

  “Do it!” I gasp, squeezing the handle of the knife even harder.

  I might only get one shot at this, so – when he comes – I have to make it count.

  “Come on!” I yell, somehow summoning the strength from somewhere. “At least try! At least -”

  Suddenly I start coughing, bringing up blood from the back of my throat. For a moment there's so much blood, I can't even breathe properly, but I manage to spit some of it out and swallow the rest back down.

  And still he stands there.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Okay, then.

  I won't let him have it that easy.

  If he won't come to me, then I guess I've only got one option.

  “Screw you,” I whisper, clenching the fist of my left hand and using it to try supporting myself.

  I place my right hand, still clutching the knife, across my belly in an attempt to keep my guts from falling out. That's the best I can do right now, even if some sections of my intestines are already looping from the wound. I tried to stuff them back in, but the pain almost caused me to black out, so right now I just have to focus on keeping the rest inside.

  I start getting up from the concrete floor, hauling myself from the puddle of blood. My legs slip almost immediately, forcing me back down onto my side with a bruising thud, but I won't give up. Even though my knees are weak and my whole body is trembling, I somehow manage to maneuver myself around and then I try again to stand.

  Still holding the knife, I actually manage to get halfway up, but then my knees buckle and I drop back down. This time, the knife's blade scrapes against the concrete, and I almost land on the damn thing.

  Okay, maybe I don't need to stand.

  Maybe I can crawl, and then I'll figure something out when I get to him.

  Leaning on my left hand while still pressing my other hand against my belly, I start making my way across the basement. My vision is starting to become blurred, and when I look down I can just about see that my hand is caked in my own blood. I can feel my guts pressing against the cut in my belly, trying to get out, and I'm sure that – if I moved my arm away – the lot would come splashing down onto the floor. After a moment I realize that I'm letting out a constant, unintentional whimpering sound as I try to ignore the pain. I somehow manage to crawl a little way forward, but then a wave of weakness hits me and I slump down, rolling onto my back as the pain in my gut starts searing worse than ever.

  Nearby, something metal hits the floor.

  I take a deep breath, despite the pain.

  I have to get up.

  “You won't get me,” I whisper, staring up at the basement's ceiling as I wait to summon a little more strength. “I'll fight you, I'll...”

  My voice trails off as I continue to stare at the ceiling, and finally my eyes start to close again. Just for a fraction of a second, just until I remember that I have to stay awake. Still, even that thought isn't enough to stir me, and for a moment I feel as if I'm finally going to sink away. It's almost as if my body is giving up.

  And then I hear the footsteps.

  Slow, steady, and coming this way.

  I force my eyes open again and look up, just in time to see the silhouetted figure stopping next to me.

  He finally came over from the doorway.

  He must think I'm weak enough now.

  “Die!” I gasp, reaching up to stab his leg with the knife, only to find that my right hand is empty. I t
urn and look around, and I quickly spot the knife on the floor. I must have dropped it, that must have been the metal clanking sound I heard, so I reach over.

  The figure nudges the knife with his foot, just enough to push it out of my reach.

  I try and I try, but my bloodied fingers aren't long enough.

  “Please,” I whisper, trying to roll onto my side so that I can reach a little further, “just -”

  Suddenly I scream as I feel my guts shifting, and as something wet and heavy comes slopping out through the slit in my belly. I reach down to push it back in, but my hands are trembling and all I can do is clutch hopelessly at the thick, coiling mess that's now hanging down against the dirty concrete floor. The pain is intense, and finally all I can manage is to roll onto my back, hoping that this larger section of my intestine will slip back inside.

  It doesn't.

  It's still poking out through the slit, and the pain is so intense I can barely even think.

  And then I feel hands taking hold of my ankles.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper, trying to look up at him but finding that everything is blurred. Anyway, my eyes are more closed than open now, and I can feel myself slipping deeper and deeper into the darkness where no thoughts are possible at all. Even now, each moment of consciousness seems to be followed by a vast, looming nothingness.

