In Darkness Dwell Page 2

  “Between us,” he says, with the still-dripping liver in his hands, “we can reshape this scared and cowed little city. You lack a sense of showmanship, Doctor Grazier, but that's alright. That's where I come in!”

  “You are a figment of my imagination!”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You are not real!”

  I continue to back away toward the steps, although this wretched nightmare is already coming after me.

  “Not real?” he says, grinning wildly. “Well, that's a first. I've been called a lot of things in my time, Doctor Grazier, but nobody has ever doubted that I'm real.” He drops the last of the liver into his mouth, and then – as he chews – he starts roughly touching his chest and shoulders. “I feel real!” he continues, spraying some of the fetid meat from his mouth. “I'm real as far as I can tell. Then again, how can any of us really be sure of such things? For all I know, I'm real and you're some kind of nightmare dreamed up in my mind.”

  “Nonsense!” I splutter.

  He pauses, looking me up and down for a few seconds.

  “Not much of a nightmare, though,” he adds. “You're such an elegant and refined gentleman, Doctor Grazier. I have simply come here tonight, or this morning as I suppose it must be by now, to humbly offer you my services.”

  And then he falls silent, as if he expects me to answer his ludicrous proposition.

  “Well?” he continues. “What do you say?”

  Turning, I hurry to the steps. My heart is pounding and I feel that I'm in the grip of some great discomfort, and all I can think is that I need to get back upstairs and seal this thing down here in the basement. He is clearly the manifestation of my guilt, and I have no time to let this wretched scenario play out. Catherine is waiting and I must go to her.

  “Where are you off to, Doctor Grazier?” he calls after me. “Don't you think we've got a lot to talk about? I hope I didn't startle you!”

  I run up the steps, taking them two at a time, before finally reaching the door at the top. When I turn and look back down, I spot the silhouette of this awful figure at the bottom, staring up at me. We briefly make eye contact, before I swing the door shut and slide the bolt across. There, now he is sealed in the basement, and hopefully that means he shall not bother me again. Taking a few steps back from the door, I try to regather my composure, and then I look over my shoulder and see the bowl on the table in the next room.

  Catherine is waiting for me. I must let nothing keep me from her.

  Chapter Two

  Maddie

  Today

  Where did everybody go?

  Adjusting my backpack, I step out from the shadows under the bridge. I was expecting to find the usual crowd down here at the edge of the river, gathered in the silty mud, but instead there's nobody at all. In all the time I've been living on the streets, this stretch of the riverbank has been a kind of unofficial gathering place. Alex told me several times that no matter what happened in the city, I'd always be able to find people here. She said that even the police have come to tolerate this ramshackle little community, and to accept that this is a place where homeless people are always going to congregate, but now...

  Now it's empty.

  I make my way across the mud until I reach the shore. There's garbage everywhere, and I stop for a moment to look over at the gleaming skyscrapers on the opposite side of the river. It's a dull day today, with a gray sky threatening rain at any moment, and I can hear sirens in the distance. Then again, I can always hear sirens. Somewhere in London, someone's always in trouble, but this time the sirens seem different. Maybe I'm imagining things, but the sirens sound a little louder and more urgent.

  Looking to the east, I see the Thames Barrier. It's open at the moment, and there are a few brave tourists huddled on the shore, taking photos. There'd usually be more tourists about, however, and I'm starting to get the feeling that something just isn't right in London today. That's a feeling that's been growing on me over the past few days, ever since I left that creepy house on Cathmore Road, but this is the first time that I've really had to face the truth. London seems... emptier, somehow. Like a city that's holding its breath.

  And somewhere above, hidden by the gray clouds, a helicopter is racing past. I watch the sky for a moment, before hearing the sound of a car door slamming shut nearby. Turning, I feel an immediate jolt of panic in my chest as I see a police car parked up on the road, with an officer already walking this way, silhouetted against the gray sky.

  “Hey!” he shouts, waving at me. “Over here!”

  I freeze for a moment, too scared to know what I should do, but then my survival instinct kicks in. As the officer calls out to me again, I turn and run along the shore, heading back toward the bridge. I'm not particularly fast as I race across the mud, but I know the police officer will be even slower, and I feel a rush of relief as I reach the bridge's shadow.

  He's still shouting at me, still trying to get me to talk to him, but his voice sounds further away now in the cold morning air.

  Slowing for a moment, I look over my shoulder and see that the officer is getting bogged down in the mud. I thought he'd stop at the edge of the pavement rather than trying to wade after me, but apparently he thought he could chase me across the boggy shore. Now he's more or less stuck, and he looks kind of comical as he tries to squelch his way toward me. I think I can even hear him muttering to himself. As I watch, he finally turns around and wades back to the pavement, with thick patches of mud covering his trousers to the knees.

  He bends down and takes a look at the mess, and then he turns to look for me again.

  I duck out of sight behind a pillar.

  He's persistent, I'll give him that.

