Capeworld Comics

When her sobs finally subsided, Martin spoke up. “You have had an awful night, but now comes the morning.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little tore her face away from her hands and glared at Martin. “What the Hell does that even mean? Was that supposed to be comforting? Inspiring? Hang the morning! I’ve only woken from one nightmare into another!”

 

Martin sighed. He really did hope that what he said would have been comforting, even if just a little. “You need to calm down. We can’t destroy the Werewolf unless you calm down. Remember what I said about calm opening the gate to further–”

“Go hang your gates and your magic and your magic science!” Agnes snapped

“Please, you must remember what Dr. Morton told you. You must go to the places in your mind where he is not. He has taken from you your life, your place in society and your place in history. But there are things within you he can never touch. In those precious things you can find peace.”

 

“In those “precious” things? In those dirty, useless things? When I was alive, when I was Agnes Little, those “precious” things led me to ruin! They led me to his knife! And now you’re saying they can save me, those useless, ugly things?”

 

“They are not useless, ugly things. Please trust my words as a manesologist. You yourself said I was famous. I know what I am talking about. You are thirty years old, Agnes. He had you for but an instant. Draw strength from those thirty years. Your life is greater than his one moment. Your reputation can be so much greater than his if you would only share it!”

“Ha! Thirty years! Thirty years of stupidity and sin and filth!” the manes of Agnes Little sobbed anew.

 

“Please stop saying such awful things about yourself. It’s not doing us any good.”

 

“I’ll say whatever I want!” the manes of Agnes Little snapped. “I died, or she died, or however it should be said, the point is someone died so at least let me say what I want about myself! I’m a rotten old whore, I always have been, that’s why he killed me, killed her, whatever!”

 

The manes of Agnes Little sighed. “The preachers alway said I’d be sent to Hell by a man’s disease or a man’s rage–and they were right.”

 

“You are not in Hell.” Martin said.

The manes of Agnes Little dried her tears. Ghost tears could be dried by a ghost hand, she observed. There was that, if nothing else “No. I’m not in Hell. I’m being too emotional. They don’t have kind manesologists in Hell. God has shown me a little mercy.”

 

“God did not punish you.”

 

“Not as much as he could have, no. But he has punished me. I have sullied myself by the selling of my flesh and that is why God let the man kill me.”

 

Martin decided that he wasn’t going to debate the point with her any longer. If the concept of divine punishment helped stabilize her, then it had a use, for now.

 

“It is time for you to talk about yourself, manes of Agnes Little. Tell me about yourself at age ten, twenty, thirty, tell me as little as you wish, as much as you wish, but you must talk to me. Telling others your story is crucial for strengthening your reputation and weakening his, do you understand that?”

 

“No, not a bit. I get that you think talking about myself is supposed to destroy that monster outside, somehow, but I don’t understand it. There is nothing in all my life worth talking about. Please, Dr. Glass, can’t you use your gaeite candle to, I don’t know, wish him away with a magic spell? Can’t you make him just…vanish? If you manesologists have the power to make my wounds close and to hold him outside then can’t you do something to destroy him? Can’t you just try?”

 

“I could work an Operation that would make him vanish, yes.” Martin said.

 

“Then do it! Why won’t you do it?”

 

“Because it would not make him go away completely and forever, manes of Agnes Little. Would you like for him to go away completely and forever?”

 

“Yes, but I don’t understand! How can I make him go away by talking about myself? How can my reputation, any reputation, destroy him? I don’t understand any of that!” the manes of Agnes Little grabbed at her scalp in exasperation.

 

“You know what? Fine! Fine, I’ll tell you everything! I was born in Whitechapel, my mother was a whore, she didn’t know my father, my grandmother had to help her care for me and grandmother hated my mother for forcing me upon her. Believe me, Dr. Glass, I learned from an early age that children born in families are investments, but children born out of wedlock are burdens. My grandmother sent me off to work almost as soon as I could walk. I’m glad I wasn’t a boy, she would have shoved me down into the dark and dirt. I knew boys like that, not all of them made it to manhood. I promised myself that I would spite my grandmother and mother both. I would become rich and desirable and worth something to spite my grandmother. I would become a respectable woman to spite my mother. But I trusted myself fully to a man that swore that he would always be true to me. He left me, just like how my father left my mother. He left me behind and I was ruined for other men so I could do nothing but follow the nature of my blood and become a whore. And now all the useless moments of my life have led me to…this.”

 

“Believe it or not, you’ve now taken the first few steps towards destroying the Werewolf of Blackwall forevermore.”

 

“I go with not!” The manes of Agnes Little pointed out the window. “How have I helped? He’s still there, leering like a damned gargoyle!”

Martin pointed at the table and a cup of coffee appeared. “Perhaps you would feel better if you had another–”

 

The manes of Agnes Little grabbed the coffee and hurled it at the window. Being made of ectoplasm, the cup passed through the window, and the man, being made of a thinner kind of ectoplasm, allowed the cup to pass through him before it became lost in the darkness.

 

“Excuse me.” the manes of Agnes Little said. “I suppose that was one more poor decision on my behalf.”

 

“I can see I’ve made a mistake here, again.” Martin said. “I haven’t elaborated on the right things. I’ve left you confused.”

“Yes. But I haven’t been helping things, have I?”

 

“Dr. Morton is better at talking to people than I am. I went too fast with you. You don’t even understand what’s happened to you, not fully.”

 

“I think I understand enough. I think. One night, Agnes Little did her rounds. A madman stabbed her. I came out of her body. I was chased and assaulted by the madman’s ghost and now thanks to you and the two other manesologists, I’m safe. I’m still confused, but at least I’m not being cut up.”

 

“I would like to go over the entire event, as it was told to me, as it was told to the public of Blackwall and England. I want to impress upon you the public’s perspective of you, the Werewolf, and what happened that night.”

