sumthin' happened here, sumthin' not very nice
The words sent a shiver down Mattie's spine, a chill that penetrated her very core. She was enthralled by the story as soon as Tobias said those words, and since then, it was all she could think about.
There was a barber and his wife...
Mattie knew that many rumors surrounded Fleet Street, but as to what exactly they were, she did not know up until five hours ago. After her fiance forced Mr. Ragg out of the house, they spoke very little to each other. What could they say? To live in a place of such barbarism (no pun intended), with such a colorful, no, bloody history was sure to give Mattie nightmares.
After Tobias left, Mattie and Jack at once began unpacking all their worldly possessions, from their clothing to their music books; from their photographs to Mattie's perfumes. Jack quickly put away most of the photographs and knick-knacks that littered the mantle above the fireplace, relics of a life long gone, like the artifacts of a once great civilization. He spent no time replacing them with their own relics: photos of his family, her family, and each other, smiling. He grinned at the finished product, a temple to the life he hoped to build with Ms. Crawford and himself. She began to dust off the house after they finished unpacking three or so hours later. By then, the sun was once again swallowed in a sea of menacing clouds, and was almost finished descending into its daily run through Haties.
You know, once cleaned, it really isn't that bad of a place, Mattie thought to herself. Sure, the place was still in need of major repairs, but she'd seen even worse establishments on their journey to this place. She seemed to be in a daze, thinking in flashes between pies, razors, blood, and above all, her eminent wedding tomorrow. The thought of it filled her with dread. It wasn't that she hated Jack, she simply didn't love him. This marriage was almost forced on her, mainly by her parents, desperate to relieve themselves of their debts; supporting a daughter after many years becomes increasingly difficult. Mr. Driskall was a suitable match, and so it was. No questions, no excuses, just results. That was over six weeks ago. iWow, how time flies/i she thought as she continued to dust.
Jack was helping tidy up the bedroom while Mattie was sweeping up the ghost of a restaurant. He smiled, watching her with such happiness in his heart. He loved her, truly, from the moment he laid eyes upon her face. He remembered that it was the most beautiful face hed ever seen, one of such grace, such delicacy, that he was instantly love struck. Still, he felt insecure with her. He had always tried desperately to make her love him, but it was beginning to become more and more obvious to him that she didn't return the feelings. Still, he would try and try again to make himself the best man for her that he could possibly be. Yet, despite his attempts to appear warm and carry bravado, he never felt more alone in his life, like he was desperate to have her hear him, but he was behind a thick window pane.
Jack proceeded outside to conclude what outside repairs needed to be done to their new home. It was in dire need of a paint job. Perhaps something in a warm color to relieve the gloom of Fleet Street, perhaps bring it back to its former glory. That awful sign that said "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium" would have to be taken down immediately, as would the decaying barber sign on the shop up above. Come to think of it, he had not yet been inside the upper room. It looked most uninviting, those dented stairs, and that door with the dirtiest window he had ever laid eyes upon. Looking around to make sure nobody was watching he slowly crept up the stairs and down into the gate to Hell. Mr. Driskall was taken aback by the story that Mr. Ragg had told him, but he didn't believe in foolish things such as ghosts and demons. In fact, Mr. Ragg didn't know what to believe anymore. He didn't know if the sky was heaven, but he prayed anyway; he didn't know if he believed in love, but maybe only promise. Perhaps it was his incapability to state his mind or make clear decisions that made him such a confused person, wearing a mask of one who always has his mind made up.
The door was of a dark, dark wood, almost the color granite, as if it was made of petrified wood. The handle resembled the one was on the front door of the pie-shop, and he couldn't see past the opaque window into the unknown beyond the door. He turned the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. It amazed him how there was no graffiti on the door or inside, which was surprisingly barren. People must be too afraid to come up here, he thought.
The first thing that Jack noticed was the odd patches of filthy brown that caked the middle of the room, especially the large window, which was more of a skylight to spy on the people below. The stuff was everywhere, on the horribly peeling wallpaper (which at some point must have been a canary yellow), but especially all over the large, mechanical looking barber's chair that seemed to be the dead center of the rather empty quarters. The only other items were an old, leather-bound trunk, a credenza with a single photograph, a tea stove, and a rusting crib in the farthest corner. He took a few steps inside the chilly room. His breath drew steam against the bitter cold of the room. The place was dead, even deader then the pie shop. Something about it brought a sense of dread, of nervousness, of death, of fear. Jack could not keep his eyes off of the empty barber chair, a monster in itself, which resembled the same color as the unidentified brown substance that seemed to grow on it and the area surrounding it, like a parasitic moss. He could see some small patches of red, crushed velvet on the worn cushion. He could see from where he stood that there were several gears underneath the chair, as well as a small lever at its base. It smelled of rotten meat, of a butchered animal that was killed several days earlier. It was an underscoring scent, but at one time it may have been overpowering. The floor creaked loudly in a sound that was similar to the door, like that of a gargling hyena. Jack noticed his skin, especially his throat, began to raise in goosebumps, and the hairs on his neck stood up as if being inspected by an officer.