  Hearing him call out for me again, I duck down and scurry through the shadows beneath the bridge. Struggling slightly on the shingle, I'm pretty sure that I know all the nooks and crannies around here. Reaching one of the exits, I get down onto my knees and peer out, and sure enough I spot the same police officer coming around to take another look for me. And then, to my surprise, I watch as he slips and falls flat on his bum in the mud, and I hear him let out a disgruntled groan as he starts getting to his feet. The poor guy is caked in mud now, all the way up to his waist, and I actually feel a little bad for him.

  And yet he still doesn't give up.

  As I remain hidden in the shadows, I watch him making his way back to the pavement. Even though he must be weighed down by cold, soaked trousers, he still keeps looking for me for several minutes, before finally turning and wandering out of view. I scurry back through to take a look out through the other section of the bridge's underside, and I see that the officer is now back at his car. I can't help smiling as I watch him taking off his trousers and putting them into a plastic bag, and then dropping them into the boot. Then he climbs back into the car and sits there for a few minutes before finally starting the engine and slowly driving away.

  Once I'm certain that he's gone, I clamber out from under the bridge and make my way up to the pavement. This part of town is well-known for being populated mainly by rough sleepers, so most people tend to steer clear. Today, however, even the rough sleepers are gone, so the whole area is completely empty. As I turn and look around, I don't see anybody else here, and that's not something I've ever experienced in London before. This is usually a city where you can't get away from other people, but as a cold breeze blows through and I tuck some strands of matted hair behind my ears, I can't help feeling a sense of worry in the pit of my belly.

  Something's wrong with this city. London doesn't feel like London right now.

  Chapter Three

  Doctor Charles Grazier

  Sunday September 30th, 1888

  Staring down at my hands, I look at the bloodied tear that runs along the length of one finger. I cut myself on the glass from the broken window, and there's a slight pain now. Still, such things do not matter, not in the long run. Sitting here now, preparing to go and join Catherine, I try to
remind myself that only one thing matters.

  I am to go and find my darling wife in the next life.

  Her dead body is on the bed upstairs, wrapped in silk, but it is just a body. And though I have always prided myself as a man of science, I cannot help but believe there is something beyond the veil of death. There has to be. The human body rots and decays, but the spirit must surely linger on. I have always hesitated to use the word soul before, but it is a word that Catherine began to mention more frequently in her final weeks. Perhaps she was beginning to understand something that I could not. Either way, I now believe that in some way I shall see her again. This wretched, brief life cannot be all that comes to us.

  Those of us who are great men, at least, must be rewarded after our deaths.

  I reach over and pick up the scalpel, but as I do so I hear a faint rattling sound nearby.

  Turning, I look out toward the hallway, and I see to my horror that the handle on the basement door is shaking slightly, as if somebody is trying to get through from the other side. I watch, convinced that this has to be merely part of my delusion, yet the handle continues to shake and I even start to hear a very slightly muttering sound. It is almost as if -

  Suddenly I flinch as somebody bangs hard on the door's other side.

  “This isn't exactly the warm welcome I was hoping for!” a harsh, guttural voice calls out, before banging again on the door. “You've locked me down here, Doctor Grazier! If I didn't know better, I'd be starting to think that you're not very pleased to see me!”

  I open my mouth to tell him to leave me alone, but at the last moment I realize that there is no sense in speaking to a figment of my imagination. Indeed, by doing so I might even strengthen this unpleasant horror, so instead I look back down at my right wrist and take a deep breath as I prepare to make the first cut. I must run the blade from the wrist toward the elbow, so as to ensure the fastest release of blood. Even though I am ready to start, I hesitate for a moment as I run through the anatomy of the human arm, trying to work out the exact spot for an optimum incision. I do not want a fuss, or an unnecessary mess. I want this to be clean and quick.

  “Grazier!” the phantom shouts. “What are you doing up there, man?”

  The door rattles again, more strongly than before.

  “Quiet, man,” I mutter under my breath, taking care to keep my voice low so that it cannot be heard by the ruffian. “This is the house of a gentleman.”

  “Grazier!”

  Again the door shakes in its frame, more angrily than ever. With such force, in fact, that I almost fear it might get broken away. Indeed, this calm and tranquil house has never before been troubled by such a vulgar sound. For a moment I worry, before remembering that the villain on the door's other side is no more than a figment of my imagination. I have read some of the pioneering work of the more modern German and Austrian doctors, and I do believe that the human mind is capable under duress of experiencing vivid hallucinations. And I cannot deny, as I sit at the table and prepare to die, that I am under duress at this moment.

  “You're acting like a fool, Grazier!” the voice continues. “That's something I never expected. I've watched you night after night, and I've never once thought you to be an idiot, but you're worrying me now. I came here tonight because I wanted offer you my services. It makes sense for us to speak to one another now and again. Please, I know I must have come across badly, and I should never have broken your window. I misjudged the situation, but can we not talk about all of this?”

  Taking a deep breath, I place the blade against my wrist, pressing the skin down but not yet breaking through. I press harder, waiting for the first bead of blood.

  “This is about your wife, is it not?” the voice asks suddenly.

  I freeze.

  Did he just...

