Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in America

By Louis K Lowy

It can now be revealed that the evil and violent Mr Edward Hyde - alter ego of London's physician Doctor Henry Jekyll - did not die at the conclusion of the classic, Victorian-era case documented by Robert Louis Stevenson. Instead, this malignant criminal not only continued to plague Britons, but soon after set his ambitions for mayhem for other nations; and so headed for the United States.Follow this story, from bustling New York City to the balmy realms of Florida, where the goodly Jekyll feels the curse of his other personae more than ever before. Witness the tale of Hyde's influence and monstrous acts increasing and Jekyll soon realising that if he cannot find a way to resolve his bizarre duality he will be forever lost, and the suffering and bloodshed he will have been responsible for having loosed on the new, bright world of America will be a horror unparalleled. For Hyde is a man who can never be caught by authorities as he hides within the form of his maker, and holds that maker's life to ransom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IFWG Publishing International
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922856180

Book preview

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Louis K. Lowy’s stories and writings have appeared in numerous public­ations including Coral Living Magazine, New Plains Review, The Florida Book Review, Ethereal Tales, Bête Noire Magazine, Pushing Out the Boat, The Chaffey Review, and The MacGuffin Magazine. He is a recipient of the Florida Individual Artist Fellowship. His humor poem Poetry Workshop was the second place winner of the 2009 Winning Writers Wergle Flomp Contest.  

Louis moved from Pittsburgh, PA to South Florida at the age of seven and has lived there ever since. Before becoming a full-time writer, Louis was a professional firefighter. He also played bass guitar in original bands, including Hemlock, whose recordings for Warner Brothers Records included the dance hits Disco Break and Body Rhythm. Google Hemlock Disco Break for info and YouTube clips.  

Louis has said, I always loved writing. In the many bands I played in, I composed nearly all the lyrics. It was a natural progression to move into story writing. Notice I didn’t say ‘easy’. It’s a struggle every day to find the right words to match the right thoughts. Most of the time – to my disappointment – I fail, but every once in a while I get it right. When I do, I get nearly the same thrill I did when I heard Disco Break" on American Bandstand, or when I was on the fire department and we helped to jolt a heart into beating again.  

He resides in Miami Lakes, FL with his wife, daughter, and their two cocker-terriers, Huey and Dewey. They have a son studying Asian Literature in Tokyo.  

Visit or contact Louis at the following sites: His website:

http://www.louisklowy.com/

Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/people/Louis-K-Lowy/100001621851402

His blog The Writer From Haunted Cave:

http://thehauntedcave.blogspot.com/

IFWG Publishing Titles

DARK PHASES:

Caped Fear: Superhuman Horror Stories Edited by Steve Proposch, Christopher Sequeira, & Bryce Stevens

Cthulhu Deep Down Under Vol 1 Edited by Steve Proposch, Christopher Sequeira, & Bryce Stevens

Cthulhu Deep Down Under Vol 2 Edited by Steve Proposch, Christopher Sequeira, & Bryce Stevens

Cthulhu Deep Down Under Vol 3 Edited by Steve Proposch, Christopher Sequeira, & Bryce Stevens

Cthulhu Land of the Long White Cloud Edited by Steve Proposch, Christopher Sequeira, & Bryce Stevens

DARK PHASES ‘IMAGINE THAT’:

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not Devised and Edited by Christopher Sequeira

Dracula Unfanged Devised and Edited by Christopher Sequeira

‘DARK ICONICA’:

Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde in America by Louis K. Lowy

FORTHCOMING DARK PHASES:

Nosferatu: Horror Beyond A Century Edited by Christopher Sequeira

FORTHCOMING DARK PHASES ‘IMAGINE THAT’:

Cthulhu-Literary: Lovecraftian Tales Set in Other Fictional Universes Devised and Edited by Christopher Sequeira

FrankenStymied: The Monster by Other Hands Devised and Edited by Christopher Sequeira

FORTHCOMING ‘DARK ICONICA’:

Butch and Sundance, and the Aztek Horror By J. Scherpenhuizen

Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde in America

by

Louis K. Lowy

A Dark Iconica Title

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the publisher.

Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde in America

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-13: 978-1-922856-18-0

Copyright ©2022 Louis K Lowy

V.1.0

This ebook may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical with­out the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

IFWG Publishing International

Gold Coast

www.ifwgpublishing.com

To Carol, Chris, and Katie, for being the amazing dualities in my life. How does one dicker and fight, struggle to understand life and still have enough grit to climb that mountain of love.

SPECIAL THANKS

Writing is rarely an isolated effort. Ideas swell, swirl, and gesticulate from those around and those within us. Many thanks to you angels who may or may not know the value of your contributions. Whether it be the oh-so-right word of encouragement, or the cautious think-about-it raise of the eyebrow. All of these have improved my work. With special gratitude, my internal and external thanks to:

John Dufresne, and the Friday Night Writers, Michael Gavaghen, Melanie Mochan, and Alina Matas for being there, Corey Ginsberg, Fabienne Josaphat-Merritt, Karen Kravit, Kathy Curtin, and Jan Becker for their early insights; Aralis Bloise, Marjory Hamilton, Katherine Lowy for their artistic eyes; and Chris Lowy for his counsel. Much gratitude to IFWG Publishing; particularly publisher and constant source of encouragement Gerry Huntman, Editor extraordinaire Christopher Sequeria and his wonderful intuition, Sydney-based artist Jan Sherpenhuizen…and finally for David Beatty…and Mark Goldberg.

The more I delved into the saga of Jekyll and Hyde, the more I realized this was more love story than horror. There was well-off, good looking Henry Jekyll, who had trouble assimilating into his turn-of-the-century world. He managed but always with an allusive hand off.

Hyde, on the other hand, lived (and can be argued) died and killed for love. Hyde’s reasoning was twisted, but made perfect sense. He as love. He as shunned by all who were in a position to extend redemption and love to him. Hyde had nowhere to turn except maybe to continue lashing out at the dark road of emptiness.

In the truest sense of the word, Jekyll and Hyde needed each other, need the love that brings us at times closer, at times faster, and yes, the tug and pull, frustration and satisfaction, and even the horror that occasionally arises from such occasions.

1888

Burial of the Poor

John Tuppersmith was a tall, strong Englishman and proud of it. Still, his back ached as he foot-plunged his shovel once more into the second of sixteen graves he and his brother-in-law were to dig this day.

John disliked the job. He found it unsettling, as did his wife, Nellie, but at the excellent sum of nine shillings and six pence a week they lived with it. It also helped to ease his mind that his work served a purpose. Brookwood Cemetery, according to John’s employer, The London Necropolis and National Mausoleum Company, was opened by them in 1854—just over forty years ago—to ease the overcrowded London graveyards. It being the largest final resting place on the planet also meant John’s 9s, 6d would keep coming until he took his place among the other Brookwood tenants.

His brother-in-law, Freddy Mally, toiled alongside John. Freddy scooped a shovel load of dirt and tossed it outside of the pit. He glanced at the fog-filled, chilly grey morning, wiped his forehead with his slouch cap and farted wildly before he plunged the sharp-edged blade into the earth again.

John glanced at the fifteen unmarked pine boxes lying six feet from the pit. They were shoddy and sloppily stacked in three rows, five on each pile. The coffins were delivered fresh this morning from the aptly named London Necropolis: the company-owned train. It was a noisy, stench-filled beast consisting of five railcars and a steam-powered locomotive. It rested about fifty feet to the south of them, on its own dedicated railway line, where it waited to transport the living—mourners—back to the city. There, it would pick up more dead and deposit them here. A morbid merry-go-round, John thought, as he took a quick, stifled breath. He didn’t know what smelled worse, the reek from the pine boxes, the huffing locomotive or Freddy’s ale-infused ill wind.

What say we lay the next bugger in the trench, mate? Freddy asked.

John glanced around the hole they were digging. The length and width were right for one of the coffins, he thought, but it wasn’t even bollocks high. John liked to go up to his waist—respect for the dead, even if they were penniless. A little deeper, he said.

Freddy farted again and then re-pierced the earth with his shovel.

The locomotive blew its whistle twice.

Wish I were hoppin’ that train back to London. Freddy grunted as he tossed another layer of dirt.