 

“I think the public’s perspective of a dead whore needs no elaboration.”

 

“It is extremely important that you understand how you are remembered and how he is remembered.”

 

“But why is it important how I’m remembered and how the Werewolf is remembered? Why is it important that I ramble about my past to you as if I were a character in a Dickens novel?”

 

“It will be easier to explain that to you once you understand how your reputation stands in light of the Werewolf of Blackwall’s own. I do not wish to under-inform you, as I have previously. Please allow me to, as it were, put all the cards on the table.”

 

“Then go right ahead, Dr. Glass.”

“Very well. Here is what was told to the public, to me, to everyone: On August 15th of 1875, Agnes Little’s body was found in the early morning by steam beast workers walking to work. It was quickly determined by the nature of the wound that she had been attacked with a knife.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little grabbed at where her wound was. “How many times did he stab her?”

 

“Only once.”

 

“Only once? What did he do when he caught up to her?”

 

“Nothing. The physical evidence determined that he stabbed her once and only once. She ran from him and he chased her. Her blood left a long trail that ran down almost the entirety of Chopin Street. He allowed her to bleed out until she expired. They said it was like how a wolf would wound its prey and then stalk it until it fell. That’s why they called him the Werewolf of Blackwall.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little shivered.

 

“Are you alright, manes of Agnes LIttle?” Martin asked.

 

She nodded. “Yes. I’m just remembering the…end. I couldn’t remember the end while I was being chased by him outside, but now I do. It wasn’t a bad end, I think. There was no pain at that point. When I ran I was hot, sticky, and everything flowed out of me, it seemed. Everything flowed out of her, I mean. But she was cold, in the end. And then it was just like going to sleep on the stones. That wasn’t so bad. There are worse ways to die. There are, aren’t there? You would know, as a manesologist.”

 

“It’s rather morbid to compare physical ends. I prefer to focus on what a manes can do in the present beyond the demise of his or her body.”

 

“But there are worse ways to die?”

 

Countless cases ran through Martin’s mind, countless images of corpses–corpses broken and mangled, corpses bloated and blue, corpses eerily intact as if they were alive and sleeping…

 

“Yes.” Martin answered, simply and truthfully.

 

“I don’t know why it makes me feel better to hear that. But it does. I guess I’m at such a state that any comfort feels wonderful–even if it isn’t my comfort we’re discussing, truthfully. So, did anyone see the Werewolf? She was screaming so loud, someone must have heard.”

 

“There were witnesses to the crime, but no one tried to save her.”

 

“Really? No one?”

 

The manes of Agnes Little was heartbroken and angry. “Not unexpected of Chopin Street.” she said icily.“I bet they watched the damned rats sniff at and then nibble at my body. Did they at least put something over it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Not even a blanket? They left…” the manes of Agnes Little paused. She wanted to be very careful with her words and felt “my” forming on her lips. It was so hard, not being herself anymore, but she felt that she could get used to it over time–and she certainly had a lot of that now that she couldn’t die.

 

“…They left her body to stink on the stones until sunlight?”

 

“The body was found uncovered. I’m sorry.”

 

“Cowards! Bloody cowards! A gentleman like yourself wouldn’t know this, but there were other girls on Chopin Street, many girls. They knew what was happening, they could have done something, they could have gotten someone! Bloody cowards! They all ran and left me behind!”

 

“The body was then claimed by Mary Little.”

 

“Mother would’ve had to claim the body, wouldn’t she? I mean legally she was probably obligated to. I hope she had more than a little trouble making all the arrangements.”

“Once the body was made ready, Agnes Little was buried at Sharpe’s Row.” Martin said.

 

“Is there a tombstone?” the manes of Agnes Little asked with great concern. She surprised herself with how much she cared about a tombstone.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh!” The manes of Agnes Little smiled for the good fortune of Agnes Little. But then she remembered who she was, what she was, and the little joy she found seemed to be nothing more than a lot of foolishness.

 

“That surprises me. I thought it would be an unmarked grave. I’ve had friends of mine that had to be buried in unmarked graves. I wonder who paid for it? Certainly not mother, or grandmother. Daniel? Oh, I suppose it doesn’t really matter…wait, I suppose they aren’t actually friends of mine…but then again, why can’t they be my friends and Agnes’ friends? Oh, it’s so tricky being…this. So much thinking about things! It makes me feel so tired.”

 

“Just follow your instincts.” Martin said. “If you feel like Agnes, you are Agnes. If you don’t feel like Agnes, you aren’t Agnes. And if you change how you feel, don’t fight it. It’s like my friend Dr. Joseph Morton says–thinking too much about who and what you are will spread you thin like butter over toast. You’ll end up someone, but it’ll be a very thin someone.”

 

“Tell me please, Dr. Glass, this isn’t very important, but is there an angel on the tombstone?”

 

“I’m not sure, but I can make arrangements for there to be an angel statue on it, if there’s not one already there.”

 

Agnes opened her mouth, but hesitated to say something. Her ambivalence to her state of being was exhausting.

 

“No. Don’t bother.” she muttered at last. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“If you ever find that it does matter, we’ll make sure an angel is there.”

 

“It really doesn’t matter. I’m never going to see it. I’m never going to Sharpe’s Row. It doesn’t matter if there’s an angel on her stone or not, a grave or not. It really doesn’t matter. Does it?”

 

“That’s for you to determine.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little sighed. “It is, isn’t it? But I can’t seem to come to a solid determination in my mind.”

“The personalities of living humans do not form in a single night. There is no race to your determination.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Glass. Please, continue.”

 

“Very well. At first, the police thought the Werewolf was simply one of your…” he blushed as he fumbled for the word. “…acquaintances who got violently upset with you.”

