Memories of Murder
By Chloe Gallagher
Copyright 2012 Chloe Gallagher
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
I leant back sighing and reached for my coffee mug. I had spent three days straight hunched over my computer, scouring the internet for information about Jack the Ripper. My latest Uni assignment was to profile a character from English history and I had ambitiously chosen the most mysterious of all. Unfortunately, I was quite out of my depth and was cursing myself for aiming so high, panicking about the impending deadline.
I drained the cold dregs of my coffee and sloped off to the kitchenette. I poked the kettle on and as I waited for the water to boil, noticed the clock reading 4am. I would have to get some sleep soon. I could stretch the material I did have and embellish the rest with a little poetic licence. I was worried about attaining a low grade, so, with a renewed vigour, I returned to my search.
I had plenty of information about the actual murders, but needed to know about his motivation. Why would he want to commit so many of these gruesome murders? How did he evade capture? Surely the whole area must have been on the lookout for a shadowy prostitute predator?
I browsed another dozen poorly-written websites bearing the same scraps of information and turned the computer off in disgust. I stomped off to bed, frustrated, and slapped the light off, throwing myself into bed, almost crying from frustration and panic. I felt like I had been personally wronged by Jack the Ripper.
Some time later, barely awake, I was conscious of an uncomfortable chill in the room. I got up to close the window, but instead of the thin carpet my toes brushed rough concrete. Confused, I peered through the gloom to find that I was surrounded on one side by looming buildings, crowding in on me, and that pure darkness pressed in behind, held at bay by a low stone wall. I listened to the whisper of trees behind me, the lamps not strong enough to illuminate them. I was sat on a bench, wearing naught but the jeans I had been too lazy to remove and thinking vaguely that I wanted to wake up.
From my shadowy vantage point I observed a man stride past on the other side of the street. He swept past, wearing a hat and coat, not noticing me. I stood up slowly, and followed him in my bare feet. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but before I could make a noise, he had drawn a knife and concealed it behind his back without breaking stride. I gasped and automatically stepped backwards over the wall and behind a tree. He stopped next to a woman I hadn’t seen.
‘Hello, Annie,’ his voice pierced the chill air, crystal clear and confident. ‘Still working?’
I seized a sizeable rock off the top of the wall and hugged it to my chest, terrified, yet edging closer, needing to hear what he was saying.
‘Yessir, gotta make my shilling.’
He extended the other hand to her, holding her arm. ‘Why don’t you let me take you somewhere… warm?’
Horrified, I realised that I was about to stand by like a coward and watch this woman get stabbed. I tried to formulate a plan, but all I could hear was a high-pitched screeching noise filling my head. I was ten yards away. I could save her.
Before I was aware of any conscious decision to move, I was sprinting towards her. I leapt the low wall, bursting onto the scene, and brained the guy with my rock. He fell down heavily, with a low moan. I stood, triumphant and panting, looking at the woman, then at the crumpled figure on the floor. I stared at him, accomplishment fading, when she hit me round the head with a handbag that felt full of bricks. I sprawled over him.
‘You’ve killed him!’ she screeched, kicking me.
I was repulsed, struggling off him, when I saw his eyes- wide open, with dark blood flowing freely over them from the mess at the side of his head. I clutched at her, one arm splattered with blood to the elbow.
‘Annie!’ I choked, ‘Wait. That man was going to kill you!’ I saw terror in her eyes and turned, wresting the silver knife out of the man’s hand.
With that, she screamed again, yelling ‘Murder! Murder!’ beating me viciously; slapping and kicking. I clawed at her legs, begging her to stop, desperate to make her quiet. Panicking, I swiped at her with the knife, leaving an almost graceful arc across her thighs. She shrieked louder, and, borne on an intense wave of adrenaline, I plunged the blade into her abdomen.
The noise stopped abruptly as she sank to her knees before me, clutching her belly, mouthing empty words.
I put my hands on her shoulders and stared into her glazed eyes. ‘I wasn’t here to kill you, Annie. I was here to save you, really, I was.’
She rose slowly to her feet and turned, walking slowly and silently away.