The small gathering of sunrise mourners who dotted the paid sections of Brookwood Cemetery made their way toward the railcars. The grounds were paved with sculpted shrubbery, simple and elaborate monuments, and stone cherubs.

John and Freddy had pauper detail. The pauper graveyard was located in a dark, wooded section of the cemetery. Situated on low ground, the land was perpetually soggy. It was always the last to lose the morning fog and the first to find it.

Right, John said when his waist fell even with the pit. Let’s get the next box in. They tossed their instruments outside and climbed from the hole. Together they lifted the top coffin resting on the nearest pile. The name chalked on the crude box had mostly worn away during transportation and was undecipherable. Not that it made a difference because neither John nor Freddy could read. But the coffin was light—very light. John didn’t have to read the name to know that it meant one of three things: the workhouse or prison it had come from hadn’t stuffed more than one body inside, it was a woman or a child, or it was stuffed with sawdust because the corpse had been secretly sold to a university or asylum for study.

Another wave of fog rolled in and obscured their surroundings. They carted the coffin through the mist to the freshly dug hole. As they lowered it in John felt a weight shift from inside the box. Not sawdust, he reasoned. John felt relieved, though he didn’t know why. He took a second to catch his breath, then went through his ritual—a brief blessing of God take thee and bless thee.

Freddy added his usual postscript: Rattle his bones over the stairs, he’s only a pauper, nobody cares.

John was about to again curse his sister for marrying Freddy, but he was interrupted by the sound of three scratches coming from inside the coffin.

Freddy looked at John. They listened. Nothing. The London Necrop­olis’ whistle again bellowed.

Rats, John said. Nothing more.

Filthy bootlickers, Freddy added.

John grabbed his shovel and started to fill the hole. Freddy did the same. Again, a sound came from inside the coffin. This time it was knocks: Two. Pause. One.

That’s it, Freddy said. Goodbye. He dropped his shovel and started to walk away.

John grabbed his arm. Someone’s alive in there. We got to get ‘em out. He had heard about premature burial. Several years ago, the story went, a woman named Hazel had been found wandering the grounds with bloody fingernails and covered in dirt. She claimed she had dug herself out of a casket. The Necropolis boys took her back to London. She was rumored to have been the recently deceased wife of a duke.

Hello, John said to the coffin. Is somebody in there?

A dismal shriek, like the sound of a wounded animal rang from the box.

Blimey, Freddy said.

John jammed the edge of the shovel blade beneath the lid and the coffin’s base. He forced it upward, causing a high-pitch squeal as it separated from the nails. I can use help, John grunted.

Freddy gulped, but remained motionless.

A hand squeezed through the opening. John didn’t see it, but Freddy did. It was small, hairy, with fat, thick, nut-brown fingernails. Freddy would remember them until the day he died.

John forced the lid open. The thing inside was lying on its back with its hands gripping the rim of the open coffin. It was pallid, small and misshapen, though John couldn’t quite comprehend how it was deformed. The creature’s mouth was strained in a hellish grin. Its brows and scalp were thick, almost furry. Two rows of pearly-white, razor teeth showed behind the lips. John was slow to realize it was a man. At first he thought it was a circus monkey because it was dressed in clothes far too large for its troll-like body. But the closer he looked the more he realized it must have come from something human.

It hissed. John recoiled. He felt revulsion toward this man-like thing. There was something base in the yellow of the creature’s eyes. His sour odor, his sallow tongue. It made John want to kill this thing of evil. John raised his shovel.

The dwarfish man in the coffin bounded upward. John heaved the shovel at him. The man ducked. It flew past him and tumbled into the casket. John backpedaled. The man raced forward and plunged his nails into John’s eyes. John screamed and fell backwards. He dug his teeth in John’s neck and tore at his carotid artery. John’s scream died to a moan, then to a wet gurgle.

Freddy shit his pants.

The man-like thing that had been inside the coffin rolled John into it. Bury him, he hissed to Freddy. Give him your ‘rattle the bones’ prayer. It’s funny.

Freddy nodded blindly.

The small man rolled up his pants legs and lolloped into the fog.

