“Cor, Professor, do you think it might be him; the Ripper?”
“Of course not Winston. Everyone knows that villain ceased operation over six years ago. He either died or moved on. His sort would not stop their reign of terror otherwise.”
Professor Reginald Saint-John pulled his coat closer about his narrow shoulders as he spoke. He told himself it was the damp fog which had turned London into a white netherworld causing his shiver, not trepidation that they might actually be on the trail of someone just as bad, or even worse than, the Ripper.
“The modus operandi of this case also does not fit the Ripper, old chap. The victims are both male and female; while there is violence to the point of vivisection there has not been theft of organs or other bodily parts; and then there is the existence of witnesses. The Ripper was never seen at his work, this villain, or at least his lights, have been spotted by multiple witnesses. How did that last woman describe it old man?”
“Like waving tentacles of light, sir.”
“Yes, exactly; waving tentacles. I suspect something akin to the lanterns used by the Orientals during their festivals; long paper constructs which channel the light. I’ll be damned if I understand why this killer would use such a thing. Possibly it is to help illuminate his killing ground. One can never understand the mind of a maniac Winston, we may only conjecture and attempt to determine his motive so that we might apprehend him.”
“Is that part of why we’re in this part of town sir?”
“Exactly. This fog light killer – I quite like that Winston, remember that for me, I believe I shall share that with our reporter friend from the Times – this fog light killer has been hunting within a very constrained area. His victims, twelve at last count I believe, have occurred in concentric rings around St. George in the East church with clockwork regularity. If my calculations are correct, there should be an attack in the next twenty four hours within a two block radius of our very position.”
The Professor stopped, his companion was no longer dogging his heels as was his station.
“Winston?”
The Professor peered through the fog attempting to spot his man and finally saw the dark, portly shape he knew so well a dozen feet behind him.
“What are you up to Winston?”
He stomped along the cobbles toward his companion feeling rather cross at his abandonment. As he neared he could see that Winston was stopped at a cross street and staring fixedly down the side road.
“What the devil are you looking at man?”
Winston’s hand fell upon the Professor’s shoulder with crushing force and a sibilant whoosh of air came from his mouth. Was the impertinent man shushing him?
“Look guvnor,” he whispered hoarsely. “Tentacles of light.”
Sure enough the Professor could see six long streamers of light waving haphazardly along the side street. They appeared to be taller than a man and emanating from a single point on the ground. Was the fog light killer really that sure of himself that he could set up such a spectacle for each kill?
Reaching into his great coat, the Professor drew a pistol and looked at his man with a grin. He had always wanted to use a line from his newest literary hero and now was his chance.
“The game is afoot, Winston.”
He charged forward, gun at the ready, assuming that Winston was hot upon his heels.
In a matter of moments he was at the lights.
“Stop blaggard, you are apprehended,” he shouted skidding to a halt.
The Professor expected to see a man at his horrid work upon some poor citizen but instead he saw a scene from Hell. The body of a woman floated in the air at eye level. Her dress was in tatters revealing the pale skin of her stomach and breasts for all to see. The tentacles of light were not Chinese lanterns as the Professor had long held but appeared to be writhing pseudopods made of some bright light akin to Saint Elmo’s fire. The light emanated from the cobbles with no discernable source and several of the bright tendrils held the half naked woman aloft while the others writhed overhead as if unsure of where their presence was needed. No man, no woman, no mortal instrument of the horror they had pursued was present.
The Professor felt his scrotum draw tight against his belly and his mouth went dry. His pistol shook as if he had developed a palsy but he managed to croak a few words from his desiccated throat.
“Dear God defend us.”
Without volition, almost against his will—for he wanted nothing more than to remain invisible and to escape this insanity—his pistol spoke and the bullet passed through a glowing tendril as if it did not exist and ricocheted down the alley.
Two of the tendrils turned as if they were regarding him and reared up like cobras preparing to strike. The Professor’s stomach clenched and his mind screamed to run but his traitor legs were made of lead. The tendrils thrust forward. He saw them arrowing toward his chest and knew that when they met his flesh it would be as a knife ripping through his body and ending his too short mortal life. He did not even have time to consign his soul to God and opened his mouth to scream. Winston was suddenly there. The Professor’s rotund manservant moved like an athlete, sprinting across the few feet separating them and then he flung himself between the striking tendrils and his master.
The tendrils, deprived of their prey, tore into Winston’s body. The man was lifted into the air as if he were a feather and the Professor could see light shining through his skin as the tendrils quested through every inch of the man’s body. In a heartbeat he was torn asunder, spraying the Professor with blood and entrails.
He wanted to thank his friend for his reprieve but knew in his heart that it was momentary. The tendrils would find him next.
A shout from behind the Professor shocked him away from his contemplation of death. A form, covered in white flame charged past the Professor and lashed out at the tendrils with glowing canes. It was as if God had sent an angel to defend him. The figure was that of a man, larger than the Professor and built powerfully like a laborer or a soldier. He struck at the glowing tendrils again and again and the lights reacted as if they were physical beings under assault by the most potent of weapons. He drove the tendrils back, inch by inch. Each blow caused them to wither and withdraw. Even the tendrils holding the woman dropped her body and focused on defense against this angelic savior. Soon the man stood panting over the spot where the tendrils had emerged from the cobbles. Their light winked out and so too did the flame enshrouding his body.
“You’re a stupid lucky fuck old man,” he said.
“The girl’s still alive. Take her to hospital and stop chasing this killer. It is a thing beyond your ken.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the fog as if he had never existed. The Professor collapsed to the cobbles sobbing in reaction. He could hear the whistles of the Bobbies in the distance; help was on its way. He wiped the insides of his friend from his face and stared at the spot where the lights had disappeared. The girl moaned as did he. He would obey the strange warrior, his savior; his quest for fame in the apprehension of the fog light killer was at an end. He only wanted to go home, hunker before his fire and pray to God that he could forget all he had seen.
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