 

“He wasn’t one of mine and he didn’t want to “meet my acquaintance.” He came up to me. He stabbed me. He chased me. He knew what he wanted to do to me and it wasn’t the usual thing.”

 

“The police realized with the second body that Blackwall was plagued by a madman who liked stabbing women.” Martin said.

 

“Second body? How many did he kill?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

 

“Before he was caught, five, including yourself.”

 

“Please tell me the names of the other four.”

 

“His second victim, also on Chopin Street, was Emily Clark.”

 

“Oh. I didn’t know her. I’m not sure whether to be happy or sad about that.”

 

“Emily Clark died in much the same way as Agnes LIttle. That was when my friends and I were contacted, because it was believed that only a mad ghost could be so violently insane. But he wasn’t a mad ghost, only a madman. We conducted various Operations to draw the presumed manes to our presence. He never came, because he didn’t exist. Still, we could ask his victims, and we did so. As strange as it is to say, tonight is not the first time we have met.”

 

“I am very confused.”

“It is rare for a manes to immediately manifest following decoupling.”

“Decoupling?”

 

“Death.”

 

“Oh. Oh, but that does make sense. I’ve never heard of a ghost that immediately gets out of a body.”

 

“Immediate manifestation is extremely rare. Typically after decoupling, n manes spawns entirely within the Astral in a state similar to sleep. We manesologists call this state brgdo, after the Dyeus word for sleep. As a general rule, we don’t wake a manes from brgdo unless there is a pressing reason to do so. We normally wait for a manes to naturally awaken. Necromancy, summoning up the dead from out of brgdo, angers the psychopomps–the angels and faeries that escort awakened manes to various afterlives.”

 

“Why does it make them upset?”

 

“Because if manes can be woken up for any reason, then it creates a scramble to wake up all manes from brgdo. The psychopomps fear suddenly competing with a massive scramble for all the souls of mankind–past, present, and future, all at once, for the Astral exists beyond time. Due to the rule that manes can only be interacted with when they naturally awaken, psychopomps only deal with a trickle of the workload they otherwise would. And just like people, they hate to work more than they have to.”

 

‘It’s strange to me how little the powers-that-be in the universe seem care for living beings and how much they care for their ghosts.”

 

“It’s because manes are of a similar substance. The psychopomps see them, in a way, as kin.”

 

“So I’m kin to the gods and faeries? Ha. What a world this all is…but anyway, I suppose my murder counted as an exception to the rule?”

 

“Yes. The psychopomps allow a small degree of necromancy in cases such as your own.”

 

“I don’t remember you waking me up.”

 

“You wouldn’t. Rarely do manes remember what they dream about in the brgdo state. Our brief conversation was, to you, just another dream.”

 

“Was this bird-o state like it was outside, in the streets? Was I running and running and running from him over and over?”

 

“No. What happened outside is what we call a phantasmagoria. A phantasmagoria is when a manes repeats a specific portion of their lives over and over again, like the same chapter in a book being read several times over. Unfortunately, your phantasmagoria caused you to repeat your death. But it’s not like that in the brgdo state. The psychopomps wouldn’t allow the souls of humanity to slumber if it was like that. In brgdo, one’s entire life repeats again and again, not necessarily in order, but certainly in total. The bad parts repeat, but also the good.”

 

“If I dreamed of my entire life, it must have been a very bad dream.”

 

“The nightmare outside was just a small part of your brgdo, I assure you. A few minutes is nothing compared to a lifetime.”

 

“It was a lifetime of trash. Trust me, I know. But you are right. I’d much rather the bird-o thing than being gutted like a fish forever and ever. Dr. Glass, when we talked in my bird-o state, was what I told you helpful in capturing the Werewolf?”

“Honestly, no.”

 

“Hm. I’m not surprised. Nothing good could possibly come out of my life.”

 

“You were only able to recall a form wrapped in darkness.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little looked out the window. “Not too inaccurate.”

 

“Certainly not from your perspective. But the Werewolf was captured regardless, in the end. His third victim was on Meredith Street. After Emily Clark, the women of Chopin Street fled, and many went to Meredith Street.”

 

“To think the day would come that there were no whores on Chopin Street! Most miraculous thing I’ve heard all day, and I learned I died! Who was the third victim?”

 

“A young woman named Amelia Doyle.”

 

“Amy!?” the manes of Agnes Little gasped. “Oh, no,not Amy! I knew her, Dr. Glass. She was a young thing, much too young for this work.”

 

“It was reported that she was twelve years old.”

“God! She was a child! We knew she was young, but…oh the poor, poor thing…quickly, Dr. Glass, who was the fourth? I want to get this list over with.”

 

“The fourth was also on Meredith Street. Her name was Bethany Cates.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little sighed. “Well, I hate to say I don’t care as much about her death as little Amy’s, but, well, I didn’t know Bethany that well. She was pleasant enough, I suppose, but we never talked much, and at any rate, she was just an old whore, like me. So that leaves one more. Who was the last of the Werewolf’s victims, Dr. Glass?”

 

“The last victim was Alice Williams.”

 

“Oh! Alice! Oh, poor woman! She was nice to me, Dr. Glass, she was nice to us all! She was too old for this line of work so she took to caring for us like a mother. She knew which men were good and which would beat you. She had a…well, she was sick sir, I believe you understand my meaning.”

 

“I do. She had a social disease.”

 

“Yes sir, she did, and those of us who had a little savings and were nice, we put some of our earnings aside to pay for her medicine. The poor woman could barely get out of bed. Everyone knew she was sick, too sick and old for a lock hospital. That didn’t stop the police from examining her again and again and again, of course.”

 

“If she was already known to have a social disease, why would the police examine her?”

 

“Because they could.”

 

“But the Contagious Diseases Act states that such examinations are for the discovery and regulation of social diseases. Wouldn’t one examination have sufficed?”