I let her go and the darkness pressed in, suffocating me. I was left alone in the nothingness, crouched next to the lifeless figure. Dully, I realised I needed to get away. I picked up the knife and hefted the man over my shoulder, crossing the wall and wandering across grass that crunched underfoot in the February frost. The icy air stung my skin, needling like a thousand stabbing pins, both painful and refreshing. I hugged the man’s legs to my chest. The thick, coppery smell of blood was sweet and cloying in the air, making my stomach writhe.
I walked for what seemed like an age, though I had no idea how long it actually was. Bracken and scrubby bushes clawed and scraped at my jeans. I felt exhausted, so I stopped in front of a particularly large tree and dropped my burden. I knelt down and dug at the frozen earth, zoned out, aware of nothing but the need to dig. I just dug. And dug. I pulled one of the man’s shoes off and used it to gouge the stony earth.
I had eventually carved a pit sufficient enough to comfortably conceal the man. I rolled him in unceremoniously, still in a trance-like state and used his own loafer to push the dirt over him. As a weak and dazed Annie Millwood explained incoherently to the nurses in the workhouse she had staggered into that she had been attacked, I wondered whether I was a murderer. I didn’t know if I had actually killed the man, or even the woman. He could just be knocked out, though I had hit him with some considerable force. I continued to bury him anyway.
I lay down on the stony ground, ready and willing to die. I had potentially murdered two people here tonight. This Annie… Uneasy thoughts stirred within me. Annie Millwood had been Jack the Ripper’s first victim. But that was ludicrous. She couldn’t possibly be her- the suggestion was laughable. Time travel was simply a myth. I knew that. This was merely a nightmare borne of excessive coffee, insufficient sleep and the unhealthy fixation I had developed on Jack the Ripper recently.
A chill passed through me as I considered this. If I had indeed just murdered Jack, there were potentially ten women out there who were destined to be murdered, who wouldn’t be. Ten women who shouldn’t exist… What could this mean to the future? On the other hand, that was the stuff of sci-fi films.
I woke up the next day in the middle of the afternoon. I poked the kettle on and was suddenly hit by a dizzying wave of nausea as memories of last night flooded my head. My vision blacked and I clung to the blessedly cool fridge as though it were my only anchor to this world. As my vision returned I quickly examined my hands and feet: no blood, no cuts, no nothing; completely clean and unscathed.
I interpreted this as a positive omen. Surely it had been a simple dream..? I passed the day away from the computer and the stresses of the assignment and sloped off to bed that night feeling thoroughly refreshed and generally happier. I had all but convinced myself that last night had been down to my imagination. Yet, as I stood in my underpants with a finger poised on the lightswitch I froze. What if a similar episode occurred tonight? The thought repulsed me enough to wear tracksuit bottoms for bed. I’d be uncomfortable, but I’d be too anxious to sleep otherwise.
That night passed without incident, as did many following it. I eventually put the experience to the back of my mind.
I had almost succeeded in forgetting about that night, and certainly referred to it as a bad dream of sorts, until it happened again. The months that passed had brought summer freedom and warmer weather. I was at a house party, savouring the end of summer break, when I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. I stumbled upstairs into the spare room and meant to drop wearily onto the bed; except I passed straight through it and crashed roughly onto sharp gravel. I grazed all the skin off my forearms and smacked my head on the ground. I rolled onto my side, gasping for air and fighting the urge to vomit. After a few moments I hauled myself up to see the horrifyingly familiar surroundings of nineteenth century London.
‘What the FUCK!?’ I screamed furiously. I glared through the gloom, desperate to be wrong. ‘Where am I?’ I cried, helplessly ‘WHEN am I?’ I detected a movement in the shadows to my right. I strode over to find a lone woman sheltered in an empty garage, who looked absolutely thunderstruck. I swayed stupidly on the spot and watched her clutch her handbag tighter to her chest.
‘What the hell… was that?’ she backed up to the wall. ‘You just appeared… How..?’
‘I… don’t know.’ I confessed, feeling sick. I swallowed and tried to breathe deeply to clear my head.
‘I oughta call someone! What do you mean “when am I?”’ I noticed her shift slightly into a defensive stance and felt ashamed of myself. ‘Especially considering that murder the other week! People still on their guard, y’know!’
‘Murder?’ I choked, the world spinning.
