Part Five by Michael Bray

Author:Michael Bray
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: victorian horror, horror, jack the ripper, alternate history, crime, crome horror
Publisher: Michael Bray
Published: 2017-09-21T00:00:00+00:00

APRIL 11th, 1890

Just over a year has passed since my last entry into this journal. It appears I had made my last entry from a dark place, which I am pleased to say has brightened somewhat. Art has been my saviour. The fruits of my old work have been replaced with the joy of the new. I have converted the downstairs study into a studio of sorts, one which is off limits to my wife or children. Even the housekeeper knows that despite the chaotic state it is to remain undisturbed. Despite the fear I would embrace the macabre, much of my work is quite the opposite. Glorious and lush landscapes, sunset from the beach, flowers in a vase by the window. It seems I have quite the eye for detail. The one piece of dark work which I did commit to canvas now hangs alone on my studio wall. My wife despises it, but her feelings mean nothing to me. It is MY work, and MY study, and I shall hang on the walls whatever I please.

It is the scene from my dream. A lone figure stands atop a mountain of skulls, a curved blade in his left hand. His face is in shadow, one white eye visible. In his right hand, he holds five severed heads which although vague in detail, are the Whitechapel whores as red rain falls from a crimson sky.

It is by far my favourite piece, the only true expression of what lives within me.

November 3rd

I have gained weight. I don’t look after myself as I should, however, November is a month which is dear to me. It reminds me of my work, of happier times. It seems that my patience is wearing as thin as my hairline. How could it be that without the burden of being hunted by the police, I feel more strained? Not for the first time, I wonder about Abberline. I like to think he too keeps journal such as this one, and wonders about me. He was the closest thing I had to a nemesis, and one cannot fault his determination to apprehend me. It feels as if our business has been left unfinished, and if I desire one thing it is to look at him and remind him of what he said to me that day at the police station about how incapable of being a monster I was. Oh, for him to know the truth would fill me with joy! Perhaps I will head back to London and re-ignite his fire? Just a quick kill to remind them I am still here and then back over to America. If only it were an option. However, I fear that such a move would only serve to fully awaken that which has remained dormant and I fear the day that happens. I must stay strong.

December 20th

I can no longer live like this. I have not picked up a paintbrush in weeks, the joy seems to have left me as quickly as it had arrived.

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