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HORROR LINES

LETTERS FROM HELL

 

  "The smoke and stench of Old London Town rose into the night sky, blotting out the stars like soot on silver. Nighttime was crowded and hopeless, although who in their right mind would have chosen to be out past dark amongst the whores and low-lives of Whitechapel?

  I walked those streets in silence and shadows, just an observer within the well-oiled machine of the filth and immorality that had drowned the people in sex and crime. I took to the rooftops, usually settling on a high corner, enabling me to scrutinize their vile behaviours from several angles at a time, and they never climbed out of the sewers once. Not the men most spent from a hard day's work, who regularly fell into the arms of the brewery whilst their wives sat nesting on piles of washing and offspring at home – nor the lawmen that skewed quickly toward the lower classes, dispensing their power to those least deserving of it, after turning a blind eye to the doctors and business roaches that did. I often enjoyed the taking of those eyes for my personal amusement, and they sat upon my mantle in small glass jars – spending many an evening most peculiarly glaring back at me with the glow of the fire. And then there were the unfortunate, unforgivable underchargers, who used their disease-ridden attributes as easily and mindlessly as a scrubbing board uses the bucket.

  I spent a year in the practice of my art, leaving many a whore alive, but nothing quenched my thirst quite like that very first kill. I learned to extinguish them quickly so I could carve and transform them into what they would become without struggle and interruption – but on that first night, I sat back and watched the blood-stained moon rise high in the rain-filled gutter, crimson in my satisfaction – and I became.

  This is all for now, my reprieve from my own torment is ended for the time being and the flames are coming to reclaim me once again.

 

~From Hell~"

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