Continuing the story "Undone"

London was a city of ash. The fires had tossed entire buildings, entire streets of buildings into the air as floating flakes and glowing bits of scorched lives. The rain, however, forbade the stuff from ascending all the way to heaven, saying that it was more akin to that which spewed from the furnaces of Hell. And so, the ash returned to whence it had come, painting street, tower, home, church, man, and beast with a coat of oily, black vengeance.

Perhaps I am painting it with too artful a brush, but the inky stuff has become an ever-present specter in this part of the city. And no amount of rain has yet possessed the impetus exorcise it. In truth, I should be grateful for the accursed soot. But for those late August fires, I would not have been blessed with my current state of employment as overseer on the South Quay reconstruction. I would likely be laying bricks on the Bridge, or perhaps even suffering for want of employment.

I pulled the curtain back to see why the carriage had stopped. The driver had deposited my trunk on the curb beneath the blackened street sign that read Lark Run.

"This is not the place!" I informed him. "The address is Lark Lane, not Lark Run."

Yet he left my trunk in the rain and returned to the rack for my tool case.

"Driver, do you hear me? This is not the place."

He gave no sign that I had been understood or even heard. He struggled with tool case, dropping it on the cobbles and dragging it through the mud to the curb. The carriage door opened, and he offered his hand to help me down.

"Why are we stopped here, sir?" I asked.

He pointed in the direction of the horse, and I immediately understood.

"Lark Run turns to Lark Lane at the bottom. Follow it down-river two blocks to the square and look to the north side. The house you seek is there."

I looked again down Lark Run. The road descended through a steep incline with a sharp turn at the bottom and a muddy riverbank beyond. It was, indeed, far too treacherous a slope for the driver to risk his horse and livelihood.

A filthy child, maybe eight or nine years old, moved in the shadows of a street lamp below. He, maybe she, had been rendered nearly invisible by the cooperation dirty skin and darkness. It stepped into the street and waited, as if hoping to be seen, and then limped back into the shadows.

"What of my things?" I asked my driver. "I am no pack-mule."

"That is unfortunate, my lord," the driver said, extending an open hand expectantly.

"You have abandoned your obligations, Driver. You may do likewise with your hopes of compensation until I and my belongings are delivered safely to our address."

He stepped back and touched the bell hanging from the side of his carriage. "If I ring this bell a certain way, the urchins will come help you with your things. If I ring it another way, they'll come help themselves to your things, if you take my meaning. Or, I don't have to ring it at all. What's your preference, my Lord?"

I paid him. I paid him twice his fare. He rang the bell and the children came just as he said. I noted that the muddy child from the shadows was not among them.

"Need an hand, sir?" one of them said, stepping forward. My boys can bring your goods." He whistled, and a hoard of children scurried forth to collect my things. Two urchins took positions at my sides, holding my hands to aid my balance on the slick cobbles.

The eldest of his boys looked a young ten, and he not much more than twelve. Yet each them bore the visage of an experienced campaigner. For all their childish size and appearance, they showed a tragic maturity well beyond their years and thorough lack of childish innocence.

I paid him, too. Not as much as I gave the driver, but nearly. Despite the state of my belongings when we reached the boarding house, I gave the children a tuppence each, as well.

The house was situated along the north side of a narrow common square where stands and stalls would bear the wares of local merchants during the daylight hours. As I looked across the square, I thought I could see even more small forms huddling beneath the stalls and under the eaves of narrow alleys. I counted perhaps a dozen children taking shelter in the market, though I had the impression that legions of the invisible wretches watched me in squalid silence. Surely my brain was misinterpreting what my eyes told it. It was raining, it was evening, and the gas lamps cast strange shadows.

A particularly small boy ran towards me with an awkward, shambling gait from an alley across the square. It might have been the first muddy child I had noticed previously, but another boy with a cudgel stepped between us, causing the first to stumble and stop. He looked from me to the other boy and back to me, and then ran back the way he had come.

The boy with the stick gestured and two more youths emerged from the market stands to give chase. He then turned and faced me. His intentions, which could have as easily been read as either reassuring or intimidating, were indecipherable to me. So I tipped my hat and went inside.

