Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

... and the bedside table, but still perhaps not enough to account for the mass missing from the body's frame. Half-delirious already, rose wondered where the rest could possibly have gone. Then Rose recognized the sickly smell coming off the firepit: Burning meat. Rose expected to scream. She expected to faint. She even expected to die on the spot. That she did none of these things was disappointing. Instead she just...left. Her mind floated right out of her body and left her on her own. She stared dumbly at the scene in front of her and let the continuous drip-drip-drip noise of still-warm blood lull her even further. It was a while before the panicky voice of self-preservation reminded her that she was in danger too: The killer might not have gone far. It was possible, even, that he was still concealed in this room, small though it was. The first thing Rose had to do was get far away. After that, should she find a policeman? No; if she did she would have to come back here, and then spend time telling them what happened. She wouldn't tell anyone. People could find out on their own about this. She would just run away. It was the best plan her exhausted mind could manage. She took a stumbling step back toward the door, reaching out to steady herself on it and then-- She looked at the fireplace. The one stone was still a little loose, although not so much that you would notice if you didn't already know it was there. She thought again of that battered tin and what its contents ...

... could mean. But getting to it would mean walking by the bed... Rose swallowed and closed her eyes, then opened them again immediately, afraid of running into something--or someone. Her body wanted to do this slowly but she knew that she would have to hurry. Rose did not know the word "mantra," but she composed one during her expedition to the fireplace, consisting only of: "Don't look, don't look, don't look." Under no circumstances would she look at the thing on the bed. The thing on the bed did not exist. She fumbled with the hiding stone (sweat broke on her face; the room was ungodly hot) before setting it on the floorboards. For a moment she feared it might somehow be empty, but when she opened the top the notes were all there. She stuffed them down her dress in handfuls. Never mind counting it or even securing it. Time enough for that later. Now there was time only to run. To run and run and never come back, and to never, ever think about what had happened here while she was gone, or what might have happened if she had stayed, or-- Rose had not yet turned around when she heard it. Even over the crackle of flames and the galloping of rain on the roof, the noise just behind her it was still distinct enough to send a spiky thrill up her spine, even as her stomach dropped like a stone in cold, deep water: A man cleared his throat. *** The inspector looked too young for a man of his station. He filled a pipe and lit it with a flaring match, then leaned back in his chair in what ...