‘Someone been goin’ round killin’ working girls recently. Been three or four been got this last couple months,’ she eyed me suspiciously, ‘real nasty, like.’
I was surprised by this news; could it be Jack? By now I was really struggling with the nausea. I somehow tripped over my own feet and toppled towards her, splaying my arms. She shoved me hard in the stomach with both hands, causing me to crash to the floor, gasping. As I struggled up, she whipped a knife out of her bag and levelled it at my face. She was visibly shaking and looked uncertain. I swiped the knife off her and stood up.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I told her and was about to make some threat to be quiet, when she kneed me in the balls. Air whooshed out of my lungs as the pain exploded, and my retaliatory move was to sink the dagger into her abdomen. She commenced screaming, an earth-shattering noise that echoed through my head. I clapped a hand across her mouth and rested the knife against her throat, as a warning. She wrenched her head away from me and the knife sliced through the thin skin, unleashing spurts of warm blood that ran silkily over my fingers. She seized two fistfuls of my hair and twisted. The pain was so excruciating I couldn’t even hear what she was yelling. The pain and anger controlled me; I was barely aware of stabbing her in the stomach until it became a crazed frenzy. With an enormous effort I eventually regained myself and stopped. She released my hair and sank to the floor, mouthing unknown words.
In my horror, I turned and ran, fleeing through London’s dirty underbelly covered in blood and wielding a knife. I didn’t even feel drunk anymore, just sick and full of terrible adrenaline. I ran until I was physically exhausted. I spotted a dark archway of sorts and concealed myself in the shadows, slumping to the ground and resting my head against the stone wall. I hugged my knees and sobbed as quietly as I could, until the inevitable darkness came.
I woke with a start the next morning sandwiched between two people, breathing stale beer, my head pounding. Slick with sweat, I peered at my clothes and checked my hands. No blood, not even under my nails. I inched out of the bed and headed downstairs. I was sipping at a coffee that I didn’t really want, as people slowly began to emerge, groaning, from various different directions.
As I made to leave, my friend Scott followed. As we walked home in the raw sunlight, we chatted about the ‘awesome’ party last night. It transpired that Scott had been one of the people in bed with me. I tried to sound lighthearted- though I was preoccupied with recollections of last night- and told him sarcastically that if he really wanted to snuggle he could just ask.
‘Mate, it wasn’t you I was bothered about, it was that Carly lass- she forced me into it, honest!’ he punched me on the arm and explained about some girl from last night.
‘So you jumped into bed with me and got it on?’
‘Mate, I was trashed. Anyone could have been in there, I don’t remember.’
I had had a sudden inspiration- if I could find out whether I had actually physically left the bed, I could determine whether I was simply dreaming, or if there was the possibility of something more sinister… I set about blocking the midnight adventure from my mind, refusing to dwell on the subject. I focused instead on my imminent return to study.
The next trip was a week later, on the eve of my return to study. I’d gone to bed early, keen to get back to routine and distraction. I had been angsty and depressed and harboured doubts about my mental health.
I woke up to go to the toilet about 4am and as I settled back into bed I transitioned smoothly into Victorian London. This night was much like the previous two and I woke up and prepared for my academic day emotionally and mentally drained. I got a couple of weeks respite after this particular trip and though I made no other journey, I became increasingly nervous and worried. My mind constantly referred back to my attacks and I experienced intense periods of guilt and self-loathing. I occasionally checked Wikipedia to see if anything had changed. None of Jack’s intended victims had come forward as a despot and radically changed the world. They were still listed as his prey. I was desperate to ascertain whether or not I was indeed physically visiting the past, or whether it was a mere figment of my imagination. One one hand, I had felt the night air, wandered the streets and conversed with the prostitutes; it was me who had swiped and stabbed and smelt blood. I felt pain as the women fought back: I bled, I grazed, I was cut and it hurt. Yet, when I woke up I was always perfectly unscathed. Falling asleep triggered these transitions and the entire duration was contained within the period of sleep. I wanted to believe it was a recurring series of nightmare, but the sheer reality of the experience, despite the lack of evidence, still caused the word ‘murderer’ to whisper through my thoughts with an alarming frequency. I vehemently denied the accusation in my conscious mind, but my unconscious fought the contrary, showing me grisly flashbacks.
