Shadow Of The Ripper

By Tom Schafer

Obsessed with the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Jack the Ripper became the name of horror in the late Eighteen hundreds. But were his killings the act of a madman, or did they have a deeper, unknown purpose. A teenage boy, Bobby Crowe, and Detective Kevin Daulton are about to find out as the spirit of Jack the Ripper returns to haunt a small, Ohio town. Can these two mortals unravel the mysteries of death? Or will they, too, fall victim to the Shadow of the Ripper?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Schafer
• Release date: Apr 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311514943

Tom Schafer

First, I am horrible at bio's. Second, my major influence in writing is Poe. I love short stories that make you think "huh, hope that never happens to me." And I try to instill that in my work.

Book preview

SHADOW

OF THE

RIPPER

BY

TOM SCHAFER

Copyright 2014 Tom Schafer

Published at Smashwords

Dedicated to the memory of Edgar Allan Poe. His brilliant work inspired this story.

PROLOGUE

Whitechapel, England.

31st Day of August, 1888.

Ye, who read are still among the living, but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the reqion of shadows. For indeed, strange things shall happen, and many secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, e’re these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

The words of one of the greatest writers the world had ever seen-Edgar Allan Poe-had been dancing about his mind for hours now. They cascaded through the darkness of his thoughts, fading briefly, only to rise again, with no end soon in sight. Even now, as red paint met canvas and completed the illusion of a nude woman lying in a pool of blood upon the cobblestone streets of London, the words echoed within. Enveloping him. Corrupting him.

Jack Crowe had always felt this strange link when reading the works of Poe. It made him feel as though he were gazing back in time at himself, peering through a tiny window of which few had little knowledge. Poe had been gone from this Earth for less than half of a century, and yet Jack could still feel the common bond in his words.

But Poe didn’t know what Jack knew. Few of those counted among the living did. And those that did know would be hard pressed to talk about it. It was one of the secrets of nature, and the ones aware passed it along to few indeed.

A maniacal cackle escaped Jack’s thin, weather-beaten lips. His narrow brown eyes glistened with the sparkle of insanity as his shallow cheeks pulled those lips back into a smile, the likes of which only seen in asylums. He stretched his long arm out in front of his narrow frame, setting the paintbrush down on the easel in front of him. With a confident sigh, he brought his arms over his head and cracked his knuckles.

They will know soon enough, Jack said, though there was nary a soul near to hear his words, and he laughed again in the most insane of ways. He knew he would never be joining Poe in his Region of Shadows, his escape had already been planned. It was foolproof. Immortality would soon be his!

Jack picked the brush back up and signed the canvas neatly at the bottom: J Crowe.

His mind switched to The Tell-Tale Heart, another of his favorite tales. Standing from the rickety wooden stool, Jack buttoned his thick, black shirt up to the collar and set the matching top hat over his thinning, tangled, jet-black hair. Leaning down, he blew out a flickering candle on the dirty oak table, grabbed his silver-handled cane, and threw his darkest cloak over his narrow shoulders. With another chuckle, he headed toward the door leading out of his small shack, whipping it open as he pulled the top hat down tight over his protruding brow. Then he disappeared into the dark, close-knit streets of Whitechapel, becoming a whisper in the shadows, a killer without a face, a legend the likes of which had never before been seen.

Chapter 1

Ohio-Present Day.

Through bleary, dark-brown eyes- eyes that held more than just a hint of boredom within them- Bobby Crowe sat with his chin resting in his hand, as he stared silently at the snowflakes that fell outside of the living room windows. He found himself amazed by how the white clumps of moisture continued to pile upon the already whitened fields outside. It captivated him, it reminded him of when he was younger and would play with his grandmother’s snow-globes, only to be disappointed when the flakes settled to the ground and none remained to take their place.

Although he was more than appreciative of the three-day break from the current school-week; Bobby had already grown weary of every item in his house that usually occupied his time during storms such as these that separated Burgoon, Ohio from the rest of the small cities that comprised the Northwestern area of Ohio. His video gaming system was collecting dust on the top shelf of his upstairs bedroom, and, as far as Bobby was concerned, it could rot there. Rot right along with every other novelty item or teenage-must have-fad that he had owned and long since abandoned.

How was she always beating him? He was fifteen! It was an embarrassment for a boy of his age to be beaten at a video game by a girl-especially when that girl was your own twin sister.

Losing at a fighting game was bad enough; at least he could claim that it was just a button-mashing game; nothing more than blind luck, but Abby had even beaten him at football! Not once or twice; not by a field goal or a touchdown, but she had downright owned his ass! Was there no God?

Want to play football? Abigail Crowe whispered from behind her brother with a giggle.

Bobby turned and looked at the blonde, female version of himself. Although she was almost half-a-foot shorter than him- and had been cursed with a completely opposing personality as well- anyone looking at the two of them could tell that they were related rather easily. They both possessed big, round eyes. Their facial features were sharp and strong, just like their parents. Bobby liked how he looked, except for the big eyes, which was why he wore his light brown hair a little ratty. He thought that if he were perfectly groomed, he would look gay. He knew that it was politically incorrect to think that- and he had nothing against gay people- he just didn’t think that looking like one would work out too well when hitting the showers after football practice. He was nervous enough in there, he didn’t need to worry about some strange senior eyeballing him, considering him a potential prom date.

With a sarcastic frown, and a tone to match it, Bobby’s ever-wandering mind tuned back to his sister. I don’t think so. He said simply. Then he turned his gaze back toward the vision of falling snow.