I was hungry, but the thought of walking past the cold, starving street children to have a hot meal in the pub overpowered my appetite. If London's off-cast children huddling out there in the cold rain could pass most of their evenings without a meal, surely I had the fortitude to miss a single dinner.

My window overlooked the narrow market square with a view of the Thames, and beyond, the far side of the Tower Bridge scaffolding. Even in its current state it was magnificent. I couldn't help but envy the men who would later claim they had a hand in its birth. Perhaps if my warehouse reconstruction project went well, I could seek employment there.

I found myself looking out of the window again a few hours before dawn. The rain had ceased and the moon was high and bright. And the tide, judging by the smell, was low. Across the square, from behind a building that might once have been a stable, a child moved under the cover of moon shadows. In moments he was down the stairs to the riverbank and out on the mudflats. This mud-lark's peculiar way of moving gave him away. It was the same muddy boy who had twice tried to approach me since my arrival.

I was no stranger to poverty, but I had never lived by the river, nor seen so close at hand the desperate state in which the homeless children of London subsisted. I sat down and immediately drafted a letter to my cousin Freda, who supported a charity that fed the homeless in the vicinity of Spitalfields Market. She would know what might be done to help these poor wretches.

Satisfied that I had taken steps to bring succor to the afflicted, I turned my mind and body to a well-earned rest. Earned or not, however, rest was not to be had.

During the brief moments when I was taken by a fitful sleep, my mind conjured visions more terrible than my eyes had ever seen. Though I could not recall them upon waking, they cast an uneasy pall over my thoughts. I arose from bed with a greater weariness than I'd had before I lay down.

I washed, shaved, and dressed, which took a great effort, as I found I had little desire to do anything but lay in bed. Descending the stairs, I heard a commotion out in the street, and rushed outside to find half a dozen children brawling near my door. A group of them were aligned against the same urchin who had repeatedly come to my attention. He was covered in mud, and clutched a small ragged pouch, which the other children were intent upon confiscating.

The adults in the market were somehow oblivious to the scene, leaving the children to their own devices. The urchin stumbled into me, smearing my clean clothes with reeking mud from the banks of the Thames. He used the commotion of my outrage as a distraction and fled. My anger drew the attention of the nearby adults, one of which raised his voice and scattered the children into the early market crowd.

I posted the letter to my cousin and broke my fast at the pub. Retrieving my purse to pay, I discovered a filthy bit of canvas in my pocket, wrapped tightly around an ornate silver rosary embedded with tiny gemstones. The master of the house noticed the treasure and stepped back with a startled gasp. He refused to take my payment, and hastily excused himself from my presence. I stuffed the package in my pocket looked to see if anyone else had noticed, but all eyes in the place were looking down.

I considered asking about the lone boy who must have planted the rosary in my pocket, but everyone seemed to be under the same spell of gloom that had affected me all morning. So I set out to explore this oddly secluded corner of London and hopefully find the child on my own. I walked a few blocks down-river until the road met a wall, forcing me to either climb or descend to the riverbank. A light rain was falling, so I opted for a third choice, and turned back toward the market.

As the vendor stalls came into sight, I suddenly and vividly recalled a portion of the nightmares that had robbed me of last night's repose. In the dream, I was standing in this spot in the road when a tall, slender man in dark clothes strolled past. He touched the brim of his hat with his right hand and smiled at me. It was the smile of a demon, so pure in its evil I thought my blood would freeze at the sight. His left hand held the end of a thick rope, the other end of which went over his shoulder and around the neck of a prone, blood-smeared woman who he dragged over the muddy cobbles.

The specter from my dream continued thus through the door of a once-grand home with stained glass windows, bringing my horrible, sleep-deprived hallucination to an end. Like most dreams, the memory of it was a slippery thing, and it was nearly vanished from my mind when my search for the boy came to fruition. He stood at the corner of the building just ahead, staring past me with an expression of utmost horror.

