SHADOWMAN
A Novelization
Retold By Stewart MacDonald
Prologue
Prelude To Apocalypse
The Ninth Of November, 1888
The rain drizzled through the gray sky and spattered the cobbled streets of London with the methodic sound that only rain can make: a random series of splashes that is somehow perfectly organized in the same instance. The rain combined with the approaching nightfall only served to summon forth a torrent of fog, which clung to the English city like a baby to it's mother.
The mist concealed many things, too many in that cold and dismal November, but it concealed just enough for Jonathan Pierce, an almost unknown architect, as he made his way home from a late night at the pub. He had not been drinking, merely observing, and he felt tired. So very tired. He really had two jobs, an architect, and as he liked to fancy, an explorer. An explorer of the very trappings of the soul. He wandered the corridors of the body in mind, desperately searching for that object.
Many did not understand, and greeted his actions with a wave of fear. A fear that would become infamous as the years slipped by, but Jonathan did not know that. All he knew was the lost feeling inside of him. He strived for what he called the Soul Worm, searched in vain, for he had found naught. It had been told to him by a dying man. A man reputedly mad, but one of the wisest Jon had ever met. He whispered to him of the fabulous maggot, a writhing, pulsating force that would grant those who absorbed them infinite power.
The man was a Negro, who had been sold to Jon's father as a slave. He dissapeared for a long while before reappearing, half-dead in Henry Pierce's Whitchapel home. Maxim St. James was the unfortunate Negro's name. Jon was fond of him, and spent the slave's last days by his side. It was then the rambling of St. James became a morbid fascination for Jon.
He spoke of worlds beyond, a magnificent amd terrible realm where the dead wandered. St. James claimed to be a sort of God in this world. A Shadowman. He said that the priestess had removed the Mask that granted him this title and allowed him to die in peace. Jon had trouble following the dying slave as he would mutter and cut back and forth between different subjects of this place. But finally he spoke of the Soul Worms.
He dictated that a prophecy had forced him to seal ancient pathways with his fading power, to keep these things hidden. He claimed a man could absorb them into his own body, and that some already had. It was at that moment the delusional man died. It took Pierce several moments to acknowledge this, as the Negro would occasionally fall silent, deep in thought. After the realization, Jon knew what destiny awaited him.
He must take one of these Worms unto himself, and live forever. So he searched, in his own unique way. He searched the ravaged bodies of Mary Anne Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and the particularly butchered form of Mary Kelly. Yet... He found nothing of these still-beating organs of the soul, no pulsating worms of immortality. So as the rain drizzled down his coat and top-hat, he wiped a tear from his eye.
Could St. James have been wrong? Something tugged at him, tearing him both ways. Perhaps he was looking in the wrong place? He did not know. He really had only one option left, did he not? The police were breathing down London's neck, searching for anything on him. They had given him a name, and he had to admit he enjoyed it. They called him Jack. Jack the Ripper. It gave him a taste of the power that would accompany the Soul Worm. It made him feel immortal. Murder had seemed to be more of a duty than enjoyment, but now he was quite certain it was both. The helplessness of those his knife bled dry was a symbol of the impending immortality, and only a fool would not bask in it's magnificence.
Pierce neared the gaping maw of Down Street Station, a set of doors that led down into the emptied train station. He checked his pocketwatch and smiled. The last train for the night had just departed. As nobody would lurk down there but the guards, he could easily go to his secret place. He turned back to the street, and attempted to peer through the haze of mist and rain. The only sound save for the falling rain was the soft patter of his expensive shoes.
If anyone was following him, they would be able to see him no better. His action was more instinct than actual suspicion. He had to be vigilant when approaching this hallowed place. So, silent as a shadow, the englishman slipped into the darkness and felt along the oily walls until he found what he was looking for: A single grate, almost as tall as a man, loosely placed to allow rainwater to escape the subterranean tunnel. Continuing his silence, he slid open the steel mesh and slipped into the black.
As he strode through the tunnel, the water rose up to his knees before the sound of rushing water alerted him to where he was. Jon Pierce fumbled with his coat before removing a lamp, which he lit with a match. The bowels of London, the underground sewer system, lay before him. Stagnant pools of waste drifed by, but he did not mind. Power was never free, and this filthy place was his chapel. A light that was not his lamp flickered in the distance, and he moved toward it.
