Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper 1)

“Y-yes, m-miss. I shall pass your wishes along to the other servants.”

I quickly exited the room and ran down the hall, not wanting anyone to see how badly I was shaking. I hated being rude, but that was so much better than having their deaths stain my hands. If they were all in their rooms, they’d be safe.

I tried the door to Father’s study. It was unlocked.

This time I wasn’t sneaking around, Father would come straight here as he did every evening, so I pushed the door open and lit some lamps around the gloomy space. I scanned the forbidden room; it seemed much less intimidating now than it had weeks ago. His desk no longer appeared to be the imposing monster I once thought it to be. Now it just looked like a large, old desk that had witnessed too many terrible things.

The familiar scent of sandalwood and cigars that accompanied Father also didn’t send my heart into spastic drumming. I welcomed it. Let it call his ghost to me now, I dared. My attention drifted over objects passed down in our family for generations, landing on the large, open tome. Recalling the cryptic message from my mother, thanks to the spiritualist, I strode over to it, curious.

There, exactly where he said it’d be, was the locket from the photograph.

I swallowed disbelief down. Turned out Mr. Robert James Lees was no fraud. How tragic Scotland Yard didn’t listen to him. Perhaps they could’ve stopped Father a long time ago. I bent closer, reading the pages of the book that were carefully left open, trying to understand the significance of the passage.

The book was Paradise Lost by John Milton.

Upon himself; horror and doubt distract

His troubl’d thoughts, and from the bottom stirr

The Hell within him, for within him Hell

He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell

One step no more then from himself can fly

By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair

That slumbered, wakes the bitter memorie

Of what he was, what is, and what must be

Worse; of worse deeds worse suffering must ensue.

My eyes strayed to the underlined from Hell part, recalling the title of the letter sent from the Ripper all too clearly.

The way it was underlined looked like slashes, angry and tormented.

Any residual doubts I might’ve harbored about Father were gone.

He was comparing his gruesome acts to Satan’s in Paradise Lost. What a twisted manifesto. The significance of the passage hit me at once. It was where Satan questioned his rebellion—the moment he realized Hell would always be with him, because he couldn’t escape the hell of his own mind.

Satan would never find peace or Heaven, no matter how physically close he got, because forgiveness would always be out of reach. He could never change his mind, therefore Hell would be eternal. Acknowledging that, he turns evil into good, committing worse acts in the name of his version of “good.”

I stared at the heart-shaped locket once belonging to Mother. Was this all for her, then? I carefully removed the glass case protecting both book and necklace. I’d not allow Father to use her as an excuse to do evil anymore. I placed the locket around my neck, feeling the comfort of it resting above my own heart.

Unable to be near the book, I walked over to the obscenely large portrait hanging on the wall. I still hated the sadistic-looking man with the proud stance of a murderer, the bear he’d slain limp at his feet.

I peered at the brass placard near the bottom. It was smudged with dirt. I reached over, about to scrub it off with my sleeve, when the painting lurched inward.

I yanked my hand back, nearly jumping out of my skin.

“What in the name of God is…” Once my heart stopped ramming against my ribs, I took a step closer. The portrait had been concealing a hidden passage.

An ice-cold breeze blew up from the darkened stairs, lifting wayward strands of hair about my face like the serpents on Medusa’s head. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A curved stone staircase was there, waiting to be explored. Or yelling at me to turn away. It was hard to decipher what the gaping mouth was imploring.

I stood, one foot over the threshold of the unknown, the other planted in the relative safety I knew. A terrible feeling stole over my bones, forcing them to clatter together in dread. This had to be the place where Jack the Ripper’s prizes were kept.

Indecision clawed at me, confusing my better judgment. I stepped back, closing the portrait. I should run to Uncle’s—have him call Scotland Yard and Thomas. Then we could all descend into Hell together. Still, I made no move to leave. I studied the portrait closer, removing the smudge from the placard, then gasped.