  I could give up now.

  I could slip away, but I refuse.

  I'm not ready to die.

  Suddenly the hands grip my ankles tightly, and then they start to pull.

  I let out a faint murmur as I'm dragged around the stone table and across the basement. I can't fight back, I can't even scream now. All I can do is try to stay awake as the back of my head bumps against the ridges in the concrete. My hands are outstretched, but a moment later they're forced back as I'm pulled through the narrow doorway. I try in vain to grab onto something that might keep me down here, but I can't even feel my hands anymore. No wait, that's not quite true. I can feel sticky blood drying between my fingers, but that's all.

  As soon as he starts dragging me up the stairs, the back of my head bangs hard against each step. The first couple of times, a sharp pain flashes through my thoughts and I let out a faint murmur, but finally the pain starts to fade and all I'm aware of is the sound of each heavy bump. I can't see, but I can feel the steady impacts and I can just about hear myself uttering an “Uh” sound with each one.

  And then even the sound fades, as if it's getting further and further away.

  Finally, the very last thing I feel – before I slip into unconsciousness – is the hands gripping my ankles tighter as I'm maneuvered through the doorway at the top of the stairs.

  Then there's nothing.

  Sheer, empty nothing. I guess I'm being dragged across the floor, but I don't feel any of it.

  Chapter One

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Monday October 1st, 1888

  Hot blood sprays against my hands, almost hitting my face, as I twist the handful of meat and squeeze tight. When the tendons refuse to come loose, I twist them several more times, pulling against the bone as more and more blood arcs out of the whore's chest cavity and splatters against the wall next to me. Everything is bathed blue in the moonlight, but I can see well enough to complete my work.

  I just wish she'd stop whimpering.

  In the distance, a bell rings out through the night air. The sound seems to stir some extra strength in the whore, and her struggles increase slightly, as do her muffled cries.

  “Can't you shut this infernal woman up?” I hiss, peering closer at the meat around the kidneys. I dig deeper with my fingers, rooting through the blood and – in the process – causing a loud squelching sound. “She's distracting me!”

  When Jack doesn't answer, I turn and see that although he's still holding the girl tight, and although his hand is still clamped across her mouth, he seems almost hypnotized by the sight of my work. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is hanging slightly open in the manner of an uneducated fool.

  The girl, meanwhile, is struggling and trying to cry out, even as her eyes begin to roll back into their sockets.

  “Pay attention, man!” I snap.

  Jack blinks and looks at me, as if he has only now remembered where he is and what we are doing.

  “Her cries are a distraction,” I tell him, “and I could get this done a lot faster if you were able to shut her up.”

  “There's no more shutting her up,” he replies, “unless you want her dead.”

  “She can die soon enough,” I mutter, looking back down into the wide-open chest cavity. I pull again on the twisted section of meat that refuses to come loose, and this time one of her ribs snaps. This, of course, causes her to sob even more wildly as Jack keeps her mouth covered. “I want her alive until the last possible moment.”

  “But -”

  “It's a theory I have,” I continue, exasperated by his constant barrage of questions. “I believe that at the moment of death, the organs begin to shut down. Perhaps there is even a secretion of some kind that immediately floods the body and causes irreparable harm. If I remove the organs while the subject's heart is still beating, this process might be considerably delayed.”

  “That doesn't sound very -”

  “And if I can just get on with my work,” I say firmly, “I shall be able to prove or disprove that theory before the night is through! Now please, you told me you would assist me, so assist me now by shutting her up!”

  Looking at the whore's face, I see only the whites of her eyes as her head tilts back. She's mumbling wildly, but Jack's filth-encrusted hand remains firmly planted across her mouth. I had hoped that she would be quickly rendered incapable of whining, yet somehow – even in her death throes – she is managing to make quite a racket. I suppose the human animal is always liable to resist its end, no matter how hopeless the situation.

