There were singular footsteps upon the cobbles of that midnight London
street, slow, intent, stalking footsteps that often halted as if listening for the
vague stirrings of something of interest. The hunter was abroad in the night,
seeking the prey that would most certainly ease the hot, throbbing, almost
maddening desire that emanated from the wellspring of need so deep within
his ancient, marauding soul. It did not matter that it was cold, and that the
fog had settled in almost as if it were a solid barrier that could shield secret
things from view. He was intent upon his macabre purpose. He had done
all this before. Yes, the swirling fog, whitened by the silvery moonlight,
veiled the city, hiding that which he sought, but it didn't mask or in any way
diminish the sounds or scents of his prey, as even the faintest scratch or rustle
could be heard by the sharp ears of Him who stalked by night.
Mary Sue Alcott was a London strumpet or street urchin if you will, one of
thousands of homeless women who huddled in alleyways or other such dark
recesses to pass the chill night when they failed to interest some passing
stranger who would take them into their beds or offer them a few coins for
their services. A nasty night this, but Mary Sue had suffered worse in her
years. Her family, such as it was, had forsaken her long ago and left her to
fend for herself upon the harsh streets of London Town where the likes of her
were a dime-a-dozen. She lacked any education or salable skills, but so far,
she had gotten by on the oldest of professions. Of course, she had seen
betters days. Her years were catching up to her a bit, but still, she kept on
living, taking life one day at a time.
This particular night found her shivering in a chill alleyway, behind a pub near
the great bridge over the river Thames where she could hear the polluted
water, lapping at the ancient stones when there was a quiet moment in the
Blue Dragon Pub. The only light was the dim glow that escaped between the
greasy curtains of the back window of that seedy establishment, but here, she
at least had a chance of being picked up by a customer and given a bed for
the night and maybe a bite to eat. Startled, she looked up into the handsome
but cruel face of a strange, but well dressed man. His eyes captivated her,
holding her attention as a bird gazing into the eyes of a snake. He appraised
her as he closed the case lid of a heavy, golden pocket watch and casually
dropped it into his vest pocket. "Evening to you miss," He said in even
tones, "I don't suppose that I could have a moment of your time?" "Oh," said
Mary Sue Alcott, "I've nothing but time, Governor. What can I do for you,
now?" "Well, stand up so I can get a better look at you. Here, I'll help you
up," said the large man as he extended his strong, gloved right hand down to
her. Up she came, now standing face to face with this fine gentleman with
the fierce eyes from which, she couldn't look away.
"Come with me and I'll take you out of the cold where you'll be nice and
toasty warm," and with that, he took her away from the cold alleyway, behind
the old pub where someone had started to play a sailor's concertina and sing a
ribald song about Loki, tying the beard of a goat to the balls of the Pope. The
powerful man now steered Mary Sue away, as if she were mesmerized out
into the darkness and thick fog. He walked her swiftly as would a man filled
with need, and then turned her into another alley where it was much quieter
and much darker. Not even the sounds of the Thames could be heard in the
stillness. They were alone. Here, he opened a doorway with chipped paint,
and bade her enter. Once inside, and after lighting a candle, he commanded,
"Remove thy clothing wench," and as she did, he removed his great coat and
jacket and then stripped himself down to his skin. She was excited not only
with the look of him, but she thought that the gentleman before her might be
generous too. But this was not to be, as in an instant, he grabbed her and
pressed her to him, crushing her lips with his. She felt the power of him as he
held her as a rag doll, lifting her from the floor and then thrusting his erect
member into her with great fury. He drove that massive organ of his in deep,
causing her juices to flow as he began to pump harder, ever harder until she
thought she would pass out from the violent expenditure of energies
exhausted within her. Soon, the large man, embracing her began to growl like
a rough beast and his eyes began to glow a dull red as he ejaculated his own
hot fluids, making her gasp for air as he squeezed her ever tighter. She
thought she would surely break under the strain, but before she did, he pushed
her back a bit and thrust a small, razor-sharp knife into her soft under belly
and quickly drew it across, opening a gaping wound that filled her with terror
before the blinding pain set in. She defecated.
