Image courtesy of http://www.literalremains.com

Many years passed by and the harrowing memories of what did, or did not take place, in that village south of Germany, still stalked my nights relentlessly.

I had learned through a surviving member of the brotherhood that my ‘possession’ was nothing more than a mob of angry spirits, or spectres, as he professionally refered to them as. He told me that they (spectres) are usually very angry at some great wrong doing, apparently. And that I, being in the right place at the right time, had just happened to stumble into them…says it all really, doesn’t it?
Even now when I sit still and listen, I can hear the melodical haunt of a flute in the distance. I reckoned though, by now, that all that shit was behind me…I reckoned wrong

I had travelled far and wide but always I returned to mother England. This time I settled into a nice quiet place in the east end of London, “the greatest city in the world”
The bloody shitiest city more like it! Anyways, as I was saying, a cosy little spot where I spent my time secluded from the powers that be. Whitechapel it was called, lovely place. That was till I felt that unusual cold sensation biting at the nape of my neck.  Next thing I knew, I came to in a carriage.  Covered in blood again! Except this time, for reasons that I have never concluded,  I was wearing an apron.


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