The manes of Agnes Little smiled at Dr. Glass.

 

He was young and thoroughly educated by men who moved like shadows through the background of the world. He knew the world of the streets, her world, only through books. His innocence was remarkable and precious.

 

“Pay you no mind, Dr. Glass, it’s not important. It’s just something whores have to deal with. But tell me, how did she die? How could he have killed her? She hadn’t walked the streets for years.”

 

“I’m sorry to say that the Werewolf broke into her home. He was emboldened by his previous killings.”

 

“He actually broke into her home?”

 

“He beat down the door in the middle of the night.”

“The monster…the rotten monster!!” Agnes slammed the table with her fists and gasped as they sank through.

 

She tried to move her arms and rattled the table.

“Stay calm.” Martin said.

“I’m stuck!” Agnes shouted. “I can’t believe I’m stuck! Oh, Lord, I’m nothing but a jelly!”

 

“Try moving your arms now.” Martin said. “I just performed a manesological Operation to lessen the density of your ectoplasm.”

 

“You did? When? Don’t you need to say magic words and move your hands?”

 

“I know Illustrated Phantom Stories likes to depict us that way, but we don’t need to do anything but think so long as olprt radiance surrounds us and the target of our Operations. Now try moving your arms.”

 

Agnes did so. Her arms slid clean of the table.

“Now put them on the table, but gently.”

 

Agnes did so. “I see. I’m a soap bubble. Too much pressure and I break.”

 

“That’s one way to describe being a manes.”

 

“I thought ghosts were either like a mist or like people. “ the manes of Agnes Little said. “They could either touch things or they couldn’t.”

 

“It’s like that for some, but for others, for yourself, it’s kind of an intermediate sort of existence.”

 

“It’s so frustrating being a third thing in-between two things.” the manes of Agnes Little said. “ How does anyone live like this?” Agnes asked. “Well, I suppose they don’t have much choice in the matter, do they?”

 

“You just need time to adjust. I know it seems very limiting now, but there are things you can do as a manes that flesh-and-blood people can only dream of doing. You can fly, for instance.”

“Hm. I’d take not having to worry about getting stuck in things over flight.” the manes of Agnes Little said.

 

She looked at her hand. It seemed so solid, yet every few seconds it would suddenly blink away and reappear like a flashing lightning bolt.

 

“God, how did I ever think I wasn’t a ghost? I am such a little fool.” the manes of Agnes Little muttered. “Say what you will about Agnes Little’s death, Dr. Glass, but my existence as it currently stands truly feels like a punishment from God.”

 

“I don’t believe that for a moment.” Martin said.

 

“There’s a certain poetry to my current state. It has the feeling of something from out of the Bible, like Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt. I made a living selling my flesh, and now I don’t have flesh. I let men touch me, and now no man can ever touch me again.”

 

“God is neither petty nor cruel.” Martin said.

 

“But God is just, and I am a sinner.”

 

Martin stood up. He could take no more of her constant self-flagellation.

 

“Please listen to me. In my attempt to become a thaumaturgist, I pursued God. That is what it means to be a thaumaturgist, to pursue God. In the pursuit of God, I sent my mind out into the far reaches of the Astral. I studied the memories and dreams of prehuman civilizations. I conversed with beings that have no shape and no form. Believe me when I say that God is indeed just, but no force of justice would use that thing out there as an instrument! Manes of Agnes Little, I have heard you condemn the woman that you once were, and I cannot understand why you would do so! That creature out there treated Agnes as garbage, to be used for his sick pleasure and then discarded! Why do you not condemn him instead of Agnes? Is it not enough that he attacked the woman that you were, the very source of your memories, and women like her? Do you have to help him in his assault against Agnes, against Emily, against Amelia, and Bethany, and Alice?”

 

The manes of Alice Little looked at the man outside the window. She looked at him longer and harder than she ever had before.

 

The fear she had for him started to pale against a new emotion welling up from deep inside her

 

She stood up.

 

“You are right, Dr. Glass. I have abused myself as surely as he did. There is nothing of God in that. I suppose self-abuse is my problem…no.” she shook her head. “No. That was Agnes’ problem. They hated her, and so she hated herself. But I, as her manes, do not have to have her problem. And I know who truly deserves to be the recipient of my anger.”

 

She stormed over to the window so fast that her feet hovered off the ground, so fast that she did not even notice that she was flying for the first time.

 

“You damned monster! You killer! You animal! You beast! Look at what you’ve done to me! Well, at least I’m not you! All you can do is stand there and gape like a scarecrow!”

The manes of Agnes Little screamed with a furious strength Agnes Little herself had never known.

 

“Did you lose anything by dying, you sick, diseased, monstrosity? No! No, because you had nothing but your sick appetites, and you got to go on repeating them! You got to go on stabbing me and stabbing and stabbing me like you wanted! I lost five years! Five years! And you couldn’t just stop with me, you had to kill them all! You had to kill Alice! She hadn’t walked the streets for ages! She wasn’t a whore anymore, you bastard!”

 

Agnes glared at the man, panting in rage.

Martin smiled. Her condemnation was finally finding the right target.

 

The man did not move. He did not respond. It was as if she yelled at the night itself. But there was one more thing she had to say, if not for him to hear, than for herself to hear.

 

“I won’t fear you anymore. But I’ll hate you forever.” Agnes turned and walked back to the table and gently, very gently, sat back down.

 

“Does he even hear us?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to.”

 

“He doesn’t.” Martin answered. “But he also wasn’t the one that needed to hear that. He also doesn’t see us.”

 

“He doesn’t see us?” Agnes shuffled in her seat to the left and then to the right, trying to see through the shadows that guarded the Werewolf’s face. She couldn’t tell if his shadowed eyes were following her or not.

 

“But how could he have chased me if he couldn’t see me?”

