Rug Warts - with Shilohverse

TWILIGHT          
         
Discreet, dressed in "dandy," chomping at the bit. With the origins of fog and mist as if schizophrenia is falling giving birth to psychopaths, and the madness of nailing the soul to the Ouija board. Fog clings to the cobblestone as if a tentacle wrapping around my spats. "This little piggy went to market." Seeping into my bones as goth is my witness biting my tongue with anxiety, leaving the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. "Mama what big eyes you have." Savoring the taste of my blood. Hearing Big Ben in the distance, echoing, as if orcs grinding bones and I, think that I am the dark's concierge.          
         
On my way to the Penguin Club to have dinner with the pork belly of Conan Doyle An obnoxious soul who thinks he is a writer. Kicking the high-button shoe of harlot-mongering apples, with a wide smile across her neck as I leave a farthing. Thinking she must be mute. She was naked and her corpse was covered by scabies. The town is cursed, by a Jack-          
in-the-Box that the blokes call "The Ripper." Looking down, his cravat pin is dripping blood.          
   
The lamplight flickered in the fog-heavy air of 221B Baker Street. Inside, Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair, eyes closed, fingers pressed to his temples, listening to voices, running in his mind. A low murmur, sometimes soft as a whisper, at other times sharp as a scream. They were not his thoughts, he was certain of that. They were…something else.          
         
Watson observed from across the room, concern furrowing his brow. “Sherlock, you’ve been in that position for hours. It’s the opium, I’m sure of it. You need rest, not more of this…this obsession.” Watson giggled laughing it off. "Perhaps the voices are just mites are rug warts, Holmes."          
         
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, bright and piercing in the dim light. “Opium?” he scoffed. “Do you think so little of me, Watson?  "I can assure you, these voices are not a hallucination.          
         
Watson shook his head, half in frustration, half in fear. “Then what, Holmes? What are you hearing?”          
         
Sherlock hesitated, his gaze drifting to the corner of the room where his cat, Moriarty, huddled, watching him with wide chatoyant terrified eyes. The animal had been acting strange for days now slinking away in elongated shadows away whenever Sherlock approached, its fur bristling as if sensing something dark and unseen.          
         
“There is a presence, Watson,” Sherlock finally murmured. “Something…or someone…is trying to speak to me.”          
         
Watson sighed, leaning back in his chair. “And you believe it connected to this séance you attended last week with Conan Doyle? I know that you miss your mother. Do you think she, is trying to contact you from the other side?          
         
Sherlock’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Our dear friend is a believer in the supernatural, as you know. I joined him merely to observe. Yet…when the medium called upon the spirits, something—no, someone—answered. I felt it, heard it…inside my very mind.”          
         
Watson’s frown deepened. “Holmes, you’re not making sense. You are the most rational man I know.”          
         
“Rationality has its limits, Watson. I cannot deny what I experienced. The voice…it calls itself ‘The Ripper.’”          
         
Watson’s face paled. “The Ripper? You don’t mean—”          
         
“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice low. “Jack the Ripper. Or so it claims. A name that has haunted London for years. But here’s the twist, Watson. It calls itself ‘my alter ego.’”          
         
Watson felt a chill run down his spine. “Your…alter ego? Holmes, this is madness!”          
         
“Is it?” Sherlock leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “What if the Ripper never left London? What if he has been hiding…inside me, waiting?”          
         
"I have a confession, Watson...how should I put this! I talk with Mama using that porcelain doil, in the corner as a conduit. See how its eyes move when I say Mama. Notice the blood on the dress, the amputated arm...and the deck of Tarot cards... she calls me baby, baby all night long."          
         
Watson stared, unsure if his friend was truly descending into madness or onto the trail of another extraordinary case. Before he could respond, there was a loud knock at the door and the landlady Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoed up the stairs. “A letter for you, Mr. Holmes!”          
         
Sherlock stood, moving swiftly to the door. As he took the letter, a shiver ran through him. The envelope was unmarked, except for a single symbol: a crescent moon, etched in deep red ink.      
      
He tore it open, revealing a single line scrawled hastily:          
         
“Meet us tonight at the dark coven. Midnight. The Ripper knows.”          
         
Sherlock’s eyes blazed with curiosity, but also something darker, a flicker of fear. “The game is afoot, Watson,” he whispered. “And it seems we are not alone in playing it.”          
         
Watson nodded, his hand instinctively going to the revolver in his coat pocket. “Where do we start?”          
         
Sherlock smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “At Conan Doyle’s dinner party, of course. And perhaps…a visit to the Ouija board.”          
         
As the clock struck midnight, they prepared to leave, unaware of the deeper, more sinister secret waiting in the shadows—a secret that might reveal what truly haunts Sherlock Holmes. Or worse, who?          
         
And in the corner, Moriarty the cat watched with fearful eyes, knowing more than any creature should.      
   
In the cold chilling night, a cadre of hooded monks passed by the window whispering castrato.    
A requiem for the dead. Turning their heads to the window...with faces of his Saintly Mother... the doll.