  Supposing that I must simply try to work in these circumstances, I reach back down into her chest and take hold of her left kidney, preparing to -

  “Wait!” Jack whispers suddenly.

  “I hardly -”

  “Someone's coming!”

  “What?”

  I look at him and see at once that he is staring at something behind me. Turning, I squint as I peer across the moonlit yard, and then to my horror I realize that I can see a shadow coming this way along the farthest wall. A moment later I hear a whistling sound, and this is enough for me to understand that another of those cursed night-watch police officers is passing this way on his rounds.

  “I thought you said he wouldn't be back yet!” I whisper, turning to Jack.

  “I thought he wouldn't,” he replies, “but sometimes...”

  His voice trails off for a moment, and his eyes widen a little as if he is becoming fearful. Looking over my shoulder again, I watch as the shadow moves all the way to the end of the wall, and then finally the police officer comes into view. He is getting closer and closer with each step, and he must surely spy us soon.

  “He won't see us,” Jack whispers, keeping his voice low. “Don't panic.”

  “Of course he'll see us!” I hiss.

  “No, not in these shadows. There's more moonlight on the wall over there. That'll make this area appear darker. Plus, the fence hides us decently enough. Trust me, I know these things.”

  At that moment, the whore lets out another pained murmur.

  “Quiet!” Jack hisses, pressing both his hands against her mouth now, stifling all but the absolute faintest of stirrings. Evidently he can make her quieter, when he so wishes.

  I watch the officer, hoping against all hope that he does not come any closer. We are mostly obscured by some old fencing – a precaution that I must concede did not occur to me until it was pointed out by Jack – but this refuge will last only so long as the officer does not come all the way across the yard. I'd wager that if he were to way another ten or twelve feet, he'd have a good chance of spotting what we're doing. If that
were to happen, I suppose Jack would step up and ensure our clean escape, yet I do not much fancy the idea of a police officer ending up dead tonight. It is one thing to kill whores. After all, nobody really cares about their wretched lives. A police officer, on the other hand, might cause a scandal.

  “Hey, you!” the officer shouts suddenly. “Over there! What are you doing?”

  My heart leaps in my chest, and I flinch as I pull back. The officer is already marching this way and we are surely undone.

  “Wait!” Jack whispers, grabbing my shoulder. “It's not as it appears.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that surely all hope is gone, but then I realize that the officer has stopped a few feet away from us and is – in fact – leaning down into a pile of rubbish that has been left against one of the walls. If he were to turn and look directly at this fence, he would surely realize that we are hidden behind its cracked wooden slates, but instead he leans down further into the rubbish, as if something there has caught his attention.

  “Sleeping it off, are you?” he says finally with a sigh. “Come on, you can do that in a cell down at the station!”

  A low, rumbling groan emerges from the rubbish.

  “I said, move it!” the officer continues.

  Reaching down, he starts pulling a heavy shape from the shadows, and to my shock I realize that he has found a half-naked man who must have been passed out in that corner of the yard all along. The man stumbles to his feet and sways wildly, with the officer having to support him, and a few garbled grumbles are enough to make if plainly evident that the man is far beyond his senses thanks to the intoxicating effect of alcohol. He must be another slovenly, aimless denizen of these miserable streets.

  “This way!” the officer says, starting to lead the drunk back across the yard, away from us. “You'll do well to wake up sober in the morning and explain yourself. Public drunkenness is no laughing matter, you know. Do you want to end up before a magistrate?”

  The man stumbles into the wall at the yard's far end, and the officer has to veritably manhandle him into the adjoining street. I watch in horror as their shadows move away along the wall, but finally they disappear from sight. My heart is racing at a speed that can be no good for any man, and I feel as if we have just come perilously close to discovery. There is a part of me, indeed, that cannot believe our good fortune, and that thinks the officer is sure to come storming back at any moment and discover us here.