 

“All will become clear, I promise. But let me continue with the chain of events. You deserve to know how the Werewolf of Blackwall was caught.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little smiled. “Oh, I do want to hear about this!”

 

“ After Ms. Grace’s murder, Blackwall was seized with panic. Everyone locked and bolted their doors. Ladies of your profession took to walking the streets with male protection.”

“Pimps are good for something, I suppose.”

 

“At the time, my friends and I were confident that we weren’t dealing with a manes. But manes or not, there was a killer in our city, and these powers granted to us by the Ror Raas are useful for more than dealing with manes. We have befriended many manes over the years, with many different powers. We called in one that could pass as a living woman and asked her to walk the streets as a tempting target. Eventually, the Werewolf found her and plunged his knife into her, but found that his blade stuck.”

 

Agnes smiled. “Oh, I like that. Foiled by a ghost! Did the ghost kill him?”

“She captured him alive so that he could give a full accounting of himself before the law.”

“Ah. You’re right, Dr. Glass. Capturing him would be better than killing him.”

 

“Unfortunately, while he was being escorted away by the constabulary, he slit his throat with a second knife hidden on his person.”

 

“Oh. Well, that perhaps wasn’t the best outcome, but you won’t catch me complaining about it. Those who live by the sword, die by the sword, so they say. So he died bleeding out on the cold streets, did he?”

“He did. And he died with considerably less composure than yourself. He gurgled through his neck wound, like a pig killed for harvest.”

“Good. There in that is the hand of God, truly.” the manes of Agnes Little said.

“Yes, truly. His rampage, though violent, was brief. It was still 1866 when he perished. It’s been half a decade since then, yet, because the Werewolf’s crimes were so lurid, because he died without giving a name or explanation for his actions, he became an immortal topic of speculation. People wondered if he, perhaps, had a partner. Every time someone was found stabbed to death in Blackwall they wondered if it wasn’t his secret partner at work–or perhaps his own manes. Illustrated Police News would publish any report of Werewolf sightings no matter how far-fetched, and if they didn’t have any reports to publish they would invent their own, for the public loved reading about the Werewolf. I don’t know why, but modern Britons seem to have a barbaric hunger for stories of violence and darkness. It is now 1871, and his legacy still haunts Blackwall though the man himself is long dead.”

“His infamous reputation is propping up his ghost?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

 

“It is partly his reputation–but partly your own.” Martin answered.

 

“I still don’t understand. Oh! Oh dear, did someone summon him? Like in that case reported in Illustrated Phantom Stories where a Parisian theater owner hired evil manesologists to summon the worst killers in history to frighten his audiences?”

“That wasn’t a real case. Not every case reported in Illustrated Phantom Stories is true. Now, brace yourself, manes of Agnes Little, for what I’m about to tell you is a very, very strange revelation.”

 

“Compared to learning that I’m dead?”

 

“Yes. It is a very strange revelation. But first, tell me something–”

 

“Tell you something? Don’t ask me to brace for a strange revelation and then ask me something! Just tell me what it is!”

 

“In a moment, But do you understand that, to the average citizen of Blackwall, the Werewolf is a highly infamous murderer? Even today, Chopin Street is deserted because of his actions. The Werewolf is as infamous as Nero and Bluebeard combined. But you, on the other hand, are known only as his first victim. When people say your name it is in the context of you being his victim. That repetitive chase outside, that phantasmagoria–that is his reputation, and yours. Do you understand that?”

“I understand.”

 

“Now here is the revelation: that creature out there is not the manes of the Blackwall Werewolf.”

 

Agnes spun around and gestured to the man outside. “Impossible, Dr. Glass! That has to be the Werewolf! He stabbed me, he chased me, that is the Werewolf out there!”

 

“It is the Werewolf, but it is not the manes of the Werewolf.”

“I am confused.”

 

“I figured you would be. He is of your rn.”

 

“He is of my what?”

 

“Your rn papnor. Your…”

 

Martin touched his head. He was being foolish in assuming she knew these things.

 

“Have you ever heard of the ogdoan quad?” he asked.

 

“I think I may have heard the term before, but I don’t recall what it means.”

 

“It’s the organizational structure of a manes. It means the four-that-are-eight.There are four salman and each salman contains two papnors and each papnor…I’m sorry, I’m giving you too much information for the matter at hand.”

 

“Have you ever lectured before, Dr. Glass? You strike me as one having the manner of a professor.”

 

“No, but I’ve learned from many teachers. Too many, I’m afraid. Do you know how the human body works? How it has several kinds of organs each performing a function? Like how the lungs breathe and the heart pumps?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Manes likewise are composed of things called spiritual components, or to use manesological terminology, papnors. For instance, there’s a spiritual component, the sah papnor, that controls the expression for what a manes considers its “self.” This most often takes the form of a body based on the living body. Thus manes with strong sahs appear very much as living humans appear. Some with very strong sahs, such as yourself, can even feel pain and eat food.”

 

“But we still go through tables if we hit them hard enough.”

 

“Yes. Though there are a rare few with sahs so strong their hair sheds and their fingernails grow. The ogdoad quad copies much from living individuals, but there are always imperfections and changes. Sometimes there are many imperfections. Manes with weak sahs may appear as empty outlines of people, or sometimes not even that. They may appear as nothing more than balls of light. Every manes is composed of eight papnor, and a complication within your rn papnor has created the thing outside leering at us.”

 

“So this papnor of mine…it created another ghost, and the ghost happened to look and act like the Werewolf of Blackwall?”

 

“No. That thing out there is your rn papnor. It is a manifestation of your papnor. Manes are not bound to one manifestation. My friends and I once helped a manes that manifested as an entire stage full of Shakespeare characters, yet though there were many bodies, there was only one manes. Another time, we encountered an entire Napoleonic army, and yet again, there was only one manes with many bodies–the manes of a drummer, actuall.”

