I See You, Jack! Chapter 13
Created | Updated 3 Weeks Ago
I See You, Jack!
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Chapter 13
Riding�s puzzlement and unease was beginning to give way to panic.
Seven trips, seven no-shows. After the fourth, he'd decided to revisit prior Rituals. To check for his own peace of mind the watch hadn't malfunctioned.
Nothing. He'd spent hours following streetwalkers and dollymops around the city. Each girl, each victim, plying her wares down back alleys, or giving up on the night and returning home. Each girl failing to meet her fate, her destiny, her Transcendence.
He'd arrived home, flinging open the door, running into his darkened living room, keen to check his research, ensure his maps and schematics were. . .
Riding stopped dead as he flicked the light switch, his wall, his glorious, painstakingly beautiful wall, was bare!
Each and every pin, thread and scrap of paper was gone. Indeed, there was not even a pin mark in the wallpaper, no trace of the intricate web of evidence he'd constructed. Not a scrap.
He turned to his bookshelves, sickening as the thought crossed his mind, but knowing they'd be empty.
Not one book that mentioned Jack the Ripper remained. Not one of the hundreds of histories, novels, magazines remained.
Of the few books remaining, mainly historical accounts of criminality in the 1800s, not one bore even a passing reference to the Architect.
Riding grabbed the books, tearing out indexes and content pages, scanning each, already knowing there would be no trace, no mention of the Ripper or his victims.
His laptop was no different. Try searching for. . . Did you mean. . . No items match this. . .
Riding angrily threw the computer against the blank wall, grabbing the scotch bottle, the liquid burning his throat, reaching for his satchel, hands finding only space, his notebook had also vanished.
In his bedroom, on the bedside table, sat the first hardback copy of his book. His fame, his life. Riding gulped down fear with whiskey, feet slipping on torn pages and shattered plastic, as he stumbled to his room.
Beside his bed - his mobile phone, his modern wristwatch, a glass of water. No trace of the hardback.
Grabbing the phone, he desperately googled, 'I See You Jack!'
Links to the movie Titanic, quotes, and music tracks. No mention of the book, his book.
He tried his own name.
Multiple hits. All strangers sharing a reasonably common name, but no bestselling authors, no global literary stars. No him, apart from a few old social media accounts.
The next few hours, sitting on the floor, scribbling frantically in virgin notepads, cursing the broken laptop. Desperately trying to recall details, sketches, the intricacies of each Ritual in as much detail as he could remember.
His writing became scrawl, his sketches infantile, as another bottle was opened, and the notebook filled.
Riding drank himself to sleep, dreaming fitfully, the red-rimmed maw forcing him awake. The dream, and dread, eventually fading with the dawn, but daylight had another nightmare waiting for James Riding.
