Varney versus Spring-heel Jack: 1: June 1888

VARNEY THE VAMPIRE VS SPRINGHEEL JACK

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The Might Of The Machine Age Fights The Forces Of Darkness.

Science and Superstition Meet Head-On In A Battle For Retribution.

One: June 1888.

I cannot, even now, recall the exact sequence of events that night. The aftermath… ah yes, that is something that is etched in my mind with the clarity of an acid plate. And what followed: they say that it takes just one twist of fate, one act of chance, one piece of bad timing to change the entire course of your life.

How true.

It is a jumble, a confusion of images, sounds, smells – my God, the smell – that tumble in profusion each time I close my eyes and try to recall the detail. I dream of it: too familiar now to call a nightmare, I can almost welcome it as an old friend. Yet even then, it changes every time. The order is never quite the same. Small things change, alter in a way that should not affect the eventual outcome, yet unsettle me still. If they are mutable, not recalled with the accuracy of which I was so sure, then how can I know for certain that the bigger picture is also true?

I suppose that, in the final outcome, this is not important. The end result is always the same, and that is all that matters.

It is nearly three years since I began my withdrawal from the world. Because of my position, this was no easy task. However, devoting myself to research was something that I could use as a legitimate reason for refusing to attend the banquets and functions that were so much a part of my – no, I must say our, if only to cling on to the memory – life before. And then, as time passed by and I was able to demonstrate in my everyday life that my research was bearing profitable fruits, my peers and those with influence reasoned that my devotion was fired by my loss.

It is a secret and bitter irony that they were correct, but for reasons that they would not be able to comprehend, even if I were able to lay them bare.

That I could never do. I could not betray her shame. Her unwitting disgrace. The degradation.

And yet there are moments when I wonder if it really is HER shame. HER degradation. And yes… HER disgrace.

Are they not mine?

There have been times, particularly of late, when I find myself down here, slumped over my workbench, wondering about my reasons for pursuing this quest. I have spent much of my fortune. That does not matter: bitter though the reasons may be, it causes a choking laugh to realise that the side-products of my research will soon increase that fortune ten – perhaps a hundred – fold. The loss of time is more important. He has time. That is all he has. It must be a bitter existence. Or is that just my fond hope?

I do not have time. My life is finite. Her is not, but I hope to restore it to that state, if this round of experiments proves to be successful. Am I wrong to take eternal life from her so that I can have her as she was? For myself?

Am I just seeking to restore the balance because of the shame that I feel? Loving some… thing… like her? Am I the one who feels debased?

I go on. Because I have to. Because I still love her, and that is all that drives me. No: that and the desire for vengeance.

He will have eternal rest. But pain first, I pray. Exquisite agonies, like those he has inflicted on his victims and their loved ones.

And now I must go. It is time for her to feed.