Don’t want to lose to the lowly Browns again? Abigail hissed in her ever-so-annoying tone . . . It was so goddamned irritating, enough to make even the most devout of Priests swear aloud. What aggravated him the most about it was that it almost always served to get Abigail whatever she wanted, with just about anyone. Not with Bobby though, he had heard it enough over the years to ignore whatever whiney quality it possessed that made people bend to his sister’s will.

The controller is busted. Bobby lied, his quick wit cutting Abigail’s insurgence to the bone. But she was not to be denied.

Come on, I’m bored. Abigail insisted with a huff and a gentle rolling of her big, hazel eyes.

Like I’m not, Bobby thought to himself. Maybe if you didn’t kick my ass so much, I’d play!

Bobby could handle losing, to an extent, but on those rare occasions that he would actually be winning, Abigail would think up some lame-ass excuse to stop playing. I have to pee, I have to go and help mom cook supper, I forgot I was supposed to go shopping, He had heard them all. His favorite of all time was that a bird had flown into the window, and she needed to go tend to it.

Right.

Whatever.

Are you two going to sit by the window all day? Patricia Crowe called out in her soft, yet somehow always sarcastic voice. It was not quite as bad as Abigail’s, but it would still be clear to an onlooker where Abigail received her gift.

Because if you are, then why don’t you try washing it?

Shit, chores!

Bobby recognized chores for what they were. They were unholy festivals of pure evil, created by overworked, underpaid, and overtaxed middle-class citizens as a way of breaking in the younger folks to the bullshit of the world that was waiting just a few years ahead of them.

We’ll find something to do, Mom. Bobby said as he wrenched his staring eyes from the snowy scene outside. He turned back to Abigail. "Any ideas, Abby, other than video games?" He said with a sigh.

Bobby knew the answer as soon as he saw that look of mischief creep up in his sister’s hazel eyes. That look meant trouble, and he was usually the one who took the brunt of it.

Oh no, Bobby whispered.

Abby stared back at her brother with a bright, happy smile, one that seemed to be beckoning him to take that first-step toward reckless, teenage abandon.

What are you hatching? Bobby asked as he stared pensively at his sister.

Come upstairs, Abigail whispered into his ear. I got something cool the other day from Annie Michaels at school.

Bobby rolled his eyes again, he had been down this road countless times before, and it usually ended in disaster. His disaster. Conversations that had started similar to this one, usually resulted in his being grounded, his television privileges revoked, or any other thing that Chandler and Patricia Crowe could think up that would cause him grief.

If it explodes, catches fire in any way, or is sharp enough to remove a digit, I want no part of it. Bobby said, making sure that she knew that he was not in the mood to take the fall again if something went awry.

God, you are such a . . . just come on! Abigail huffed.

Begrudgingly, Bobby followed the little witch better known as his sister across the thick, white carpet of the living room, over to a flight of redwood stairs. His tube-socks slipped slightly as they ran up the stairs and came out onto the landing at the top, just as they always did when he forgot to either put on his shoes or take off his socks.

Dammit, Bobby whispered as he glared down at his feet. Those damned, slippery stairs were always getting the better of the fifteen-year-old, athletic Bobby Crowe, and it pissed him off to the highest extremes. He didn’t understand how he could dodge linebackers and defensive backs on the football field, but yet a simple staircase seemed to be his Achilles heel.

Some football player you are can’t even climb a flight of steps. Abigail giggled.

Shut up, Bobby said as the tricky steps beneath his feet, gave way to a dark-brown rug that stretched the length of the twenty-foot hallway. Intricate designs were weaved in yellow, twisting patterns across the rug, but Bobby had no idea what any of them was supposed to mean. It looked Indian, or maybe Aramaic. Hell, he didn’t know, and didn’t really care all that much either.

Abigail, now a full length ahead of her absent-minded and easily distracted brother, pulled open the door to her room, revealing a fifteen-year-old boy’s nightmare- A room covered in pink. Pink walls, a pink bedspread, even a pink night-stand stared back at Bobby from the other side of the open door. The sight of it was nearly enough to choke him. It was God awful. How the hell could Abby stand sleeping in here, or anyone else for that matter?

Bobby’s brow furrowed as Abigail motioned for him to follow her inside.

This had better be good, Bobby warned as he complied with her request, It looks like Strawberry-Shortcake threw up in here.

Shut up. Abigail said as she knelt down beside her pillow-ridden bed and tossed the pink cover up that reached to the floor. Close the door, idiot, she ordered as she tugged on something beneath her bed.

Unable to come up with a quick, sarcastic remark of his own, Bobby did as told and kept quiet, taking a seat on her bed when the door was securely shut.

Viola! Abigail said as she pulled out a long, white box and held it up triumphantly.

Bobby identified the box instantly, and stared at his sister sarcastically.

A Ouija board? Bobby shouted, almost too loudly.

Abigail’s tiny hand smacked across Bobby’s knee, and she raised her finger to her lips.

Shut up, moron! Mom and Dad would kill us if they knew we had this up here!

As fantastically evil as his sister’s tone was, Bobby knew it was equally correct in its assumption. They would indeed kill them if they found them playing with that thing. Baptists and the occult did not mix well.

This is so gay, Bobby moaned as Abigail pulled the board from its box and set it on the bed next to him.

No, it’s not, Abigail corrected as she placed the simple plastic pointer on top of the board. It works.

Whatever. Bobby mumbled with another rolling of his eyes.

Stop being a baby.

I’m not being a baby, this is stupid!

Yes, you are, you’re just scared of it!

Scared? Did she really just say he was scared? That was it, the gloves were off now.

Why would I be scared of a stupid little board that doesn’t even work?

I told you, it does work!

Abigail quieted herself as she realized both the growing tension, and the volume, in her voice. She took a deep breath and continued, quieter this time.

"Jenny Johnson got