I couldn’t bear to think of myself as a murderer- as a serial killer- and I began to hate who I had become. I couldn’t focus properly in class, always preoccupied with thoughts and memories of murder. I withdrew increasingly from my social circle and awoke every morning with an internal leap of happiness and relief at having passed a blessedly uneventful night. I was constantly tired and put off going to bed, staying awake until the small hours, often falling asleep on the couch. I became depressed and imposed a kind of self-inflicted exile. I spent hours at a time sat in silence, without even the television switched on, the room becoming dark around me. I would let the darkness spread across the room and engulf me; I didn’t deserve to live in the light amongst good people. I suffered this apathy for days at a time, not even leaving the house. I relived the episodes in my mind, anxious to try to make some sense out of it all. I needed to know whether it was actually all in my imagination, then I would have a chance to put it out of my head once and for all.
The next murder took place at the end of September, several days into my apathetic self-imposed exile. It was a double killing. I felt as though I was being tested, seen how far I could be pushed.
The flashbacks to that night were graphic, though they did not disturb me as much as the previous ones had done. I vaguely supposed it was because I was ‘getting used to it.’ The thought made me laugh a sinister, high-pitched laugh that did not sound at all like my own. It was absurd that I was adapting to murdering women who had existed over 100 years ago. I noticed that my actions no longer horrified and repulsed me. I felt slightly grateful for this and remembered, with a shiver, that the latest murders had been much easier. It had started to feel somehow more… natural.
The weather began to grow colder and Christmas advertising started. I invited Scott over for some beers and an evening away from the prison of my mind. I was noisily slotting beers into the fridge and was about to suggest firing up the Xbox when I saw Scott on my computer. My stomach lurched and I waded through treacle over to him. He was sat clicking through the pages on the tab I’d left open, surrounded by crusty coffee mugs and dirty plates. Papers were strewn over the desk and pinned to the boards; walls of text and grainy printed pictures.
‘Hey…’ Scott gestured at the desk, ‘what’s going on, man?’
‘It’s… my Jack the Ripper research.’ I choked, ‘for the profiling assignment.’
‘That was months ago!’
I was just as confused as he was. I didn’t remember putting all those pictures up, or indeed printing them out. I couldn’t explain all the coffee cups either. ‘I’m interested in him, that’s all.’
‘Obsessed, more like!’ he swung round on the chair and punched me lightly as he hopped off and flopped onto the couch. ‘C’mon, let’s crack these beers open and play some COD!’
We had a good night playing Xbox and drinking beer. I left Scott on the couch and headed to bed, grinning, my heart lighter than it had been in a long while. I felt normal and accepted and as if everything was okay again. I got into bed and snuggled down; trying to regain the happiness that tonight had brought me. This cheerfulness turned out to be a stark contrast to the events that followed, cruelly exacerbating the horror of what would turn out to be my final, most gruesome murder.
I transitioned into 1888, greeted by a familiar feeling of despair. I sincerely regretted killing Jack the Ripper with my entire being. Still, it would be over soon and I would finally be able to put this whole nightmare behind me. The copious amounts of research I had done over the last year had generally agreed that Jack had claimed up to seven victims. So, here it went, lucky seven.
I took in my surroundings, grateful that I had taken it easy on the beer. There was no point denying anything this time. I was ready to face what had to be done.
I had read various accounts of the murder of Mary Jane Kelly and knew what was expected of me. I crossed the court almost silently and stood in the doorway of number 13. I put my hand through the broken window pane and unbolted the door. I proceeded, almost in a trance, to her room. As I entered the flickering yellow firelight she sat up with a start, but I shushed her before she could cry out. I sat on the bed, placing a reassuring hand on her thigh, leaning in and kissing her passionately, pushing her down onto the bed. Still kissing her, I climbed astride her and with one hand forcefully covered her mouth, with the other sliced swiftly across her throat. I felt a rush of terrifying energy and a queer feeling of being possessed, controlled. She tried to scream, but my hand blocked most of the noise out. Mindful of the other residents, I ground my hips against her with an exaggerated movement, banging the headboard against the wall as I slashed her chest and face repeatedly with the kitchen knife. A sick, strange elation overpowered me, and as the blood spurted and flowed, I cried out ‘oh, yes! Yes!’ riding her harder. I reached the familiar frenzy of stabbing and slashing, barely aware of the actions. I felt disembodied, as if I were a secondary power within my own body. During periods of awareness I realised that I was unable to stop the hacking, gouging and ripping. Blood ran down the walls and covered every surface in my sight.
