Darkness Follows

This week I thought I’d share one of my short stories. This story was originally featured in the anthology A Winter’s Romance, published by BHC Press. If you like the story and are interested in reading other twisted tales of romance. I have added a link at the bottom. The Ice Queen By D.M. Kilgore is a personal favorite. Check it out if you feel so inclined.

            There are those who follow the light and those who follow the dark. Then there are those rare individuals whom darkness itself follows, as a shadow follows that which creates it. Lucy O'Donnel was one of these, though I knew nothing of such things when I first encountered her on a frigid London night. An unusual coat of snow dusted the streets of the Whitechapel district, a brisk reminder of the holiday season now past. While I must admit I had been seeking female companionship that night, I knew right off that Lucy O'Donnel was not whom I sought. That was what I told myself, though things do not always go as we expect. 

            For one, she was much too well dressed to be of that sort. For another, she strode the glistening streets with a confidence no lone woman should have at such a late hour. Whitechapel had not been a safe place for women of late. It was obvious she did not belong in this part of the city, yet her bearing and demeanor said otherwise. 

            Her footfalls first drew my attention, muffled by the thin layer of snow, yet audible in the silence of the near-deserted streets. I glanced in the direction of the sound as she rounded the corner from Commercial Street onto Hanbury. I was confident she was unaware of my presence, as I stood across the street and some distance away. I could not help but stare as she drew nearer––she seemed so out of place. That she was lovely was an understatement. Dark red hair framed her ivory face. A fur hat covered the top of her head, and she wore her long coat loose, as though the cold and snow were of little concern to her. 

            She glanced my way for just a moment, but that moment felt almost timeless. Her eyes shone the deepest blue, though how I knew from that distance I am not sure. Shadows from the gas lamps danced between us as her gaze moved on. She showed no indication that my presence had been revealed, and yet I felt as though something of great importance had transpired.

            Miss O'Donnel continued her stroll, and I determined to ignore her and continue with my evening. I was just turning away when I noticed something quite strange­­––one of the gas lamps across the street flickered then went dark as she passed by it. The rest of the lamps along the street remained unchanged. If Miss O'Donnel noticed, she gave no indication.

            The snow fell harder, large flakes that one could almost hear as they hit the ground in the near silence. The clomp of horse and carriage echoed from a nearby street. My focus remained on the woman, and I watched in wonder as the next lamp she passed was extinguished. That she did nothing to cause this was plain. She gave the lamps not a glance, whether bright or dark. I started to move from my concealment in the shadows when I stopped, the feeling of an invisible specter blowing on the hairs of my neck. A blackness deeper than the night passed in the wake of Miss O'Donnel. The blackness had no form that I could discern, no mass or structure, but was like a cloud displacing any light that came near. 

            Before I was aware of my actions, I found myself following her from my side of the street. She continued at her steady pace, looking neither right nor left and ignoring the mass of darkness that followed at her heels. When she reached the third gas lamp on the street I shivered as it, too, flickered and went dark. Coincidence was no longer an option I considered. As a man of the shadows, I could not help my curiosity at such an event. Power shivered in the air, though from the woman, the darkness, or both I did not know. 

            She turned right at the corner and disappeared from view. Wet snow dampened my steps as I hurried across the street, falling into the role of hunter. Stalking prey was nothing new to me. I slowed as I approached the intersection around which I had last seen her. The sound of her footfalls continued at the same pace. I glanced down the street from which she had come. The dark lamps cautioned me to be wary. I followed for several blocks, maintaining enough distance to keep her in sight but not to risk being noticed myself. All the while the dark mass swirled at her back but, strangely, did not in any way inhibit my seeing her. She shone like a beacon through the darkness. 

            In time we came to a part of town with which I was intimately familiar, though to say I was comfortable in it would be an overstatement. It soon became obvious that the woman was heading straight for St. Mary's Park. She did not so much as hesitate before disappearing into the cemetery. By this point I was forced to admit to myself that my curiosity had begun to give way to self-preservation. The feeling that I was being lured to a place I did not wish to go flooded my mind, too strong to ignore. I turned away and was startled out of my wits by a figure standing just behind me. A shriek escaped my throat, and I stumbled back. The figure was covered head to toe in a black robe, his gaunt, pale face just visible beneath the cowl. 

            "The darkness must follow the light," the figure said in a man's voice that was more normal than my imagination would have expected.

            I raised a trembling hand and tried to make my voice tranquil. "You frightened me, good sir. I was not aware you were there." Unaccustomed to being caught by surprise, I felt vulnerable, and that was not a feeling I ever allowed myself.

            I shied away as the man raised a hand, but he only pointed to where the woman had entered the cemetery. "The darkness must follow the light. I am the witness."

            I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about and no real desire to find out. I felt a terrible sense of danger and wanted nothing more than to get back to the streets where the gas lamps burned bright and cheery in the blackness of night. My hand reached for the comfort of the razor-sharp boning knife in my coat. For as long as I could remember the darkness had been my constant companion, surrounding me in its cold embrace, but on this night something in that darkness terrified me in a way I had never known. Something unstoppable that did not belong.

            I told myself that I was going back to Hanbury Street, back to the Brass Ring where I would have a pint and forget my plans for the night, but my traitorous body remained frozen. My eyes turned to the figure before me, and I swear I caught a glimpse of a smile beneath the cowl. 

            "Oh no," the man said, "it is much too late to turn back now."

            "Who are you?" I managed to ask, though my voice was nearly as paralyzed as my body. 

            "I am the witness. You are the lover. The darkness must follow the light."

            I wanted to shriek at this madman that he made no sense, but even my power of speech was stolen from me. He again pointed in the direction the woman had gone, and I felt myself turn. I had never known fear such as this. Not since childhood had I been so helpless to control my own destiny. I wanted away from there, to run and hide and never return, yet I stood immobile, unable to so much as blink of my own will. 