The small man glanced around. Other than a pair of porters stationed at each one of the front three railcars and the mourners who boarded them, the station was deserted. The man hopped upon the rear platform railing of the end car and tried the door. It was unlocked. He cautiously made his way inside and soon realized why the door wasn’t secured. Save for a metal transportation casket the room was nothing but wood floor, empty wall and the putrid odor of the decaying dead. No seats, no windows. This is the paupers’ caskets railcar. No one comes here unless they have to. The train lurched forward. The small man had heard while he was trapped inside the coffin one of the gravediggers mention that the train was headed to London. He smiled, curled up like a dog and slept.

London in Daylight

Henry Jekyll opened his eyes and stretched. He felt the sun stream warmly through the window. The notion that he had died and gone to heaven crossed his mind. He looked closer around. The feeling dissipated into another terrifying possibility—that he had died and descended into hell.

The room smelled of liquor, sweat and semen. By the outside hubbub of city noise, he supposed it was early afternoon. He was nude, lying on a four-post bed beneath a bundle of sheets. An empty gin bottle littered the floor. A half-empty one rested on the washstand. He groaned. He knew the place. It was a dingy house in an even dingier quarter of Soho. He had rented it for his other half following the first heady days of their transformation, after he had succumbed to the exhilaration of having changed into a physically separate part of his self. One who existed for depravity, self-indulgence, and narcissistic pleasure without the respectable Doctor Jekyll having to suffer the consequences.

If there were trouble, it would be Edward Hyde’s despicable face and residence that would be described. Though Jekyll was loath to admit it, the notion still sent a tremor of excitement through him. He fought it down because Hyde had proven to be more than a creature of desire. Hyde was man without conscience, without moral, without good. He was man in reverse: primordial beast. Worse, he was primordial beast with human intelligence.

A woman moaned. The sheets ruffled. Jekyll flinched.

The woman emerged from beneath the beddings in a half-drunken stupor. The corner of her mouth was cut. She had bruises on her cheek and neck, teeth marks on her left breast and thigh. The woman studied her wounds and quickly sobered. Upon seeing Jekyll, she jumped out of bed. Who the ‘ell are you? she screamed in a coarse, country laden accent.

Hazy patches of memory flashed through Jekyll’s head. Hyde leaping on the backend of a railcar. Climbing off at Waterloo Station. Hyde in this house cleaning himself up. Hyde wandering the backstreets for a woman. Escorting her here for a night of debauchery.

I…I’m… While Jekyll searched for a reasonable answer to the woman’s question, memories of what he had thought were his final minutes on earth invaded his mind: Hyde holed up in Jekyll’s private chamber. Jekyll’s butler, Poole, and his friend and lawyer, Gabriel Utterson, shouting from outside the chamber door that they were going to break the door down. The chamber door splintering and the tip of an axe punching through. Jekyll feeling Hyde’s panic. Envisioning Hyde’s thoughts: When the bloody bastards break through and see me instead of Jekyll, the idiots will assume I murdered him and they’ll kill me for it! Jekyll experiencing Hyde’s joy as he brought the last remaining phial of transmorphing potion to his lips. Jekyll feeling the pain/pleasure of the concoction as the change took effect.

Rebirth: Hyde falling into shadows and he—Jekyll—emerging from the same shadows. At that moment coming to an agonizing revelation—Hyde has become the dominant one, the master of us both. When this, the last of the potion, wears off Hyde will re-emerge forever. Jekyll reaching for the bottle marked strychnine. Scribbling his final journal entry, then swallowing the poison to end both of their lives. And finally, transforming back into Hyde as the strychnine’s all-consuming spasms overtook them.

Get on with it. Who are you? The woman had slipped her chemise on, which had been laying with her other clothes at the foot of the bed.

I’m his brother, Jekyll stammered. This is my house. He used it without my permission. I kicked him out of my bed. I didn’t know you were here.

Hmmph. Despite her scoffing tone, there was fear in her eyes.

How much does he owe you?

One—two sovereigns, the woman answered as she continued to dress. An it’s a bloody bargain for the way he treated me.