Then swiftly, he began to slash her about her upper body, throat and neck.
She was vaguely aware of diabolical peels of demented laughter emanating
from somewhere near her, but she could make no sense of it, as she felt her
left breast surgically removed and the cold air upon her exposed breast bone.
The last thing she remembered as her life's blood ran forth onto the boards
was that cold, sharp steel, opening her face from cheek to cheek and her jaw
going slack. How he hated her. Long after her cheap, whore's spirit had
departed, he continued to maim and slash and rip until her corpse was hardly
recognizable in the flickering candlelight in that back room in the dark and
silent alley, just off the bloody Thames. No one heard her screams of terror
and pain. There was no mercy. No one came to her rescue, and for a long
time, no one found her remains as the most of her, in time, was consumed by
the great warf rats that had found their way in, lured by the sent of her and the
need of an easy meal.
The good Doctor opened his eyes as the morning sunlight filtered in through
the fresh gauze curtains that his elderly housemaid had just hung on his East
window the day before and felt the satisfaction of an awakening cat after a
night of hunting and a fresh kill. He felt something else too: in a small, almost
unreachable part of his mind there was outrage and disgust at his actions of
the previous night. However, this small part of his shriveled and shrunken
conscience, was overshadowed by the essence of the powerful daemon that
had taken possession of his soul some years before when he tried to save an
injured murderer after he fell from a rooftop while being chased by the police.
The man had died in his hands, and now he knew that whosoever was closest
by or he that killed the body currently inhabited by the daemon would receive
unto himself and be possessed by that hateful and powerful denizen of Hell at
the instant of death.
The doctor stretched, yawned, and eased himself out of bed in almost one,
fluid motion, his feet unerringly entering his slippers as he sat up. He was
clean and tidy as the daemon was careful about such things. That's why the
doctor always stripped down to his skin before committing his grizzly deeds
of murder and mayhem upon the unsuspecting. It was then easy to wash off
the blood with a small amount of water and a rag from a greatcoat pocket
before again dressing in his street clothes and slipping away in the darkness
while his victim's spirit screamed in silence.
Just then, he heard the tinkle of the breakfast bell as his housekeeper brought
his tray. His breakfast smelled good, and he ate with a considerable appetite,
considering his recent adventure. Funny how the memory of the preceding
night seemed to drain away as his attention focused upon his three minute egg
and the mundane events of the day.
It wasn't until several nights later that the stalker again walked the streets of
London town, the unholy desire growing and expanding within him.
However, this time, the game plan changed. Someone stalked the stalker, and
as the stalker turned down a particularly dark street in search of his prey, a
wooden club, wielded by the hand of a common thug split the stalker's skull
and death was almost instantaneous. Of course, the rest of the process was
almost automatic. The daemon that had inhabited the body of the doctor
simply entered the body of the thug, hardly skipping a beat. The thug
shuddered at the invasion of his soul as he could not understand what had
happened, even when the daemon revealed to him his bloody fate.
The thug was a powerful man, but exceedingly stupid, so much so that even
the daemon had trouble controlling the hulking carcass and directing it to his
nefarious purposes. The thug may have been even worse than the daemon as
he kept trying to upstage the visage from Hell by adding his own peculiar
little twists to the mix. There were times when even the daemon tried to
escape this nightmarish prison of flesh, but had to wait his time with patience
according to the rules of his pact with the Devil. The thug wouldn't listen to
reason and kept on taking trophies from the bodies of the poor girls, and he
had this proclivity towards writing bloody letters to the constabulary and the
newspapers, describing his untidy work. Just to read his craven words was
enough to bring chills up and down the backbones of most normal folks, but
of course, there were those who found a certain fascination with his macabre
actions and even cheered him on. Anyway, for a while, the thug had quite a
following and inadvertently sold a lot of newspapers. One particular instance
was quite popular and the talk of the town. It seems that our bad boy sending
a half a human kidney off to the establishment really drew a lot of attention,
especially when his letter revealed that he had eaten the other half of the
kidney for dinner and found it fairly tasty.