 

“So that thing is…like an extra arm for me?”

 

“I’m sorry how complicated this all is, but yes, that is exactly what he is. He is a part of you”

 

“If he’s a part of me, then why can’t I control him? Was this actor ghost and drummer ghost able to control all their other bodies?”

“Yes they were, but you’re different. Their multiple bodies were the result of other papnors. You can’t control him, at least at this point, because the rn papnor is very strange compared to other papnors. It is based in the shared thoughts of humanity linked across the Astral. The rn papnor is papnor that only partially belongs to its manes. Part of it belongs to the generalized thoughts of humanity.”

 

Martin fished in his pockets and produced a wooden cross.

 

He held it out to the manes of Agnes Little.

 

Her eyelids drooped.

 

“Dr. Glass…I feel…I feel very tired all of a sudden…”

 

“Do you feel calm?”

 

“Yes I do…”

 

The manes of Agnes Little yawned.

 

Martin put the cross back in his pocket.

 

Esmee snapped back to her alertness. “What was that? Did you perform another Operation on me?”

 

“No. I just showed you a crucifix. We carry a lot of them on our persons, my friends and I. We use them to affix unpleasant manes. Do you know why we use crucifixes?”

 

“Um…because they’re easy to carry around?”

 

Martin smiled. “Actually, yes, that is one of the reasons. But another is that because our English culture is dominated by Christianity. Because people believe in Christ, the power of the cross radiates throughout the Astral and touches every rn papnor. If a manes has a strong rn papnor, such as yourself, a cross will produce feelings of intense calm, if they believe God loves them, or intense pain, if they believe God does not.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little chuckled. “There must be some mistake here, Dr. Glass. I’ve never been on good terms with God. It should repulse me like a vampire, yet all I want to do is cuddle up with it like a pillow.”

 

“I don’t believe I have to explain the implications of your response to the cross.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little looked away, deep in thought.

 

“…Agnes Little knew that God wanted nothing to do with her.” she muttered. “…But I am not Agnes Little…”

 

“Because you have one of the strongest rn papnor I have ever seen, and because Blackwall remembers you as nothing more than the Werewolf’s victim, your rn papnor, your reputational component, created and recreated the moment you were both best known for. It made you bleed. It made the streets go on forever. It made him.”

 

“You mean because some guy that stabbed me got infamous that I had to go on being stabbed by him?”

 

“Yes, and I’m sorry.”

 

“That’s…but that’s so unfair!”

 

“It is, which is why we’re doing something about it.”

 

“I think I understand your plan now…well, part of your plan, at least.”

 

“That’s very good!”

 

“My reputation, as it currently stands, is that I was the first victim of the Werewolf and nothing more. But if I talk to people, if Blackwall gets to know about me, then my reputation will become my reputation, not his, and he’ll…I don’t know, dry up and blow away?”

 

“Or simply blink out of existence, but yes, you get the idea.”

 

“I don’t think I do, Dr. Glass, not fully. Do you really think that I can overcome the legend of the Werewolf of Blackwall with…with what? My story? If I was such an interesting person, my reputation wouldn’t have been consumed by a madman with a knife in the first place.”

 

“But you are an interesting person–far more interesting than the Werewolf. The Werewolf isn’t even a person. He’s a shape, a figure. He doesn’t have the dynamism of a actual person. You have a history. He just has a series of homicides. He’s only interesting in the moment. Beyond that, he’s boring.”

 

“I’m flattered you think I’m interesting, but what am I supposed to do exactly? Give speeches? Am I supposed to defeat the legend of the Werewolf of Blackwall through…what, public discourse? Men didn’t associate with me because they were interested in what I had to say.”

“It will be a slow process. This isn’t a war that can be won in a single night. But if you talk to one person, even just one person, that person can share your story to others. Most of the fighting against the Werewolf will be done through other people sharing your story.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little stared at him “You really think this will work, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I think this will work. I’m a manesologist. I should know these things, shouldn’t i?”

 

“I don’t claim to be an expert on anything save one thing–Agnes Little. I am definitely the world’s leading expert on her. She isn’t anything anyone would care about. I think if people had to choose between the Werewolf’s story and her own, they’d choose the whore being carved up again and again.”

 

“Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but you’ve been wrong about Agnes Little many times tonight.”

 

“Point taken…but it still seems odd to me. Is there nothing you can do with your candles to help me? Nothing at all? They seem like they can do anything.”

 

“In truth, we’ve already worked several Operations on you tonight. We had to, in order to free you from your phantasmagoria. Your phantasmagoria first came to our attention about four days ago. That was when you awoke from your brgdo and manifested on Earth.”

 

“So I didn’t spend all five years being stabbed. That’s good to know. Though I don’t suppose it matters much. If you can’t remember something, it’s like it never happened.”

 

“We acted to free you as soon as we could. At first, all we had to work with were scattered reports from people that happened to be walking down Chopin Street in the middle of the night. They would see flashes of a woman, and a man, and they would feel a pain in their side as your psychic power component lashed out at them.”

 

“I remember none of this.”

 

“You wouldn’t have. Chopin Street, as you’ve said, is a very storied location. It took us a little time to figure out what was happening and then when we knew we still had trouble pinning you down.”

 

Martin sighed as he remembered the sleepless game of tag he and his friends had to play.

 

You kept teleporting, keep moving across the entire street. Your shut component, your object impression component, was very strong, and it made it so that you were just…everywhere, all at once, and you kept moving. I’m so sorry it took us so long.”

 

“It’s alright.”

 

“Speaking of your object impression, that was one of your components we weakened, along with your psychic power component. People will no longer feel a stabbing sensation in their sides when you’re around them, and you’re no longer tied to Chopin Street.”