I was tempted to think that he, too had seen the apparition from my dream. I followed his gaze, fearing that it would lead to the home with stained glass. Of course, it did not. The home and its colorful windows were nowhere to be seen. They had been created entirely of my imagination. I felt a rush of relief that it was not there, even though I knew that my fear had been born of too little rest and the pervasive gloomy mood of the locals.

Turning back to the boy, I met his gaze and found it brimming with trepidation. He shook his head at me in a clear warning, but of what I could not know.

"Young man," I said. "I believe I am in possession of your property."

Before I could present the dirty canvas and the rosary, he heard a sound from the alley behind him and ran towards me. I called for him to stop, but he continued in his peculiar gait right past me. Two larger boys appeared from alley, giving chase. I was about to rebuke them and command that they leave the other child in peace, but one of them brandished a knife so large that in his small hands it looked like a sword.

I overcame my shock at the sight as they passed me, and joined the pursuit. They lead me to a house which, although scarce moments had passed since I walked by, I would have sworn had not been there before. Surely, I would have recalled such a grand home, even if it was in a state of disrepair. One simply does not forget a home with stained glass windows.

The heavy oak door that granted entrance to home had been left open. As I passed through, I noted that it had probably been open for a long time; certainly for days, maybe for weeks. The entry-way was littered with wind and animal-born debris, and reeked of age and decay. The entire mess was cast in red, blue, and yellow hues by the light filtering in through the stained glass, adding a queasy sensation to the general uneasiness I already felt. The sound of footsteps on the creaking floor upstairs hinted at the location of the boys who entered before me.

"Make it easy on yourself, Fiddle," one of them called out. "Give me what I wants, and we can be friends again. If you don't, I'll cut you up! One teensy-tiny piece at a time 'til there ain't nothin' left of ya but scraps!"

Three exits led from the room, not counting the one to the street. An open stair led to a landing above. I could see a door to my left and another straight ahead. A trail of fresh blood led to the left door, which was opened just a crack. I was loathe to venture deeper into the home without a lamp or candle, but I couldn't stand by and allow these urchins to kill each other.

I opened my mouth to warn the boys against any violence, but at that moment, a loud flapping near my head forced me to duck as a magpie flew in through the open door and alighted on the banister.

"Kaw! Kaw!" it said with urgency.

My ears and fear-weakened heart heard it say "Go! Go!" To my shame, I was inclined to oblige. What was I doing here anyway, but meddling in unfamiliar matters? Surely, I was apt to do more harm than good.

Adding a layer of terror to the foundation of my fear, a woman groaned in the room to my left. It was a weak, pathetic noise that dwindled to a choked gurgle, and then stopped altogether. The door on the landing above opened, and fearing what might come out, I hastened through the door ahead of me.

The only light came from behind, but it was sufficient to reveal a sitting room with decayed, skeletal chairs, a piano and a card table. I wondered how the furnishings had survived in an unlocked, obviously abandoned house, but I had no time to ponder the answer. The muddy boy appeared in a passage at the opposite end of the room holding a lit candle.

"This way!" he hissed, waving for me to follow. "Quick-like, mister. Don't let him see you!"

I hurried after him, and followed in silence as he led me down a narrow stone stair to a cellar.

"What place is this?" I asked when we stopped. "What do those boys want from you? Is it this?" I produced the silvery rosary and held it near the smoky candle.

"You best keep that," he said in a tremulous whisper. "You shouldn't have come here."

His generosity and obvious fear for my safety moved me. I touched his shoulder to comfort him, but he flinched away.

"My name is Smith. Did I hear the other boy call you Fiddle?"

He nodded.

"Well, Fiddle. Don't be afraid of the other boys while I'm here. You are under my protection."

Fiddle shook his head, his expression still exuding terror. "I ain't 'fraid of no boys, Mister Smith. I dealt with them my whole life. They shouldn't a-come in here neither. Not while the Ghosty Man's home!"

"I don't believe in ghosts, Fiddle." And I didn't. But my voice still quivered as I spoke. My heart was still in the firm grasp of a dire fear.

"That don't make no difference," Fiddle said. "If he finds ya, he'll still pull your guts out."

My mother had been fond of saying that fear was God's way of keeping men alive. My fear was very clearly telling me it was time to go.