That's why it wasn't long before the thug got caught while carving up the
carcass of one Sarah Ann Pugh who made the mistake of shining on to the
bad boy one fateful night over on the East End. You see, the thug liked to
add his own perversions to the daemon's simple lust for blood. Let's face it,
exhibitionism can be dangerous. The thug liked to do up his ladies out on the
street and leave the mess in plain sight so as to shock the finders. Unlike the
good doctor who had the sense to take his victims inside or at least to a safe
place to raise Hell, the thug got off on committing his crimes just around the
corner from people who could perhaps chance upon him during the act. He
tried to quickly silence his victims by strangling them first, cutting off their air
with his powerful hands. Usually, they made not a sound. Then, he would
gently lay them down to his left and slit their throats in such a manner that the
hot, fresh pumping blood would spurt away from him, thus keeping him fairly
clean in the process. Naturally, the thug would linger as long as possible over
his prey while he and the daemon plowed into their tender flesh with an
insane vengeance, previously unknown in the annals of modern history.
In Merry Old England, there were vigilance groups, and the thug couldn't
resist trashing Sara Ann out behind the house where the local vigilance group
met. In fact, he even did the grizzly deed outside while they were having a
meeting. Of course as it would happen, the meeting adjourned early, and the
door burst open and out came several burly men into the unholy presence of
the thug bending over the ripped open carcass of Sarah Ann, the thug holding
her sexual organs in his left hand as he cut them free with a swipe of his sharp
knife.
Well, needless to say, those tough vigilance boys pounced on Jack with sticks
and clubs a flailing. Oh yes, that was the thug's name, Jack... Well it was
quite a fight, with Jack killing two of their number before one of the boys got
in a lucky blow with his shilelagh, he was an Irishman, you see. We'll as
Jack's lights went off, the daemon went right up through the club like
electricity through a wire and into the hand of the Irishman in the blink of an
eye. The daemon was free, Jack was dead and so was Sarah Ann. Well, it
was a pretty mess, there on the cobble stones, and those left alive didn't know
what to say. It was all over except for the bodies being buried. Of course,
this would cause a hullabaloo down at the station house and the group would
have bobbies all over them for days to come.
That's why after talking it over among themselves, they decided just to bury
their dead, Jack and Sarah too, and save themselves the trouble of all the
explanations. After all, who cared? The Ripper was dead and would be
forgotten in time. Anyway, O'flarrity had a horse and cart which he quickly
brought around, and the survivors piled all four of the bodies into the cart and
rattled off out of town to the old graveyard behind the old Druid church by
the runestone. Midnight found them digging a common grave, wide and deep
enough to hold all four corpses, and as the moon set in the night sky, the
vigilance group finished their grizzly job, patting the earth down with their
shovels and saying some words for Sarah and the two new fellows who had
just joined their group the week before. The two slain warriors were both
single and had no immediate family to fret about them, so they wouldn't be
missed. One of the boys pulled a pint of gin out of his back pocket, and they
all had a drink in honor of the dead, well, three of them anyway.
Now, O'flarrity knew that something had changed as he felt differently about
all of the death than he ever had before. To be sure, death was a common
visitor at his time on Planet Earth, but he had never before enjoyed it. He
wondered why all of a sudden, he felt so excited and why the sights and
smells of the dying were so titillating to him. True, the hot rush of the gin on
his throat felt good, but it didn't take his attention off of the fresh graves there
in the old Druid graveyard by the ancient runestone.
Well about a decade or more passed, and it became fashionable for people to
migrate out from Old London Town all over the Earth. After the turn of the
century, many of them traveled across the broad back of the sea to a land
called America and with them came a fellow named Ronald Carstairs who
seemed a little strange, but in the crowded under decks of the ship was hardly
noticed. Neither were a couple of young women who had disappeared
without so much as a word. But none thought too much about them as
conditions were so bad that nobody really cared. In time, the ship pulled into
the harbor near the great statue with the raised torch, and the ship's crew
quickly unloaded the new, prospective citizens of the United States there on
Ellis island to undergo the necessary medical tests and paperwork that would
gain them entrance into the great concrete and stone jungle that would soon
become their new home.