 

“Thank God for that. You know, the preachers always said I was married to Chopin Street…”

 

“You may still feel a slight…pull towards Chopin Street. It’s nothing overpowering, you can go anywhere in the world you want to go, but every once-in-a-while you may feel the urge to visit Chopin Street.”

 

“If you were able to reduce my object impression component so much that I went from teleporting around the street to being able to leave it at my will, then why can’t you do the same to the Werewolf? Weaken my reputational component to the point he’s a dwarf. Wouldn’t that make it easier for me to snuff him out through word-of-mouth?”

 

“It would be like putting a bandage on a festering wound. It would only hide the problem. The problem is his reputation and your reputation out there in the minds of the populace. We could use an Operation to reduce him to the size of a goblin, we could make him invisible, but he would still exist, and he would still have power over you. But if you share your story, you can take all the power away from him.

 

The manes of Agnes Little stared at the man with angry, wrathful eyes.

 

It would be nice to destroy him under her own power. It would be so very, very nice…

 

“Share your story. Share the story of Agnes, and Amy, and Alice, and all the rest. Share the stories that were obscured by the darkness of the Werewolf of Blackwall.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little thought long and hard about what she wanted to do, and then she spoke.

 

“Okay, Dr. Glass. Set me up a soapbox on the street corner or however it’s going to work. I’m willing to try this.”

 

Martin smiled. “We’re ready, now. At last.”

 

Martin looked out the window, but he didn’t seem to look at the Werewolf. Rather, he seemed to look past the werewolf. He motioned with his hand.

There was a commotion outside. There was a flash of green fire. The man suddenly burned away like paper cast into a fireplace.

 

The door opened, and Dr. Matthew Ernst and Dr. Joseph Morton walked in.

“It’s good to see you two again.” the manes of Agnes Little greeted the two manesologists.

Outside, the man reformed, seemingly pulling his bulk from out of the dark air itself. But the man’s immortality no longer bothered the manes of Agnes Little.

She shook her head. “Ah, if only he would stay dead…but it doesn’t matter. Dr. Glass and myself are working on that.”

 

“We know.” Joseph puffed on his cigar, tipped as before with green fire. “We kept in touch with Dr. Glass telepathically through an Operation–that is to say, we talked to each other with our minds. But good for you deciding to fight him, manes of Agnes Little.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little looked at Joseph’s cigar. “Sir, I noticed this before, and it seemed rather minor in my panic, but there’s green fire on your cigar, and you’ve burnt the Werewolf twice with that fire. Why is it green and why does it move?”

The fire leapt off the tip of Joseph’s cigar and grew into a ball about the size of a man’s head.

 

“Because it is actually a he. Manes of Agnes Little, meet one of our employees, Nick.”

 

“Oh!” the manes of Agnes Little gasped. “Oh, you’re a ghost! You’re all fire, aren’t you?”

 

“Nick can’t talk.” Joseph explained. “At least not in a way you’d be able to understand. He’s got a very weak bodily impression.”

 

“Please forgive my surprise, Nck.” the manes of Agnes Little said. “I should know by now that ghosts come in many different forms. I owe you a debt of thanks, Nick. It was very nice seeing you set that horrible gargoyle outside on fire. It doesn’t keep him dead, but it’s nice to see him die.”

 

Nick bobbed up and down in the air, which the manes of Anges Little figured was his way of nodding in agreement.

 

“Technically speaking, every time he burns away the Werewolf, he’s setting a part of you on fire.” Martin said.

 

Joseph rolled his eyes. “Dear girl, I’m so sorry you’ve had to talk to him for this long by yourself.”

 

Another ghost joined the group, walking in through the door–literally through the door.

 

This new ghost was a woman, and a very pretty one at that. The manes of Agnes Little felt the pains of remembrance when she saw her china-smooth face. She had seen many faces like that, many faces that entered into a brothel vibrant and youthful and left withered and pox-ridden, or worse, scarred.

 

Unlike the manes of Agnes Little, this ghost was tinted blue from her skin to her clothes. The light shined through her, though she also seemed to have a little radiance of her own. She seemed like a piece of blue glass skillfully carved into the shape of a woman.

 

“Hello, manes of Agnes Little,” the ghost said. “My name is Esmee Walker. I’m an employee of Ernst, Morton, and Glass, like Nick.”

 

She turned to the manesologists. “I finished making the arrangements.”

“That’s good.” Matthew said. “Manes of Agnes Little, your previous property was bought and sold shortly after Agnes Little’s death. As the Manes Charter stands, you are penniless.”

“As if I had a penny to my name to begin with, but I know how the law works.”

“We purchased a little apartment for you on Curant Street, in the James District, so you’d have a place to rest.” Matthew said. “It’s in walking distance of Chopin Street, should you feel your object impression call you to walk it.”

“Thank you,” the manes of Agnes Little said. “That’s very kind of you. I honestly gave very little thought to where I’d go from here. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

 

“Such a purchase was not beyond our finances.” Matthew said. “Money has only rarely been an obstacle for us. The Ror Raas has always provided for our needs.”

“Friends in high places, eh?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

 

“Friends in dark places, more like.” Joseph said. “But you’d be surprised how resourceful the darkness can be. They know where all the buried treasures are.”

The manes of Agnes Little looked at Esmee. “So you’re Esmee Walker–not the manes of Esmee Walker?”

Esmee shook her head. “No. I feel that I’m still that girl.”

 

“Good for you. Oh, but we ghosts come in so many varieties, don’t we?”

“They say we’re the children of life, and humans can live very many different kinds of lives.”

“Lord, you are pretty, Esmee. You look like someone created you, like an artist or a sculptor.”

 

“Oh, I’m not pretty. I’m just simplified. I have no wrinkles or imperfections because my form lacks those details.”