It was elevated above the muck and mire, on a ledge the sewage workers had not used in a long time. He boosted himself up with the faithful pipe that had allowed this for the past year and entered his chamber. The only real home he had now. Drawings and newspaper clips smothered the walls. They were flecked with grime and what could only be small amounts of blood. In the chaos was a bed and a desk, where his journal splayed before him.
Jack the Ripper, as he would now call himself in his lair, stripped off his overcoat and his hat and seated himself at the desk. He placed his cruel, curved blade upon the table and allowed a sigh to wrack through his body. Again he felt very drained. His hands raised to cradle his head and he supposed he must have fell asleep there. He was awoken later by his sword clattering to the floor. He jumped to his feet, fearful of discovery to find nothing.
It was there, in the bitter darkness and solace of that place, this mausoleum of the mind that Jon knew what he must do. His goal had been for nothing and now the blade beckoned him. He stooped to pick it up and stared into his reflection in the cold, unforgiving steel. Short brown hair cut just above his deep and observing eyes. Eyes which looked very tired and very lost. With a grim smile he raised the blade high, it's point aimed at his chest.
"Stay your hand, Jack, and listen to what I have to say." The voice commanded. Fear jolted through the Ripper and he stared wildly for it's source, to see it's owner standing in the door to his secret dominion. He must have been six feet tall, and a gray overcoat covered most of him. It opened at the front, revealing a white shirt and dress pants. The front of the shirt was stained with blood, which weeped from his lips.
"How did you find this place?!" Cried Jon, brandishing the blade. "Who are you?"
The man smirked, and his voice again resounded. It was terrifying to Jack, as if thousands spoke at once, in one infernal voice. "My name is Legion, for we are many. I know of your struggle, Jack. The immortal power you seek does exist. It does indeed lie within the soul, but only within certain ones. Certain, Dark Souls." The man casually flicked his wrist and suddenly the room was awash with purple light. Before Jon was a large maggot, suspended in air and crackling with energy.
"My God!" Pierce was again stricken with awe and fear. "What are you that can produce such things from thin air!"
Legion's icy expression did not falter. "Merely an explorer, much like yourself." He winked his right eye and the apparition before Jon vanished.
"What is it you want from me?" Pierce's voice quivered with this unknown emotion. It was sheer terror, and utter amazement.
"You are an architect by trade, are you not?" Legion asked briskly, his voice resounding and reverberating through the empty tunnels.
"I am." Jack returned, not capable of any more of an answer. Legion nodded his approval.
"Then I should have you build a Cathedral to pain. A place where you, and I, and others like us may join together!" Legion opened his arms and stared skyward. Blood weeped freely from his mouth and Jon knew then this was no mere man. "A place of Asylum for all the unique and misunderstood individuals who will follow you as the time of Armageddon approaches!" Legion's voice steadily rose in volume, booming like hell itself.
"And at the heart of Asylum," He continued. "We shall construct a great, Dark Engine, powered by souls of equal hue, and we shall harness their power and create an immortal army to punish, and cleanse this pathetic world." Legion concluded his speech and looked into Jon's frightened eyes, and the logic of the man's words overcame Jack's fear. He was a prophet, a Messiah for those with Jack's hopes and dreams. The ones the world shunned would be led by Legion. He was their Christ and Jack would be his apostle.
"And where might I build this Cathedral of yours?" Pierce's decision was made clear in his question, and Legion did smile.
He raised his left arm and swept it in an arc before him, and Jack saw an image of desolate plains, crawling with hordes of the dead. "Across the veil... In the darkness... Amongst the restless souls of those who have passed beyond. In the place known, as Deadside."
Jon Pierce had one final question before he would join this icon of hope and revenge. "Then, if I am to join you..." Jack eyed Legion warily. "I must die?"
"It is prophecy!" Legion roared. "We cannot fail! For we are Many!"
Jack again raised the blade high, and Legion smiled. "For we, are many!" Jack yelled in kind. The blade plunged downwards and slid neatly into his stomach. It shred through flesh and muscle like butter and finally spurted through the back of his spine. Blood wept from the wood in carmine streams and Jack the Ripper crumpled to the floor, his last breath a gurgled screech.
Legion stood in self-indulgent satisfaction as the murder's lifeblood pooled about his shoes. His grand vision neatly fell together and he could taste the Apocalypse. "Amen to that." He chuckled to the rats that had began to approach the corpse. "Amen to that..."