Of course, over the years the legend of Saucy Jack grew, and the daemon
leapt from body to body until the lineage was lost. But sooner or later, the
daemon always surfaced to keep the legend of Jack The Ripper alive. You
bet, there were always tales spoken in the dark of night about the bogeyman
who did horrible things to unsuspecting women and children by the light of
the full moon, but no one living had ever seen such a person until some time
ago when a horrible serial killer surfaced and took the lives of eight women
before he was apprehended, alive and sentenced to death by hanging in Attica
State Prison. Naturally, there was that waiting period before the execution
date, and during that time, Jack (his name was now Jack Hollister), got to
know the Warden rather well. How Jack hated that Warden, but he never let
the man know, as he had plans for John Riggs, the Warden. Every night,
though, Jack went through the rigors of Hell as the daemon kicked up a fuss,
wanting fresh meat and blood and gore, but the craving couldn't be satisfied
because of the gray bars that held both of them in their cell there on Death
Row.
That's when Jack started writing letters again. The daemon remembered how
that other Jack, so long ago had stirred up the population by revealing the
details of his crimes to the establishment and the newspapers. Well, it wasn't
long after the letters started up that a female reporter by the name of Delia
East, appeared before Jack's cell door there on Death Row. Now, this
particular Jack and the daemon, were neither one stupid, and in unison, they
played the woman reporter like a fish, gaining her confidence and drawing her
into their web of horror and deceit. Jack, with the aid of the daemon's
memory described hundreds of grizzly deaths over the last hundred years, and
the woman, Delia East, ate it all up and started publishing Jack's stories, one
after the other, in the media.
It wasn't until Jack's execution date drew near that he had the chance to
snatch that Delia winch through the bars and do her up properly. A cohort in
the machine shop had made Jack a small, but very sharp knife out of the
handle of a large spoon and sent it to him in a big, sloppy pile of mashed
potatoes. The prisoners called such implements a "Shank". It wasn't much of
a knife, but it was all that Old, Saucy Jack needed, to get his nasty little job
done. It seemed that the rest of the prison population were cheering him on.
Then one slate-skied day, Jack hung back and played like he was otherwise
occupied. He waited his time with patience-- like a clever cat plays like he is
sleeping while an over-daring bird hops past him, chasing a a butterfly. The
woman, like that silly bird never knew what hit her as Jack reached out and
silenced her with his strong hands before she could let out a yelp. Then, the
fiery rage of the daemon engulfed that flaccid wench with the stench of Hell
Fire and Brimstone as Jack disemboweled her with one deft stoke of that tiny,
but terrible blade. He had saved it all up just for her. Jack with the glowing
eyes, then began to carve her up like a Holiday Goose, cutting off a piece
here and a piece there and pulling the meat through the bars. Now and again,
he would pare of a bite-sized chunk which he wolfed down with an ghoulish
gusto. But in the end, it was the demented laughing of the daemon through
Jack's vocal cords that drew the guard's attention, but by the time they arrived
on the scene, Jack had most of Delia's horribly disfigured and maimed body,
disjointed and pulled through the bars and tossed in a back corner by the
john. Blood and gore were everywhere in that dismal cell on Death Row, but
Jack didn't even notice as he was so focused on his work-- neither did the
daemon.
For a long moment, the guards just stared in amazement and horror at the
bloody sight before them. But finally, it was the strong, coppery smell of a
large volume of human blood that finally brought them to their senses enough
to act. However, too late is too late, and they weren't just sure where to grab
what little was left of Delia East there on that slippery, Death House floor.
After wrenching Delia's carcass away from that howling daemon, and yes, it
took both of those strong guards to pull the last shreds of her away from that
powerful visage from Hell, the guards unlocked and threw open the cell door
in an attempt to subdue Jack with their wooden clubs. However, before they
could do any damage, Jack dove for the floor and cut the hamstring muscle of
the nearest guard. Then pushing that guard down to do service as a stumbling
block, Jack came up and drove his ever-so-sharp, bloody, little knife into the
other advancing guard's belly as he tripped over the fallen obstruction of his
mate. Then, slitting flesh like so much parchment, Jack slid his blade up
under the surprised, man's rib cage where it found and stilled that tiny, but
powerful little pump that once sustained his life. Oh, the blood spurted all
over Jack and the fallen guard, running down the groves in the floor into the
drain trough near the far wall. The cell was awash in a sea of dark, red blood,
but Jack paid it no mind as he quickly spun around and deftly slit the throat of
that first guard with the severed hamstring, thus further adding to the disarray
and outright horror of the scene.
