Member-only story
Spring-Heeled Jack
A historical fiction story
When I was in Rome I felt his presence. But I never took the time to look over my shoulder. To Sicily, he followed me. All the way to London, he stalked me. Where am I now? I stand leaning over a bridge, gazing into the river below. The sun is setting, giving off the slightest bit of pink on the water. The clock tower behind me sends a toll. Its pleasant bong creates a vibration in the stone railing.
I suddenly feel the hot breath of a stranger on the back of my neck. I see his familiar reflection on the water.
“Come quietly and I will not hurt you,” he says in his usual soft, melodious voice. Frantic, I spun around to find no one behind me. My eyes search the streets. There was no one except a few innocent walkers and vendors. Assuming it was only my wild imagination, I turned back to the water; that was when I saw him again. On my left, staring back at me was my old friend. I feel my skin prickle. There was no way he could be real.
“Miss me?” said the character with wistful red eyes. I turned to face the nine-foot tall, gangly nuisance. He was dressed in a cape over vintage style clothing. Odd attire in today’s world.
“What do you want?” I demand, my voice shaking. Instead of responding, the man laughed maniacally. He leapt high into the air, landing on the other side of the…