There was an echo, a sound in the room, which seemed to have been engendered by the increasing wind outside, or was it coming from the inside? It was a faint whistle, almost like a tune, but he quickly realized it was far more sinister than that. He could've sworn he heard voices, almost as faint as the ticking of his pocket watch, crying in ecstasy, or was it torment? Whatever it was, it was beyond human, like a beast slaughtered in the dead of night where no one could hear it scream.
Jack scratched at the strange brown crust, making flecks that flew up into the air along with the dust that greeted his knees with every step that he took. He smelt his fingertips. The scent was familiar, but he couldn't quite decipher what it was. The smell was esoteric, and it irritated Jack, who felt as if the answer pulsated on the tip of his tongue. Looking at his hand placed on the floor, he noticed the material stuck to his hand, leaving it looking like it was caked with dried mud.
He proceeded to the credenza, staring at the photograph. It was a picture of a woman, a beautiful woman, with yellow hair. The barber's wife, he thought. She was holding a child, her daughter, who was dressed in swaddling white clothes. The barber's daughter, he thought. Part of the photograph was also covered in the unusual brown cake, in a wide, uneven streak, which appeared to have dripped towards the side by gravity. This one piece of history was the only thing in the room to have indicated that someone once lived here, loved here, treasured here. He placed the photograph down, and decided that that's where it should be, never to be removed.
He then focused his attention on a green rectangular box, laid down beside the picture of the barber's wife and daughter. It looked surprisingly clean and well taken care of, considering the condition of the rest of the room. He opened the lid of the box, which slid right off with considerable ease. Inside was probably the only clean and polished thing in all of Fleet Street: a six set of beautiful, shining, silver straight-edged razors. They glistened, almost smiling from the light that bounced off against them.
My friends
Jack turned suddenly, hearing the cough that seemed to have formed those words. The voice sounded like the wind trying to speak, but with a slight, low growl. After seeing that no one else was in the room, he continued to examine the pretty things. He lifted the largest one out of its box, staring at the silver laden handle, which was intricately carved, forming a scene of an elaborate ships sailing towards Destiny. It looked like it was just polished yesterday: not a hint of tarnish shone through it. He flipped open the razor to glance at its full grandeur. It slid out of its dormant slumber swiftly and easily, and let out a high frequency ring when it did. What a splendor, it was, much prettier than Jack's scalpels that he handled with at the hospital. The razors were like poetry, ringing from the lips of a maiden on the hill to her lover. Their shine was penetrating, a piece of the sun that managed to escape his cloudy captors. It possessed such clarity that Jack could see a sliver of his reflection as easily as if he looked into a mirror. He tipped it to observe his eyes; his warm, calm, collective eyes that looked at the razor as a work of art, a masterpiece of handycraft. He suddenly felt the urge of running his finger down its spine. In doing so, it gave out a squeak of joy, savoring the feeling of being held close once again. The cold silver became warm in his hands, like the touch of his fiance's hand on his face.
Splendors...
This time, Mr. Driskall was ready for the voice.
"Blood," he said, having a sudden epiphany as to the ingredient of the unknown substance. "That's what it is," is he concluded.
It soon occurred to Mattie that Jack had been upstairs for quite sometime, hearing the occasional footstep from upstairs that surely belonged to him. She stood back to observe her cleaning work, seeing how the room looked ten times better than its previous condition. Far more work needed to be done, but she was now tired, and she sat down inside the booth to collect her thoughts. This wasn't a life that she wanted, or even wished for, but one that was going to be of certain boredom and annoyance. Perhaps she should have an affair. Just as the idea began to blossom in her head, she was cut off by another sound, one of heavy, if not deliberate pounding. It was footsteps from upstairs, and they appeared to sound as if pacing back and forth. She knew for a fact that Jack never paced, and those footsteps certainly weren't his own. This peculiarity startled her for a minute, but they soon faded into dust as quickly as they had come.
