The Corpsewood

4. The Wistman

October 17th 1887

In the hours between brief periods of sleep, I had time to reflect on the sins I have committed. In the past when I have doubted my morality, you were there to quieten me. You offered me the warmth of your hand and said something to make me smile, as you so often do with that honied tongue you reserve only for me. Your love for me through this arrangement has not waned, and I quite admire your strength for standing by a man like me. It cannot be easy loving any son of my father's, nor is it easy being involuntarily associated with names like Hallenbeck and Emory. But try as you might to comfort me, you also do not understand that silencing my sins has not been good for either of us.

You tell me I am not the man Hallenbeck made me... that I am not his Jack. You are the only one in Whitechapel who knows me by my real name and you remind me of it when you whisper it softly in my ear at night. I know why you do it. But being Jack is a facet of my character that I cannot pretend isn't there. Hallenbeck did not force me into watching him mutilate the dead for his experiments. I was not kept prisoner in his laboratory by ball and chain. I fear there is a dark side of me that is open to such morbid curiosity, and, though you must never tell another soul, I was somewhat relieved when Emory Jr gave me the grave news. For a moment I thought I might at last be truly free, though I was not the only one to notice there was no saddened quiver in Emory's voice when he spoke of Hallenbeck's death either.

But even now when he is dead and lies face up on Emory's table with his bowels exposed and his lips receding over his teeth, I still feel the weight of his influence over me. I fear the dreams of Hallenbeck's chimera will only continue. Is that truly why I came here to Dartmoor? Is it mourning that drives me to search for his killer, or is it mere indulgence?

My wakefulness had been for nothing, my love, except for wishing your body close to mine, for the maid did not deliver a tray to my door this morning. A few times I thought I heard a knock, only to realise after I opened the door to an empty corridor that it might have been the old structure creaking instead. I grew more annoyed with every rumble from the pit of my stomach.

Still, as I wandered the inn searching for another living soul, I couldn't help but notice that every door in the place was open. I could have sworn in the previous days they had all remained closed. Locked, even. But I had been up most of the night, dear, and I heard nothing that sounded much like the clunk of a lock or the cries of aged door hinges. I cannot even ascend the stairs at night without fearing the noise will disturb my neighbours.

But I suppose it would be folly to jump to any conclusions. As I searched the downstairs storey I considered it fair to assume that the doors were open for cleaning or airing purposes. It is not uncommon for old lodges to suffer damp, especially after the rains we have had of late. Still, I found it unsettling that I had yet to find anyone around at all.

It is against my better judgement that I once again felt I must search the hills for the answers I sought and finally return home, leaving that lonely shack of an inn for good. After learning of the incidents in the woods, I would not have advised a return journey there even to somebody I would rather see the end of. So why, I asked myself as I pulled on my boots, was I going? Was it the curiosity that my father had bred into me? Or was it some pervasive morbidity that my many hours with Hallenbeck had secured?

What was more... I wrote in brief in a previous letter of the naked corpse I had seen, hanged from a tree limb with its head oddly tilted and a noose around its neck. If I did not know better I'd have to suppose what I saw was a suicide. But so disorientated and distressed was I that I did not entertain turning back and examining it. I had washed my hands of playing master of the dead months ago and told myself instead that I had not seen it. If ever there arises a police enquiry I will hold my silence on the matter.