 

“You’re modest.”

 

“No, no, it’s the truth. I’m like someone’s drawing of a girl instead of an actual girl.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little reached out towards Esmee’s face. “May I touch you?”

Esmee nodded.

“Lord!” The manes of Agnes Little recoiled. “You’re cold! Oh, you poor thing!”

 

Esmee smiled. “I don’t feel it. I don’t feel much of anything.”

 

“You’re as cold as ice.” the manes of Agnes Little turned to Nick. “And you, you’re so warm I can feel you all the way over here. You two make quite the pair.”

“They’re great employees.” Matthew said. “They’ve helped us out countless times. Esmee will escort you to your home, and if you like, she is prepared to watch over you as you adust to your circumstances.”

 

“Watch over? Oh, you mean keep me company while the Werewolf stars at me.”

 

The manes of Agnes Little looked at the man.

 

“I know he can’t hurt me…but I think I would appreciate someone keeping me company so long as I have to deal with him stalking me–I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”

 

“It’s not trouble at all!” Esmee said cheerfully. “Didn’t Dr. Glass tell you? I was the ghost they used to capture the living Werewolf of Blackwall.”

“That was you?” The manes of Agnes Little couldn’t believe it. “But you’re so…you look so delicate, dear!”

“Thank you. But they say the living have no defense against the dead for a reason. No man can stand against me unaided by gaeite–or you, for that matter. And as for that reputational manifestation out there, I have the utmost confidence in my ability to handle him. In fact, I think I’ll give you a demonstration!” Esmee suddenly blew through the wall like a gust of blue tinted air.

 

“Be careful!” the manes of Agnes Little shouted after her. “Oh please, be careful!”

But her worry was unfounded.

 

There was a flash of blue next to the Werewolf. The next instant, Esmee stood beside him, and the Werewolf stood cringing before her blue radiance. He shook as if he was afraid, as if he was losing control of his body.

 

His hand opened. The knife in it fell–and froze in mid-fall.

 

He was then as still and as lifeless as a statue.

The means of Agnes Little gazed in awe at Esmee Walker. “What did you do to him?” she asked.

“What I did before, and with greater ease..” Esmee waved for the manes of Agnes Little to come over. “Come on! Step outside!”

The manes of Agnes Little walked to the door, but paused. She was about to leave the safety of the olprt radiance. It was one thing to scream at the Werewolf while inside the protective bubble of moon colored light, it was quite another thing to do so outside.

 

The manes of Agnes Little knew, without a doubt, that she was safe from the Werewolf. But there was still fear inside her, clinging to her heart like a thorn.

 

Her mind struggled against her emotions.

“Come on! It’s perfectly safe!” Esmee urged. “Just look at him! He’s nothing more than a big statue!”

 

The manes of Agnes Little regained her courage, opened the door, and walked out.

It was cold outside the olprt radiance and she shivered. She was too thin for tables, she realized, but unfortunately not thin enough for cold, early morning air.

 

She looked the man up and down and something deep down inside her expected him to move–but he didn’t.

 

“Come on!” Esmee poked the Werewolf with a blue finger. “Touch him!”

 

The manes of Agnes Little took in a deep breath through her nose and exhaled slowly out her mouth, just as Dr. Glass had taught her.

 

She poked the Werewolf.

 

And saw that her finger went right through him.

 

In that moment, her courage blazed, and she roared with laughter.

 

“Ahahahaha! You’re nothing! Absolutely nothing!”

She waved her hand through his face as Dr. Glass had done to her face.

 

“You’re just black water and fog!”

 

“He’s not even that.” Esmee said. “He’s just a shadow.”

 

“I think you’re right, Esmee.” the manes of Agnes Little said.

 

She turned her back to the Werewolf and sighed. She no longer feared a blade stabbing her from behind.

 

“Esmee? I have a question.” the manes of Agnes Little said.

“Yes?”

 

“Would it be possible for me to sleep? Is sleep something I can do? It has been a long night for me–five whole years as a matter of fact. I think I would like to take a nap.”

“We can do something similar to sleep.” Esmee answered. “Scientifically speaking, it has more in common with meditation than sleep, but I assure you that it’s just as healing as sleep.”

“Good. I want to dissolve like a drop of water falling into the ocean.”

“Then let’s get going.” Esmee snapped her fingers at the blue light that held the Werewolf of Blackwall suspended like a bug in amber. The light moved, and as it moved, it carried the Werewolf with it.

 

“We’ve purchased a very nice bed for you, but I won’t be using one myself.” Esmee said.

 

“You won’t?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

 

“Oh no. I’ve always been a very thin ghost. When I sleep, I fall through things and get carried by the wind.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. I’ve found that I enjoy sleeping in rain clouds anyway.”

“We can do that?”

Esmee laughed. “Yes, we can! We can do a lot of things! Some parts of being a ghost are very burdensome, but other parts are very liberating.”

“I can’t see how anyone would want to sleep in a rain cloud. Wouldn’t the thunder keep you awake?”

 

“Not once you’ve learned how to pick out the ones that thunder from the ones that don’t.” Esmee smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll be a fast learner!”

 

“Me?”

“Yes of course! I don’t mean right this very night, but you strike me as someone that would be a natural flyer. I think you’re going to love the world above!”

 

The manes of Agnes Little gazed up at the sky.

 

Could she really go up there? Up to the stars?

 

Maybe…

 

The manes of Agnes Little looked at the three manesologists. “Thank you all for everything you’ve done for me. I’m going to do my best to wash the Werewolf from out of my reputation. There’s just one thing further I want to say before I wish you all a good night: I don’t want to be called the mane of Agnes Little anymore. It’s so bloody awkward to say and even more awkward to hear. I have another name I want to use.”

 

“What is it?” Martin asked.

 

“Cora. Please call me Cora.”