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Gathering my wits, I glanced around, noticing the freshly polished wood, and a stick that was likely used to beat dust from the rugs sitting against the wall. Bits of the mystery unwound. No malicious entity or murderer had entered our home. This room was simply cleaned. The window had been cracked to let the scent of cleanser and mustiness out. Nothing more.
I exhaled, my puff of breath like a storm cloud as I closed the window and drew the curtains. One day I’d harness my wild imagination. I flicked the curtain back, staring down into the street. Night had fully fallen, cloaking the city in shadows. Lamps offered orbs of warmth, though I couldn’t help thinking of them as glowing eyes, ever watchful, waiting for me. A pale face shimmered before me, two horns twisting above its head. A demon.
I drew back, screeching as I felt hot flesh behind me. I whirled, coming face-to-face with the specter from the window.
“Miss!” The maid dropped the tray with a clatter, her eyes as wide as the saucers she’d broken. “Are you all right?”
I stared at my trembling hands. It was no demon. There were no horns. I’d simply seen her reflection in the glass—the cap she wore casting the odd shape. Memories of being haunted by delusions sprang forth, taunting me. It was happening all over again.
Realizing she was still waiting there, her expression tight with worry, I pulled myself together. “I’m a bit jumpy this evening,” I said. “I’m dreadfully sorry I frightened you. And caused such a mess.” I felt the beginnings of hysteria creeping in around the edges. “I… I’m going to my room for a nap. Please,” I interrupted before she could offer to assist me, “I’ll be quite all right on my own.”
I rushed from the room, hobbling down the corridor, chills my constant companions as they raced along my body. The house seemed to delight in my terror. Sconces flickered as I hurried past, as if clapping flame-coated hands. I drew in breath after breath, my stomach twisting. Why now? Why were these hauntings assaulting me when I’d done nothing to evoke their rage? I climbed the stairs, mind churning. Had I ingested something hallucinogenic? There had to be a reason… I couldn’t—
I halted in my doorway. “God have mercy.”
Chairs were broken, their limbs tossed around. Clothing and jewelry were strewn on the floor. Shards of the shattered looking glass covered most of the Turkish rug; a thousand small versions of me stared back, horrified at what I saw on my bed through a haze of swirling snowflakes.
I bit my knuckle to stop from screaming at the golden-horned half-ram, half-man mask propped against my headboard. It was garish—evoking images of Shakespearean plays with nasty creatures playing vicious tricks. Distantly, I heard the roar of a fire but couldn’t drag my gaze away from the trickle of red dripping down my nightstand.
“This isn’t real,” I whispered, closing my eyes. It couldn’t be real. I pinched the inside of my arm, wincing as pain lashed up my limb. I knew I wasn’t conjuring the scene up. I slumped against the doorframe, knees buckling while old fears sprang forth, torturing me.
Thomas was out with Uncle. He was safe. My uncle was safe. We’d left Sir Isaac at my grandmother’s in New York, so he was safe. It was not the blood of my loved ones. I silently repeated that assurance until my pulse steadied. I forced myself to glance at the pool of red once more. It
looked like blood. But—I’d left my cup of hibiscus tea mostly untouched this morning, and now the rug was stained red where it had spilled.
Slightly reassured, I closed my eyes, granting myself a moment to become the scientist I was. When I inspected the room again, I did so as if it were a mutilated corpse I’d come upon. The description was chillingly fitting. My chaise had been ripped open like a wound.
Slices of the fabric were clean and precise, much like the blade work of the man I knew as Jack the Ripper. Cotton innards were yanked out, left dangling from the frame. Someone had torn my room apart searching for God knew what.
At first I’d been too shocked to notice the scent of burnt leather, or understand that the soft grayish-white particles dancing in the breeze weren’t snow, but ash. As these details slowly registered, a sense of dread weighted my limbs.
“No.” I limped to the fireplace, hardly feeling the jolt of pain that lanced through my leg as I dropped to my good knee. “No. No. No!”
I stuck my hands into the flames, screaming as I drew them back, empty. Footsteps clamored up the stairs and down the hall.
“Wadsworth?” Thomas shouted.
“Here!” I called, bolstering my nerve to snatch the evidence once more. I thrust my hands in again, hissing as the embers singed my flesh.
Thomas threw his arms around me, jerking me away from the fireplace. “Are you mad?”
“It’s over.” I buried my face in his chest, unable to stop the tears from soaking his shirt. “They’re gone. All of them.”
He rocked me, his hands stroking my back in even intervals. Once I’d stopped sobbing, he asked, “What’s gone?”
“Nathaniel’s journals,” I said, feeling my emotions overtaking me once more. “They’ve all been burned.”
I couldn’t recall how I’d come to be perched on the edge of Thomas’s bed, huddling into a blanket, a mug of hot chocolate pressed into my bandaged hands. Nor could I focus on the hushed conversation happening across the room. My mind tortured me with images of flames and paper. Ash and destruction. Not one journal remained. Someone had ransacked my room. They’d burned the only evidence we had of Jack the Ripper. They’d torched what remained of my brother; no matter how conflicted I’d felt over his actions, it was like losing him all over again.
“… we’ll need to inform the police,” I heard Thomas saying as if he was part of a terrible dream. “They have to make a record of this.”
I didn’t bother dragging my focus away from the cup before me as I waited for Uncle’s reply. I didn’t need to see his face to know he was twisting his mustache.
“I’m afraid it won’t do us any good. What will we tell them? That we had newly discovered evidence regarding Jack the Ripper? That instead of turning it over straightaway, we’d kept it in a young woman’s bedchamber?” At this I shifted my attention to Uncle. “No one will believe us.”
“Someone has to,” Thomas argued.
“Did the general inspector you two spoke with seem keen on entertaining that notion?” Uncle asked. “Or what of Inspector Byrnes in New York? Did he strike you as the sort who’d take our word that Jack the Ripper was here?”
