The Night of the Ripper

~ FOURTEEN ~

Slowly Mark moved through moonless midnight. The alleyway was steeped in shadow but light flared from the open doorway of the abattoir ahead.

As he approached the entrance the scent of blood was strong and for a moment he paused, dreading the sight of its source. But the light lured him forward again, even when he heard the sounds and saw the shapes through the open doorway.

Where had he heard those sounds before? Mark remembered that night, weeks ago, when he’d first seen Eva, the night when the cattle stampeded from the slaughterhouse.

Now they were in the slaughterhouse, and this time there was no escape.

No escape from the terror, no escape from the shocets. Clad in leather aprons, the slaughtermen were everywhere, hobbling the legs of their fear-crazed victims in preparation for the rite prescribed by ancient Talmudic law — shechita, the draining of blood from the body of the beast.

Long knives raised, they muttered the sacred benediction, then slashed the throat to the bone in two quick strokes, moving back quickly to avoid the crimson cascade spurting forth over the sawdust shambles. The red-stained blades rose and fell again, first ripping open the breast and then the stomach, revealing the inner organs for ritual inspection of the remains. The slaughtermen worked swiftly, expertly, oblivious to the bellowing of the brutes they butchered and the bright bubbling of their blood.

That was the worst of it, Mark reasoned, scanning the faces of those who dealt in death; their eyes were empty, their frozen features betrayed no hint of any emotion.

But as he stared a greater horror assailed him — the horror of familiarity. He knew these men!

The fat fiend with the pince-nez perched incongruously on a snouted nose was Dr. Reid. The slant-eyed monster with the dripping knife was Dr. Hume. And the tall thin throat-slasher was Trebor.

Why were they here? How could they kill so callously, go on killing without heeding the moans of agony, the cries of their victims?

He watched as they dragged another helpless hobbled figure forward, flinging it down beneath the upraised knives. Thrashing, the creature turned its face to the light, and this was the ultimate horror.

The body beneath the blades was that of a beast, but it had a human face.

A woman’s face, contorted in fear, mouth opening wide in a scream—

“Murder!”

Perspiration pouring from his fevered forehead, Mark jerked bolt upright in the sunlight blazing through the window beside his bed.

His eyes opened and for a moment he gave thanks for the safety which surrounded him, the reality of his own room, the knowledge that he’d escaped from a nightmare.

But only for a moment.

“Murder!”

Now the cry sounded again, and this time he found its source — not in the darkness of a dream but in the dazzling sunlight of the street below.

Peering down he saw the canvas-aproned figure of the newsboy hawking papers. And heard his shout.

“Murder — read all about it! New slaying in Whitechapel!”