"Give me the candle and stay right behind me," I said. "We'll go to the pub and have a bite by the fire. How does that sound?"

"No!" He pulled the candle away so quickly that it flickered and nearly extinguished. "He don't come down to the cellar. When the Ghosty Man's here, all you can do is wait. If he catches you..."

"What about the other boys? Will he catch them?"

Fiddle nodded.

"You've seen him... pull someone's guts out?" I couldn't believe I was asking such a question to a child. But this boy had more a worldly way than many grown men.

He nodded again.

"Did he see you?"

Another nod.

"Why doesn't he hurt you, then?"

Tears cut a path down his filthy, skinny cheeks. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

"No, Fiddle. You can't take the blame for another man's actions. He will answer to God for his sins, as I will for mine and you for yours."

"But it is my fault. He was trapped. I untied him. I set him free."

Footsteps at the top of the stairs forced us to silence.

"Oi! Whiskers! I found him!" a boy shouted. "I know you're down there, Fiddle. I see your light." The boy's voice was punctuated by the scraping of his blade against the stone wall. "Don't make me come dow..."

His words stopped abruptly, following a sickening crunch and a thud. His blade bounced and rolled down the steps towards Fiddle and me. Fiddle was frozen in wild-eyed fear.

"Gho... Ghosty Man!"

I put my hand over his mouth to silence him, knocking the candle from his grasp. It went out and rolled away into the pitch black. The air felt deadly cold, and for an eternity, neither of us moved.

"Who in the Hell is this Ghosty Man?" I whispered once I found my voice.

"Alright. I'll tell you. I... I found him on the night of the fires. I seen a man chucking torches into the warehouse at the South Quay. I don't know why, but I followed him back to the banks by the new bridge. He tossed a couple of bodies into a fancy coach and rode away."

"And that was him? How do you know?"

"No. That weren't him. I hopped on the back of the coach, thinking I might find some salvage on the bodies. I rode it all the way out of the city to a big house. I never saw what he done with the bodies, but I snuck into the big house and hid. I lived there for weeks, eating like a prince. They never did find me. But one night I saw the man from the coach out by the stream lowering a package into the water with a rope."

"So, who was this man, if not the Ghost."

Fiddle shrugged. "An American. Him and three servants was the only ones in the whole place. But later, when I pulled the rope up from the stream, a heavy canvas comes up. Took me forever to pull it free. Inside... Inside..."

"Go on, Fiddle. What was in the canvas?"

"A long silver chain was tied 'round it. I took the chain off and opened the bag. It was a man. A wild man. A devil man!"

"The Ghosty Man," I said, enthralled by the lad's tale. He nodded.

"The Ghosty Man," he said. "The American kept him in the stream the whole time I'd been there, but it didn't kill him. Nothing kills him. Nothing even sees him."

"But you see him," I said. "How can you see him when no one else can?"

"I s'pose because I saved him. I don't know. All I know is everywhere I go, he goes. He follows me. And nobody can do nothin' to stop him. The only thing I ever seen that stopped him was that silver chain. He made me keep it. Wouldn't let me sell it."

"But who is he? Why does he follow you?"

He was silent except for a sniffle. He was crying again.

"What? Tell me?" I insisted.

"He follows me because... I'm sorry Mister Smith. I tried to warn you."

"It's all right, Fiddle. Just tell me." But I knew it wasn't all right. My flesh rose in bumps as the air cooled around me.

"He follows me because... I bring him food."

Even in the complete darkness, I could feel the icy presence of the Ghosty Man standing behind me. I clutched the silver rosary and started to pray.

The end.

Gregory Carrico (gregcarrico) is a former dental practice management consultant and software trainer. Abandoning his dream of working the daily grind until death, he was forced into the thankless life of a fiction writer. Now a member of the Wattpad Stars, he finds a small degree of succor in crafting despicable bad guys and then tricking readers into caring about them.

When not creating new worlds and plotting their destruction, he advocates for adopting rescue dogs, and draconian punishment for slow drivers in the passing lane.

You can read Undone on his profile, here on Wattpad!