Eventually, I had carved down to the bone. The ribs were bare, the face scraped off. There were clots of filthy hair stuck to everything, like foul spiders’ webs. The fire was burning low in the grate. Absently, I felt myself gather up her shredded clothes and bedsheets and heaped them on the fire. I sat in a rickety chair and stared into the devouring flames. I glanced at the sickening remains of the woman and felt somehow more at peace. I reclined and closed my eyes, the image of the flames burned onto my retinas, with Mary’s body swimming in and out of focus. I slept.
I awoke screaming and leapt up, making a terrible, feral, inhuman noise. I fled into the light of the living room screaming and rolled on the floor, clawing at my skin.
Scott fell off the couch in a tangle of blankets and seized me by the shoulders, shaking me roughly, my head banging off the floor.
‘Get ‘em off!’ I howled, harrowing at my face ‘they’re EVERYWHERE!’
Scott looked terrified, white even in the sickly yellow electric light. ‘Get what off?’ he cried. ‘Wake up!’
‘The fucking INTESTINES! The hair! The blood! It’s on my FACE!’ I sat bolt upright and grabbed the front of his tee shirt. I saw bloody handprints and bits of gut that weren’t there. ‘Scott! I have to tell you! It’s me! It’s me.’
He clutched me back, as though he were trying to hold me together. He stared into my eyes; his were the eyes of one who had only recently left childhood, round, full of innocence. Unlike mine. Murderer’s eyes.
‘I am Jack the Ripper.’ My voice was strained, but didn’t crack or wobble. ‘I killed those women. It was me, it was all me.’
‘What you talking about?’
‘I killed Jack and I keep getting pulled back into the past to finish his dirty work,’ I garbled ‘I’m killing his prostitutes to save the future!’
‘Man, you’re delusional,’ he said incredulously ‘It’s just a dream, let it go.’
‘No. It’s true. I thought I was saving her when I killed him, but instead I was signing my life away. I just want it to stop, Scott, make it stop!’ I sobbed, clutching him. ‘This was the big one, I knew what I had to do and I had to do it. It was horrible.’ I retched. ‘It was worse because I knew.’
‘At first, I thought I was dreaming. Hallucinating. But now, I know. It’s real. I will show you.’ I stood up abruptly and walked out of the flat.
We walked right out of London, following my muscle memory. In my head I could her terrible screams and pleas, punctuated by sick wet noises. I barely saw, all I could see were flashing images of last night, the glinting knife and the blood. Always the blood. As I strode on, I became aware of Scott on the phone. I continued my journey, seeing my clothes bloodstained, the warmth of the stuff on my skin and the loops and chunks of organ hanging off me. I didn’t care. I laughed. This was ludicrous. Why had I doubted myself? Tried to deny who I really was? I was Jack the Ripper.
We were close. I turned to the ignorant Scott, ‘I buried his body out here. This will prove it. His body is buried here and that will prove that I am him.’ My speech was slurred and repetitive and didn’t always make sense, but I knew he understood me.
The anticipation was immense, knowing I was minutes away from solving the riddle that had plagued me all year. I would be proved either a supernatural murderer or a complete headcase today. I felt great, pleasurable relief and giggled incessantly, grinning stupidly at Scott.
We reached the tree. I knelt down at the base and paused to savour the feeling of an ecstasy that didn’t belong. I took a deep breath and had gouged out two handfuls of earth when I was seized by two strong sets of hands. I was lifted clean off the ground. Scott was nowhere to be seen but there was a police van and an ambulance. I wondered dimly if Scott was okay, and told the men that I needed to dig my body up, the feeling of triumph faltering slightly, as I was strapped to the bed and the world went dark.
###
About the Author
Chloe Gallagher is currently an English Degree student in the UK. Any feedback or criticism in a review would be extremely welcome and constructive, as it would count positively towards final grades.
Thankyou for reading this ebook.
Discover other titles by Chloe Gallagher at Smashwords.com