The excited daemon danced with glee, as never had he had such a repast all at
one time. He had cleaned house on all comers, and finally pacified, he had
worn out Jack's body by all the fevered exertion. At last, when the daemon
could not spark Jack into further movement, he slumped down in a corner to
sleep and dream. That is the way the relief guards found Old, Saucy Jack,
and it was a good thing too, as they were able to get that frightfully, strong
body into tough restraints to prevent any further mayhem and bloodshed there
on the stones of Death Row.
Of what had happened, there was no doubt, so the Governor proclaimed that
Jack's execution should occur just as he was sentenced as they could not hang
him twice. In the mean time, they placed steel sheeting over the bars of bad
boy, Jack's cell to make sure that he couldn't easily reach through and make
someone else his victim. Enough was enough! However, the events
concerning the newswoman and the guards interested the Warden enough to
start visiting Jack in order to find just why he was so compelled to do the
Hellish work that he so much enjoyed.
Well, Jack was a talker, especially when he found out that the Warden would
be the one to actually pull that lever, next to the gallows that would send him
to Hell. In fact, Jack took great care to lead the Warden along, step by step
in order to prepare him for the dread knowledge that when he, the Warden,
pulled that accursed lever, Jack's daemon would swiftly enter his helpless
body and make it his own. Jack wanted the Warden know what it would be
like to be controlled by that Hellish daemon, and to have his strings pulled in
such a way as to make him murder and rend the corpses of his victims. The
Warden, of course, was taken aback by the announcement and was totally
incredulous of the possibility. But none-the-less, Jack insisted that he had
told the Warden the truth... "And when you pull that switch, Warden, my
daemon will leap into your breast like a wild beast, and you will then take my
place as Jack The Ripper. There is nothing, Warden, nothing at all that you
can do to save yourself."
The Warden was dismayed, but still he didn't believe. That is why Jack and
the daemon decided to give the Warden a taste of that which was to come.
The daemon couldn't fully enter the Warden until Jack's body actually died at
the Warden's hands, but he could, however, reach out with his powerful
daemon's mind and put violent urges of murder and destruction into the
Warden's own mind, making him desire to commit foul and atrocious deeds
upon the poor, unsuspecting bodies of his erstwhile admirers. In fact that
very night when the Warden was alone with his lovely secretary, the cunning
daemon stole into the Warden's mind and brought forth exactly such an urge
to the forefront of the Warden's consciousness. It was all the Warden could
do to avoid stabbing his secretary to death with his letter opener there on his
desk. He wanted to kill her, right there and then! He wanted to tear her apart
right there on his office floor and scatter her remains to the four corners of the
room without mercy, without care. He wanted her to bleed. For a time, the
Warden was all want and desire. However, the Warden fought back with all
the strength in him, but no matter how he tried to concentrate upon his
dictation, his attention kept straying back to that sharp, little letter opener--
there on his desk. Such strangeness! All of a sudden, the Warden really liked
sharp knives and longed to grab up this one and put it to violent use. It was a
horrible experience for him, almost beyond belief, but it was true and very
real. So true, in fact that soon, the Warden could hear the daemon laughing
somewhere in the back of his mind, down deep where he couldn't escape
from it. There was no place to hide. Reality came crashing in.
Finally, the ordeal was over, and the secretary left his office to finish her
work at her own desk, out of his sight. She left just in time as in another
moment, he might have given in to his unholy desires. The stricken Warden
then, recovering his composure and seeing that it was getting late, grabbed his
coat and hat and left his office for his home. However, it was no better there,
as now, he wanted to kill his wife. Oh, how he desired to rip and tear at her
soft flesh. He resisted. But, even after they went to bed, the urge remained--
stronger than ever. The Warden didn't know how painful desire could be. The
sweat poured off him as he resisted the urge to strangle his wife with his bare
hands, there upon their bed of marriage. He wanted to crush her neck in h is
strong grip. He kept envisioning that new set of black-handled, sharp knives
that hung upon his kitchen wall, and he wanted to use each one upon her soft
flesh. Tossing and turning, the Warden wallowed in torment. He could not
sleep as his desire for blood kept welling up in him in waves of fascination.