Jekyll saw a pair of pants lying on the floor near the washbasin. He went to it with the hope he’d find the money to pay her. He reached in a pocket and was shocked to discover not only several coins, but also a huge wad of bills. More visions surfaced: Hyde writing a cheque—they both shared the same handwriting—and handing it to the housekeeper of this residence. In turn, their taking it to his—Jekyll’s—bank. The housekeeper walking inside alone, cashing it and once outside, handing the bills to Hyde.

Let’s ‘ave it, the woman said. I means it.

The words drew Jekyll from his recollections. He handed her four sovereigns.

Her eyes widened. Right, then. She stuffed the coins in her pocket and headed out. Before leaving she added, I don’t care ‘ow much you pays me, I dun wanna see that blackguard again for all the jewels in Lunnon. He ain’t right.

Jekyll nodded in agreement as he watched her hurry from the room.

On the hansom ride to the chemists, Jekyll absentmindedly tapped his bowler as he pieced together his jigsaw of thoughts into one coherent canvas. He had swallowed the strychnine as Utterson and Poole attempted to break down his chamber door. As the poison took effect, Hyde had become so powerful that despite the transmorphing potion turning Jekyll back to himself, the result was brief and he once again changed into Hyde.

Jekyll recalled the horrible stomach cramps that came with the transformation. How he had doubled over on the floor and vomited. He again heard the crack of his spine as it curved. Felt his thoughts choked and replaced with primitive ones of rage and hate. Even as his body shrank into Hyde’s, a glimmer of satisfaction had remained with Jekyll. He—Jekyll—had won. The strychnine was killing Hyde. With his death the nightmare would end forever.

Jekyll stared blindly outside the hansom pondering how wrong he had been. He could only postulate what occurred next: Hyde had fallen into what appeared to be death, but was in reality a near-death state. Following Hyde’s ‘demise’, Utterson and Poole must have read his—Jekyll’s—last words entitled a Full Statement of the Case. In it, he had confessed that they were one and the same person; and that he was taking his own life instead of seceding his essence to the ignoble Edward Hyde.

The hansom arrived at the import section of West India Docks, located on east London’s Isle of Dogs. West India Docks was a sprawling tri-section commercial seaport that in combination was capable of berthing over six hundred vessels. The Import Dock, itself, consisted of thirty acre feet of water and an unbroken chain of five-storey warehouses constructed around it. One of those warehouses contained Henry Jekyll’s destination, Maws Chemicals.

Departing the hansom, Jekyll inhaled a heavy, water-scented odor that smelled alternately musky and salt-tinged. Through locks and basins the water connected the ships to the Thames River and eventually to the ocean. Jekyll pictured himself on a steamer sailing from London—from his nightmare. He shook the vision off and paid the driver. While walking to Maws Chemicals, he again attempted to connect the missing pieces of his memory.

Jekyll assumed that Utterson, whom he had named beneficiary of his finances, arranged to have Hyde’s corpse disposed of quickly and in a manner fitting his malapropos conduct. Thus the pauper burial as far from London as practical. He supposed that the bank had honored Hyde’s check after he escaped the coffin, because the burial—and Hyde’s subsequent resurrection—had happened so rapidly that it hadn’t allowed Utterson time to settle the legal proceedings appointing him as beneficiary.

Jekyll also had a theory as to why he had changed back from Hyde yesterday and so far had remained as his self. The strychnine had weakened Hyde’s immunity response system. While his system was healing, it had succumbed to its original, healthier state—that of Jekyll—and would remain as such until it strengthened and there was enough energy to again transmorph and maintain the change back to Hyde. Though this was all conjecture, Jekyll was going to utilize whatever time he had to formulate a remedy that would flush Hyde from his system forever. Time, Jekyll thought, as he picked up his pace. It scared the devil out of him that at any moment he could again be consumed by his darker half and never return.

Jekyll ascended the stairway to the third floor. His memory—or rather Hyde’s visions—picked up again: The rumble and sway of the railcar as it rolled along the tracks to the burial site. Pounding, scratching, gnawing against the stifling black chamber that was Hyde’s coffin. Screaming and more screaming, and finally, Hyde’s collapse from fright and exhaustion. Then re-awakening to dead silence.