  “I've overheard people talking,” he continues. “I know your wife has been sick, and I'm very sorry for that. The thing is, I put two and two together and I think I understand why you've been doing what you've been doing. You killed those other women so that you can take their body parts for your wife Catherine.”

  He falls silent for a moment.

  “I'm right, aren't I?” he asks finally. “You're not a wicked man. You don't kill for sport. You have good reasons. You've been doing this for love, and for science. That's very admirable, Doctor Grazier.”

  “Be gone,” I mutter under my breath, “foul creature.”

  “How is she, anyway?” he asks. “I assume she is here somewhere. Are you trying to treat her yourself? From what I've heard, most people expect her to pass soon. I hear she's been home for some time, and that she hasn't been taking visitors. People are talking as if there isn't much time left. I'm sorry to be blunt, but that's the word on the street.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” I tell him, more loudly than I had intended.

  “If you open the door,” he continues, “I shan't have to shout. Perhaps we're disturbing her and -”

  “Shut up!” I shout, turning once more and looking toward the door, as it continues to rattle in its frame. “You will leave me alone now, do you hear? I know what you are, I know you've been summoned up by my mind, and I insist that you go back into the depths. I deserve a little calm in these final moments.”

  “Final moments, Doctor Grazier?”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  I know I am losing control, but I cannot help myself. Looking down, I press the blade harder against my wrist, yet still no blood emerges.

  “What exactly are you doing up there?” the voice asks.

  Suddenly I realize that the door is no longer shuddering. Indeed, when I glance through to the hallway, I see that even the door's handle is not moving. For a few seconds, sitting in silence, I start to contemplate the possibility that I have cast this foul hallucination from my mind. I should not be surprised, really. After all, I am an extremely intelligent man, not given to flourishes of the imagination, and it is only to be expected that I am able to reassert my control over my own mind.

  “What are you doing, Doctor Grazier?” the voice asks again, breaking the silence. He sounds concerned now. “Say something.”

  I take a deep breath. The voice was almost gone, yet evidently it has slipped back into my mind.

  “You don't seriously mean to end your life, do you?” he continues. “Surely not. What about your wife? Or is that the point? Did she slip away, Doctor Grazier? Did she die, and is that why you sound so dejected? I'm so sorry, Sir, if that is the case. I've never been married myself, Sir, so I can only try to imagine how you're feeling. Oh, clearly I have chosen the worst possible night to come and impress myself upon you. I am so sorry for the intrusion. If you'd let me out of here, I can be on my way and perhaps I can return another day.”

  Preferring to ignore these entreaties, I press the blade harder still against my wrist. Yet the skin does not break. I had thought that this would be easier, or is it perhaps the case that I am being tentative. Do I need to strengthen my resolve?

  “Doctor Grazier?” he continues. “Are you still there?”

  “Stop talking!” I shout.

  “I think perhaps I should go now,” he suggests.

  “I shall not listen to you,” I continue, trying to summon the courage to cut into my wrist. Why is this so difficult, when I know that Catherine is waiting for me? Does the flesh resist, hoping to overcome the wishes of the mind? “You are a delusion,” I sneer, “and nothing more.”

  “A delusion, Sir?”

  “Give me strength,” I whisper, before realizing that I am in danger of slipping into superstition. Catherine prayed, at the end of her life, and I viewed that as a weakness. I shall not do the same.

  I shall simply cut, and go to her.

  “If I were a delusion,” the voice continues, “could I do this?”

  The door's handle shakes, this time more violently than before, until after a few seconds the entire frame starts once again to rattle.

 
“If I were a delusion,” the voice adds, louder than ever, “could the glass from the broken window have cut your hand? I saw you were bleeding, Doctor Grazier, when you came down to the basement. How did a delusion break that window? How is a delusion causing this door to shake? How can a -”

  “Quiet!” I yell, finally losing my patience. “I can tolerate you no longer! Be gone!”

  “Charles -”

  Before he can finish, I let out a cry of anger and finally I find the courage I had lacked. I drive the blade deep into my wrist and drag the metal through my flesh, carving a channel all the way up to my elbow. Almost immediately, blood begins to spray from the wound, splattering my face at first until I sit back and stare in stunned horror at the sight of more and more of my blood arcing through the air and hitting the wall. I tilt my arm so that the blood will hit the wall instead. For a few seconds, I am consumed by the pain, but then I let out a gasp of relief.

  I am on my way, Catherine.

  I am coming to you, and then we shall be together forever, and nothing from this miserable world shall matter anymore.

  “Doctor Grazier!” the voice shouts, as the door shakes again. “What are you doing, Doctor Grazier?”

  Blood is spraying against the wall now.

  “What's that sound, Doctor Grazier? What's happening up there?”

  I cry out as I carve again and again into my wrist. Ignoring the sound of the door, and of the panicking voice, I tear into my arm, and now I don't even care that blood is hitting my face. Some has even sprayed into my mouth, though I spit it out quickly enough. All that matters is that I get this over with as quickly as possible, and that I find Catherine again. She will appear before me at any moment. Any second now, everything will go black and I shall wake with Catherine back by my side.

  “Doctor Grazier! Open this door! What are you doing up there?”