            "The light awaits the lover," the man said.

            I felt a tug, as though a line had been implanted in my chest; no, not my chest, my very heart. The line pulled, and my heart led me across the dark, silent street and through the gates of St. Mary's, surrounded by the shadows of the stones that stood as silent sentinels to those whose graves they guarded, one of whom lay here by my own hand. My breath plumed before my face as I was helplessly drawn through the snow-covered lawn. Only my eyes were mine to control, and they darted across the deserted cemetery in wild search of my horrid imaginings. I knew not what waited in the gloom but felt no doubt that it bode not well for me. Behind me I could sense the silent presence of the witness.

            The cemetery at St. Mary's was not large, yet my trek seemed to stretch much longer than it should. I shivered uncontrollably, whether from fear or cold I had no idea. My senses felt dull and distant as though they were not actually part of my physical self. Through the heavy flakes of snow I saw a light ahead. It grew brighter as I approached, and I could make out the form of the woman in the midst of it. Around her the darkness that had followed her hung like a curtain, but it was not enough to mute the light. As I approached, the woman smiled at me, radiant and inviting. 

            "Welcome," she said. Her voice was soft and lovely and tinged with what I could only describe as compassion. "I have waited long for you."

            "Who are you?" My voice was little more than a whisper. "Why am I here?" My body moved even closer until I stood within ten feet of her. Up close she was even more beautiful than I had imagined––mesmerizing. She was a light in the darkness, and my own great darkness was drawn to her and at the same time repulsed. She stepped forward and put a gloved hand to my face. I could feel the warmth of her flesh through the thin material. 

            "Henry Northill, how I have longed for our meeting. The cry of your heart has called to me from afar." Her hand slid from my face along my neck to rest on my chest. "Such loneliness. Such emptiness."

            I wanted to scream at her, to rage. You know nothing of me! You know nothing! Yet I knew that was not true. As her deep blue eyes gazed into my own I could see she knew everything about me. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to kill her, to pull the boning knife from my coat and slash her and stab her and vent the loneliness and pain on her lovely body. I quivered with the desire and yet remained paralyzed. 

            A single tear slipped from her eye to run down her flawless cheek. "Such passion you have, Henry. Such hate. Do you love the darkness as you tell yourself you do? Is it truly darkness you crave?"

            At that moment I knew I could speak the self-righteous arguments that spewed from my heart, yet only a single word passed my lips.

            "No."

            "What hides behind that hate, dear Henry? What lurks behind that wall of darkness that so consumes you?"

            I stood mute. My mind roiled over the question, reaching back through time, sifting through memories. Deep within I knew the answer, knew it had always been there, but anger and vengeance were so much easier to acknowledge. 

            "Is it so difficult, dear Henry?" She removed her gloves and put her hands on the sides of my face. They were so warm. The heat flowed into my flesh as she gazed into my eyes, into my soul. "What is it you want, dear Henry?" 

            Around us the darkness hung like a thick curtain, a physical presence, while the darkness inside screamed at me to flee and never look back. As I stared into the woman's gaze, my heart overcame the howling darkness. 

            "Love."

            The radiance of her smile lit the night. Her right hand moved from my face to cover my chest above my heart. The warmth penetrated my coat, my shirt, my very flesh. The darkness within cowered in silence. 

            "I love you, dear Henry." With that statement she leaned forward and placed her lips on mine. Things were moving too fast. I wanted to pull away, to think about what I was doing. Her lips were soft, and warmth flowed from them to my own. Such a kiss I had never experienced. A kiss full of love and light, passionate yet not the lustful passion I had spent my life wallowing in. I gasped as her tongue slipped between my lips, forcing them open. I wanted to pull away, but her hand gripped my neck and held me with a strength I would not have guessed she possessed. My inner darkness gave a futile screech as it was sucked from me. Both our bodies shook, and we embraced one another, our kiss burning as she took from me what I now freely gave. Light exploded behind my closed eyes as the passion of her love spread through me. 

            Then it was over. With a small sigh she pulled away. Her smile had faded, but her eyes still shown with love and light.

            "Do you love me, dear Henry?"

            My heart sang. "I do. I do love you, though I don't even know your name."

            "My name is Lucy O'Donnel." Her smile grew. "Tell me again, dear Henry. Tell me again that you love me."

            "I have never loved anyone as I love you, Lucy O'Donnel." And it was true. Never had I known anything like this. 

            Lucy looked over my shoulder. "Witness?"

            "His love is true, my lady."

            Lucy took a step away. She raised her arms out to her sides and turned her gaze to the sky. She was so beautiful standing there with the snowflakes falling around her. She closed her eyes, and to my shock the pale skin of her hands and face began to glow as the light of love that was within her poured out. With it came the darkness she had taken from me. It rose up with the light to join the cloud that had followed her to this place. When it was done the glow faded, and she looked as fresh as when I first saw her.

            I gestured at the cloud of darkness. "I am not your only love."

            She moved close again and put her arms around me. "Oh, dear Henry. You are the only one. For this time, in this place, you are my only love."

            I knew the truth of her words. We were lovers in the deepest sense. The weight of my past had been lifted, and I felt clean. "My crimes," I said.

            Lucy pulled back just a bit, her arms still circling my neck. "For them you still must pay."

            I nodded. I knew her love, a constant beacon of what is to come, would strengthen me to face my judgment. And it has. The years have been long and trying as I have paid my lonely penance, but I remember. She will return, and on that day, I will be free. And now I smile because, since you are reading this, that day has come.

Sincerely,

Henry Northill

a.k.a

The Whitechapel Murderer

a.k.a

Jack the Ripper