A portion of Jekyll felt Hyde’s despair, his lack of oxygen, his terror that he’d been buried alive. It caused, if not compassion, at least pity in Jekyll. Hyde was part of him. Not a welcome part, but a part. While he was aware that Hyde despised him, Jekyll felt sadness for him. Hyde hadn’t chosen to enter this world. Hyde was literally birthed from evil, Jekyll thought. My evil. He found it hard to reconcile that fact and pushed it away by recalling how Hyde’s body jostled against the coffin when the gravediggers placed him in the ground and how the movement had revived him.

Jekyll felt Hyde scratch against the coffin’s inner lid, knock against it. He experienced the sting of light and the ebullience Hyde had felt when the lid was forced open. Jekyll tasted Hyde’s satisfaction when his teeth sunk into the man’s artery and savored his warm, coppery blood. Jekyll’s knees buckled. He raised his hand out to the stairway wall for support. God help me, he thought. If I can’t eliminate the beast, I must stop it. I must. He wiped cold sweat from his brow, exited the staircase and entered the door of Maws Chemicals.

At the Chemist

Mr. Vatter, the young, thin clerk, stared wide-eyed at Henry Jekyll as if he’d seen a wraith. You’re…you know, aren’t you?

Jekyll removed his bowler. Do I look it?

No, sir, but the newspaper…

The newspaper what? Jekyll was worried. Had Utterson revealed his confession to the press?

Vatter gulped. Well, it was reported four days ago that you had mistaken a bottle of strychnine for a dyspeptic tonic and the ingestion of it had hastened your departure from this world.

Balderdash, my dear fellow. The paper was half right. I did mistake the tonics, but it nearly hastened my departure. Utterson is truly a friend, Jekyll thought with relief. He must have devised that story to salvage my reputation and to further conceal the existence of Hyde. I was, indeed, quite ill and indisposed for several days. I’m much better now and ready to resume my research. Jekyll handed Vatter the list of minerals, herbs, and chemicals he had written up before leaving Hyde’s residence.

Vatter looked them over. I’ll have them for you in an hour.

Can you make it a half-hour? I’m afraid I have several appointments today.

Vatter nodded. I’ll try.

I’ll be happy to help you gather them. Jekyll smiled, hoping his reply didn’t reveal the desperation behind it.

That won’t be necessary, Dr. Jekyll. Vatter headed to the door behind his counter, which led to the warehouse.

I’m particular about the freshness of certain elements, Jekyll inserted. Do you mind if I accompany you?

Vatter stopped and studied Jekyll for a moment. I’m sorry, sir, but that would require Mr. Maws’ authorization.

Jekyll was acutely aware of this. That’s why he chose to come on Tuesday, when he knew Maws would be making his rounds, inspecting and bidding on new ship arrivals. The last time Jekyll contacted Maws, he had been frantic to acquire more of the exact same salt crystals that he had purchased from him because no other would do. To Jekyll’s shock, when he had attempted to replicate the transmorphing potion, he discovered that Maws’ salt crystals had been tainted, and that the mixture’s success was reliant upon its impurity.

Ordinary salt had no effect and worse, Hyde had begun appearing at a more frequent rate and for longer durations. The only way to prevent this was by ingesting more of the potion, but by that time, it—along with the tainted salt—was nearly gone. Desperate to stop Hyde, Jekyll had tried purchasing more of the tainted salt for his potion, but Maws informed him that that particular batch of salt crystals had run out. In his distraught state, Jekyll had nearly come to blows with him over it.

I’ve spoken with George, Jekyll said. He’s already given me permission. Now, Jekyll wanted to snoop around the warehouse to see if he could find more of the contaminated salt, or at least determine what adulterated it, in the slim chance that he could reproduce it in the lab and then strengthen the elixir in the hope that it would permanently squash Hyde.

I need to confirm that.

Jekyll raised his chin with indignation. Are you questioning the veracity of my words?

No, sir, but…

It’s important that I get the freshest chemicals. I simply must inspect them.

Dr. Jekyll, I don’t have the authority. I’ll do my best to find the freshest supplies. Vatter reached for the warehouse door.

Mr. Vatter.

Vatter turned.

Would this change your mind? Jekyll held out several pounds.

Vatter studied the bills, then glanced at Jekyll.

It’s supremely important that I get the proper chemicals. Jekyll hoped he would accept because