He couldn't keep still. Then, somewhere about two O'clock in the morning,
he threw off the covers and rose from his bed. His wife, Betty, said, "John?
what's the matter, dear? Can't you sleep?" The Warden answered, "No, I'm
going downstairs to think. You go on to sleep. I'll be all right..." And with
that, he left their bedroom, but as he pulled the door shut behind him, the
Warden noticed that the moon was almost full.
Now, he knew the truth, and it was on the midnight of the full moon in two
days that he must pull that awful lever and execute Jack The Ripper and
receive the daemon into himself. What could he do? Well, he had to do
something, and he had to do it quick. John Riggs, the Warden, passed the rest
of the night in abject misery with no sleep what-so-ever, lamenting over his
fate. The next morning, he called the old prison Chaplain, Father Simeon and
explained his sorry plight. The Chaplain felt his own heart sink as he heard
the news, and it affected him so, that he almost wept. He hadn't heard of such
a powerful case of daemon possession in years. That is why he called in a
certain knowledgeable Priest, skilled in exorcism for a consultation. The
Priest, even though he had great experience in such matters, was sore
troubled about the situation himself, and greatly feared to become involved
with it. Even so, it was his duty, and the next afternoon found him entering
the prison and mounting the stairs to Death Row where he could talk to Jack
and access his daemonic condition.
Of course, the Priest tried all of his holy wiles and exorcism paraphernalia to
no avail. Later, he even became aggressive and splashed holy water upon
Jack's face, hoping to drive out the daemon, but it did no good as this ancient
daemon was strong, and no amount of crosses or holy water was going to
expel him from Jack's body until he rightfully would enter the Warden's body
the next night at midnight with the full moon as witness. The daemon laughed
as the Priest read the exorcism scrolls and rang his little bell and genuflected
to his powers-that-be, making a fool of himself in the eyes of the daemon and
the Powers of Hell. Nothing worked, and finally, the Priest left in defeat,
ashamed of himself, his God, his church, and the inability of his learning to
conquer the red-eyed son of Hell.
The Priest, because of his failure, couldn't look anyone in the eye as he hastily
departed the old prison. Head down, he was but a shadow upon the wall, and
no one will ever know exactly how he tripped on something unseen upon the
steep stairs. For an instant, the old Priest thought that hands had came up
through the stones and grabbed ankles. Thus fettered, the old Priest fell,
breaking his neck and splitting his skull wide open upon the sharp stones at
the base of that ancient set of risers. Later, the guards found his broken,
splayed body there upon the lower landing, soaking in a pool of his own
blood, deserted by his God in his time of need. The guards could only shake
their heads in wonder and fear at the terrible proceedings that were to soon
commence. The Warden was besides himself and so fearful that he even
went so far as to seek audience with Jack to beg the daemon for mercy.
However, it did no good as the daemon hungered for the freedom that
awaited him in the Warden's young, strong body. Then, to add insult to
injury, Jack handed the Warden a small, sharp knife. "How did you get this,"
inquired the surprised Warden? "Surely, you know that anybody can get
anything in prison, Warden. Someone made it for me and slipped it in. But it
is for you, not me. The knife is yours, and you'll be using it yourself
tomorrow night after I'm gone. Yes, Warden, the knife is for you!" The
Warden started to hand the knife to a guard, but a sort of a fugue stole over
him, and he thought better of it, hesitating. Finally, the Warden said, "Never
mind, guard. I'll dispose of the knife myself," as he unthinkingly slipped the
sharp, little blade into his jacket pocket. The leering, red-eyed Jack didn't
have anything else to say.
