The Guillotine Man

The Guillotine Man

I recall in vivid detail the bone-chilling terror which overwhelmed me that warm, tranquil, Spring day in the March of 1876. For on that day, I received, along with a wooden box of such a bizarre and dubious nature, a series of letters from my dearest cousin, Clara. What called to my suspicion the nature of this arrival was the state of our relationship, distant as it was; we remained out of touch for long stretches of time once we reached adulthood and hadn't quite connected on any meaningful level since. It was strange, certainly, but I let myself rest on the concept that, while peculiar, it wasn't necessarily beyond her to entertain such an intimate sentiment with those of familial relations - such as myself. My heart was at ease and my curiosity piqued, so I began to read. What, exactly, I bore witness to in those letters, and what was waiting for me in that strange, strange box, however, left me with night terrors that, even if only on odd nights or so, come to me with such ferocity - such vividness - so as to awaken me in cold sweats in the dark of night and rend me of all hope of rest and repose.

February 20, 1876

Dearest Henry,

My pen trembles with every word I write, for I have found myself in the wretched grasp of my own guilt. It pains me that, of all men, my dear kin, you must be the shoulders on which this burden of mine may soon have to rest. Please, if I cannot do so myself, bear witness of this to the rest of us in Great Britain. Do not let my story be lost to the river of time.

I only hope you, and those who may hear, understand my plight, as this dreadful sequence of events is the wrath of my instincts. To be short, I've killed a man, Henry, not of my own intent (O Lord, please hear me), but of blind fear. A man came upon me with such great force and ill intent that, in sheer human instinct, I turned to him and struck him dead with his own blade.

Now Henry, he comes for me – this killer of killers, this self-proclaimed Hand of God. They call him the Guillotine Man. In the past eight months, he has yet to have been caught, but the remnants of his murderous craft have been left for all to see. Bodies, beheaded, and left out in the rain. They say that he kills those who kill, that he believes it is his duty to enact the justice of God almighty. And now, Henry, now, I bear the burden of my bloodshed. I will be hunted.

To you, my dearest cousin, I owe all of the gratitude that my loathsome heart can relate to you. I will send word of my state within the next few days, if possible. If you do not hear from me again, know I am dead and make a hasty report of my tale to all who should hear it.

Sincerely,

Clara

February 23, 1876

O, Henry! How terror distraughts every sense of the living frame, every stray spectre of thought and every choking breath. I shudder to look in the mirror and see myself, cut thinly from my lack of consumption, emaciated, exhausted, hideous. I am so much older in my figure and my visage than I was only a week or so ago. I drive myself stir crazy, hiding in wait, hoping, planning, away from all companionship and human interaction. If he does not kill me, I believe I, or my paranoia, will.

My sole hope comes in the form of my reason and the legs that carry me. I will run and hide, somewhere no-one can find me, and make my next move from there. The Guillotine Man only comes in the night rains, so as to wash away his victim's sins, to cleanse their earthly vessel in the name of the Lord. I see the clouds on the horizon even now, so I must move swiftly. It will surely rain tonight.

As I write this, I am packing my things. Certainly, this man cannot track me through all of Paris, nor would it be reasonable and within his best interests to do so. After all, I sincerely doubt that I am so prioritized a target of his that I would warrant any greater search than any other murderer. I will be as a needle in a haystack. I will cleanse myself in confession after I have escaped. The Father is a blind man, in both senses literal and figurative and it is him I trust most deeply (you aside, of course) with the burden of witnessing my sin. While some observe in him a suspect and harshly judgmental nature, he is, to me, a man worthy of deep and un-breaking trust and faith, if a bit stubborn in his views.

Wish me the best of luck. I will write again soon, cousin.

With love,

Clara

February 24, 1876

My cousin, jubilance casts over me as the sun's rays in the midst of Spring! O, the great relief that washes over me! Praise the Father! In telling you of this wonderful news, I will dawdle no longer!

He is dead!

And with my pursuer vanquished, I can, at long last, be at ease once more. Allow me to recall to you the tale of last night, cousin, for it is most certainly one worth telling.

I traversed the city by carriage, making my way to a particular realm in which dwelled the lowliest of commonwealth.. I found, hidden deep within the darkest nooks of this arrondissement, a rather quaint residence with no owner. It was there that I hid away, the doors and windows boarded and the neighboring buildings to surround and shield me from watchful eyes. At last, Nyx wrapped her cloak over the world, and in that darkness I heard a most bizarre sound.

A chill ran down my spine. It was the sound of someone snapping their tongue. Click click click. And, o, how my poor, dainty little heart did beat as it drew closer. Click click click. I held my breath. A new sound emerged. Metal scraping stone. Scccchhheee... click click click... sccccccheeeee...

And then the noises stopped, ever so close. I could not help but cry and began stepping back quickly, so quietly, to the back door. Suddenly, knock knock knock. I let out a guttural, blood-curdling scream and threw myself at the back door! I scrambled to undo the lock and throw the door open but my cold, trembling hands offered little aid in the matter! The front door was thrown open and I saw him, a tall, hulking man with a ragged cloak, stood out in the rain. In his left hand was a behemoth butcher's knife that he dragged across the ground as he stepped slowly toward me. He began again.

Scccccheeeeeee.... CLICK CLICK CLICK... Scccccchheeeee...

The lock clicked! I slammed the door open and bolted into the alley! Still, however, I could hear his approach, his clicks growing nearer.

Scccccheeeeeee.... CLICK CLICK CLICK... Scccccchheeeee...

I ran - o how I ran, Henry - up the alleyway and hid behind a heavy wooden barrow full of waste.

Click... Click... Click click click...

It was fainter, farther away, but drawing nearer. Somehow his clicks seemed angrier. He was furious. I heard the door throw open. And before he had come any closer...

Click click click click click click...

I kicked the wheelbarrow with all my might so that it came down upon him with all the force of a great rolling stone. At the bottom of the alley, it crashed and splintered. Without looking back, I ran.

And now, Henry, the sun has risen once again. And I have survived.

I apologize sincerely for stirring in you such severe concern for my well-being. I'm sure you, of all men, Henry, understand the feelings that have overcome me in the passing few days. And now, we may both rest at ease. The beast has been cast away forever. And to Hell may he be damned.

Tomorrow I will confess and gather my belongings, and I will write to you again soon, if only so you may see my tale to its safe conclusion. Wish me luck in my travels, dear cousin. Perhaps we will meet again soon.

Gratefully yours,

Clara

Certainly, this ending would seem in no way a traumatic experience. But I was left with a single question in my mind. Nowhere in her letters had Clara mentioned this box, adorned in a golden cross. A Church address was written on the side. I loosed the iron clasps. Now, I only wish I hadn't, for what I found inside haunts me to this very day...

I opened the box. And inside that box...

was the severed head of Clara Anne Marie.