The Whitechapel Demon by Josh Reynolds

Author:Josh Reynolds
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Tags: Occult, Action & Adventure, Horror, Fiction, Genre Fiction, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 9781940344058
Publisher: Emby Press
Published: 2013-12-05T07:00:00+00:00

10.

Pain was the whole of her world, and like no pain she had ever felt. Andraste bit back a groan as a slow bubble of agony swelled within her, filling her with the slow scrape of glass on flesh and the crush of brick on bone. Everything hurt, every joint felt inflamed and every exhalation of breath brought a new ache. The world spun around her, and every jolt of the Crossley’s wheels brought fresh hurts rising to the surface. They’d carried her out of the bakery, taken her to the automobile, and they were going—where? They’d told her, she was sure, but there was no room for the memory in her head, only the raw throb of her soul being unravelled. Her ears ached with the sounds of carriage wheels on cobbles and her nose and mouth were gummed up with the stink of East End alleyways and the Thames.

She could feel—the Ripper’s anger was acrid and stinging, like sparks cast up from a stirred fire. The water of the Thames, on the other hand, had been cold and less than inviting and—a raw, scraped out feeling in her gut and her fingers—touched his scalded face and he hissed as bits of ectoplasmic flesh sloughed away—felt swollen and they fumbled uselessly against each other as—the wormlike strands of not-flesh were caught and carried away by the January breeze—she coughed, trying to clear her throat of the invisible force that clogged it.

She could see things, just out of the corners of her eyes, blurry street markers and jittery human shapes, like on a film coming loose from the reel. She could feel the Ripper moving, and she could feel him pawing away at her, rooting around inside her as he drew her life from her with predatory diligence. She could see him looming over her. He squatted in her mind like a goblin from a Fuseli painting. His cloak flapped around him like the wings of a flock of ravens, his face a foggy nothing, pierced through by his hell-bright eyes and tiger’s smile. Fingers like meat-hooks tore through the dark places of her soul, and stickpin teeth snapped together on ghostly morsels with greedy aplomb.

She was being eaten alive, from inside out. She wouldn’t leave a ghost behind when she died, because the Ripper was going to eat that first and hollow her out. She thrashed, trying to free herself, but the claws only tightened and a moan escaped her lips.

“She looks like she’s having a bloody fit,” Andraste heard the young woman called Gallowglass say, as the latter leaned over the back of the seat and looked down at her where she writhed on the Crossley’s backseat. For a moment, Andraste saw a cat’s head superimposed over the girl’s, and heard the whine of flutes and the rumble of voices raised in supplication, but the sounds and sights were washed away by a red tide of pain that squirmed through her. The medium moaned. Sweat dappled her face and her clothes were sodden through.

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