The next day found the Warden in misery. Then, tired of pacing the floor, He
called the Governor on the phone, "Oh there you are Governor, I've been
trying to call you all afternoon. I want you to stay Jack's execution, as I think
that I have found evidence that he is innocent." The Governor replied, "Oh
no, the execution goes on as planned. He's guilty as sin all right, I know it,
and I want him dead a the stroke of midnight-- see to it!" The Warden said,
"NO, Governor, it's not like you think! Jack is possessed by a daemon, and
the daemon is responsible for all of the murders. The worse part is that when
I pull the switch on old Jack, the daemon will come into me and inhabit my
body!" "Nonsense," barked the Governor, "Do your job," and with that, the
Governor hung up the phone and left the Warden to his fate. The Warden,
then in fear of the condition of his immortal soul, prayed all afternoon and on
into the evening, staying alone, as he feared the close proximity of any
females. There was no telling what he might do if one came near him. The
sun slowly crept across the sky, and in due time, the bright moon began to
rise in its mocking fullness. The hours marched on with unrelenting slowness
as the hands of the clock marched from little dot to little dot upon the clock
face until, at last the dread moment arrived. It would be then that the Warden
would have to face up to joining Jack upon that old weathered, wooden
scaffolding and place his hand upon that horrible lever of fate that would
signal not only Jack's demise, but his own doom. The Warden was like a
caged animal that couldn't escape. Pacing back and forth, he looked about for
a release, but there was none. The shadow of that lever filled his mind.
However, there was nowhere to turn as he was duty bound to carry out his
orders from the Governor.
The night wind swirled around the grim pair, there on the boards, mocking
them both. But in due course, the Warden, at the appointed time, asked Jack
if he wanted the hood to cover his face, but Jack said, "What for? My death
will be swift, and I won't even feel it." But then, he reconsidered and Jack
said, "Oh, I suppose that I should wear the hood for the sake of the civilians
watching. Go ahead and put it on." The black, velvet hood was then placed
over Jack's head, and as the big clock on the dungeon wall chimed the first,
hollow stroke of midnight, the Warden, giving no warning, took a deep
breath and pulled the lever. The trap sprang, and Jack dropped below the
deck in a swift fall that ended with a jerk as the rope played out. Nothing
was heard but the sharp crack of Jack's neck breaking between the chiming of
the clock. Nothing at all. It was over, and the Warden felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing. It had all been a ruse. There was no daemon after all.
The Warden felt perfectly all right and completely sane. He was so happy
that he never even for a second thought of Jack The Ripper, swinging there
below the rough deck with excrement running down his legs. Such relief!
The Warden felt like singing, "Gone, gone, the witch is gone," just like in the
fairy tales, but he kept his joy to himself as he dismounted the accursed
platform and walked off into the night. Later, in his warm and comfortable
office, Warden John sat down at his desk and poured himself a drink of Jack
Daniel's Straight Whiskey, and then another, feeling the warmth of the
brownish liquor warming his veins and then his heart-- which at last, had
begun to beat steadily in a normal rhythm.
Just then, there was a knock on the door, and the Chaplain entered his office,
bible and cross in hand, ready for the worst. "Are you all right, John," asked
the Chaplain? The Warden smiled, and poured the Chaplain a drink of Jack
Daniel's and said that yes, he was-- very much all right! There was no
deamon, and that Jack had been stringing them along. "Isn't that wonderful,"
said the Warden?.. "It sure is," said the Chaplain, spilling a small vial of holy
water on the Warden's hand... Nothing happened. Nothing at all. "Oh,
sorry," said the Chaplain, "So clumsy of me..."
Well, it was late, and time for bed. The Warden went home and shared a
pleasant night with his wife, and all was well. However, the next day, the
Warden, after thinking the whole thing over, decided that he didn't want to be
a Warden any more, so he turned in his resignation and left the employ of the
Governor. In fact, within days, John Riggs, the ex-warden packed up his
wife and left the state of New York for parts unknown, somewhere out west
where the air was clear and a man could start over at peace with himself and
his maker. A short time later, however, a fellow by the name of John Riggs,
who people often thought was a bit strange, eventually moved into a big city
out on the west coast to start life anew, but John Riggs, the ex Warden, didn't
bring a wife to town with him...
