The Strange Case of Harry Woodrow and Thomas Smith

Mr. Utterson rubbed his tired eyes, noting the predawn light sending schisms through his window. He had spent the better part of the night reviewing ridiculous cases that hardly deserved as much time as he had put in them. But at one point in the middle of the night, an event occurred that nearly sent Utterson to an early grave.

For years, he had neither seen nor heard the name. For weeks on end he didn't even acknowledge that it once existed. And yet, suddenly it was there. Utterson had no notion as to where it came from, but the postboy had merely stated that it was from a friend.

The letter was written on thin paper, though it was difficult to see the lettering inside. The hand was fluent, with an occasional jolt on random letters, as if the writer had been sitting in a carriage. At first, Utterson believed the writer to be an adult, but what he read on the inside quickly destroyed his pre-notions.

To Mr. John Utterson, it read, Though I'm sure you've never heard of me in your life, I'm going to ask for your help as a 'family' friend. Tomorrow I'll ring your place at 9.00 in the morning. I can not give much information, but please, find everything you can on the man named Dr. Henry Jekyll.

H.W.J.

And that was it. There were no markings, no smudges, nothing to suggest that it had been tampered with. The only curious thing was the unusually spastic letters every three to four words. He wrote like that of a schoolboy, rather than the upstanding smooth letters of an adult. This was going to prove interesting.

The clock rang eight, giving Utterson a start as his eyelids drooped lazily. He noticed quickly that his sitting room looked more like that of a pub than an office. With only an hour left, he hurriedly tidied the place up, desperate that nothing would come crashing out of his paper-strewn bureau.

When the fatal belled finally tolled, Utterson threw on his best jacket and opened the door himself. The early morning fog nearly took the breath from him, but he quickly forgot it when he noticed the small figure standing on his porch.

It was a small lad, no taller than Utterson's chin, with a shock of thick brown hair equaled by deep brown eyes. His face angled sharply at the bottom, and he gave the overall appearance of one stricken with melancholia. His clothes hardly fit him, and with his stoop-shouldered gait, he looked oddly…familiar.

As he entered, Utterson perceived small bruises on the back of his neck, dotting it in a battlefield of blues and purples. A collar tried in vain to cover them, but the clothes the boy wore were so shabby that the collar wouldn't stand upright. Nervously, he pulled at the hem. Utterson spoke first to ease the tension.

"So, son, what can I do for you this morning," he said, cheerfully patting the young man on the shoulder. Instantly he jumped, nay, recoiled, at Utterson's touch. Giving a small cry of alarm, the boy backed away slowly, apprehensive eyes darting about. The most Utterson could do was hold his hands up in retreat.

"I'm sorry; I did not mean to frighten you. May I at least ask your name?"

The boy looked around as if someone was watching him. He checked the windows, any of the doors that weren't locked, even under Utterson's desk. The minutes were dragging on, and Utterson's patience was being tried. He moved to speak, but was quickly interrupted.

"My name's Tho-"

Suddenly the boy's face contorted into a series of what looked like painful jerks and spasms. His shoulders wrenched as if taken over by a quick cold chill, and his eyes blinked rapidly. The moment it was over, he looked calm, almost at ease, though embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. My name is Harry; Harry Woodrow," he said in a smooth voice that could have flowed from the tongue had his words been made of water. Instantly, he stood straighter, held his nose higher, and clasped his thin hands behind his back. Where have I seen that before? thought Utterson with a raised eyebrow.

He held out a hand in proper greeting, noticing how firm a grip the boy had after he had finally settled. They proceeded then to relax in a few of the chairs scattered about the room. By this time, Utterson was much more interested in the boy rather than what he had arrived for.

"So, Harry, how old are you?"

"I turned sixteen a few months past, sir," Harry said triumphantly, as if it was amazing he had reached the age. He was very small, but upon a second glance, he looked to be a short, old man.

"Where are you from, again?"

"I don't know, sir. We move a great deal."

"Your family?"

"Yes, sir. Mother and I do not stay in one place for very long." Harry looked to his feet, a hint of shame burning on his face. Again, he began to nervously tug at the hem of his worn coat. As he stared at the floor, Utterson perceived a large line that rivered from the top of Harry's skull to the very front, stopping near the hairline. It was old, but definitely that of a traumatic scar.

Utterson didn't want to press the issue, but he wondered how the massive scar came to be. The line was nearly straight, showing that the movement was swift. Obviously, sutures were not used to treat it, as the line would be much thinner. Whether the boy fell on some sharp object, or the act was done deliberately, nothing was done to prevent any sort of infectious disease. With horror Utterson thought, he was probably left to die. Harry continued to speak, though his eyes were still transfixed on the floor.

"The longest time we've ever stayed in one place was when my Mother worked at Le Sphinx in Paris, or the Leierkasten in Germany; I'm not sure which. Since then, we've never stayed for more than a few weeks."

"I'm sorry to have brought the issue up. Though I am wondering about something: What was it that you came to me for in the first place?"

The air lightened as Harry remembered where he was. His face grew animated, eyes wondering about the room with renewed interest. Utterson found his sudden swing of emotion to be quite entertaining, laughing aloud at the obscure pictures that Harry pointed out. Not once did they return to the topic at hand before another of Harry's intense spasms rattled his face. Suddenly, his eyes grew sad.

"I don't mean to interrupt, sir, but I am running short of time. Did you at some point know a man named Henry Jekyll?"

Utterson nodded.

"Did you know him personally?"

"About as well as any other man, I suppose. He kept to himself, mainly. Do you know him?"

Harry ruefully grinned, searching in his mind as if trying to recall an important fact, or perhaps a distant memory.

"Only from what Mother tells me. Have you not wondered what the J stands for? My full name is Henry Woodrow Jekyll. Your friend is my father…"

So, that's the beginning of my third published story (Allow me to do the ancient mariner's jig of random happiness). I'm not expecting much of a response from this one; I just find it entertaining to write. The next few chapters are going to get morbid, psychological, and just plain freaky, so I'm sorry if my style seems a bit off. Enjoy reading what I have so far, and review!