Delusions of Terror (standard:horror, 3636 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jan 06 2007	Views/Reads: 3799/2285	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A doctor experiences frightening nightmares, but are they true?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Christmas was just two weeks away. The two medical men squatted on 
their seats and Philip opened up. “I'm in a charitable mood and so I'll 
overlook your fee.” 

“I should bloody think so... Look, maybe this isn't such a good idea
after all.” 

“Nonsense,” barked Philip. “I'm intrigued to hear just what fantasies
invade the thoughts of a gynaecologist at night.” 

Maurice stared into his whisky glass. His turned-up nose and pocked-face
prevented him from being classed as handsome. “I wouldn't call them 
fantasies.” 

“Well?” urged Philip. “I now have your undivided attention. Talk to
me... When did these nightmares start?” 

“About a month ago.” 

“Tell me about them.” 

Maurice swallowed a mouthful of his whisky and focused on the orange,
gyrating flames. “I always appear as a child; a small child. This place 
that I dream of is an awful place. So dismal and depressing. I'm 
certain it's a third world country, some years ago.” 

“The location is consistent?” asked Philip. 

“I think so... I see things, but cannot hear them... Everything is black
and white; so bleak... My family are afraid to venture outdoors.” 

“Why, Maurice?” 

“We're persecuted... So much hatred and bitterness is directed towards
us.” 

“Your family. You recognise them? I mean, are they consistent throughout
your dreams?” 

“I prefer to call them nightmares... Yes, they are.” 

“And their names?” 

“I...I don't know... You see, I hear no words. I only see things.” 

“Tell me about the persecution.” 

“Stones; the stones hurt so much. I see so much hatred etched on the
faces of the people... And then...” 

“Go on.” 

“They raped my mother.” 

“Who did, Maurice?” 

The troubled man drained his glass. “The bad men.” He looked into the
eyes of the psychiatrist. “I watched as they raped my mother.” 

Philip left his seat and headed once more to the bar. He returned
minutes later with fresh drinks. “Here, I think you may need this... 
This family. There's a father?” 

Maurice shook his head. “No. My mother, two sisters and a brother...
Why, Philip? Why is this family constantly in my dreams?” 

Philip considered his patient. “Maurice, do you believe in
reincarnation?” 

“No, of course not... No, you don't think...” 

“I've an open mind, Maurice. Perhaps you've lived this life before.
There have been many instances of rational people, who have recalled 
events from the past. Events that they could not have...” 

“No. They're merely nightmares.” 

“Perhaps... Do you have any idea of the era that your family are
living?” 

Maurice pondered. “Judging by the clothes they wear, I'd estimate that
it's possibly late nineteenth century.” 

There was another long pause before the psychiatrist continued. “Have
you anything else to tell me?” 

Maurice nodded. “This...this latest nightmare, it was later in years. My
sister was older by some six years. She was lying besides me in bed, 
and her menstrual cycle had begun. I recall trying to scream. You see, 
I was confused. So much blood.” 

Philip smiled. “Don't you see?” 

“See what?” 

“Your bloody occupation, damn it. You're a gynaecologist and you operate
on women do you not? Perhaps you're working too hard and you're 
shielding your emotions until night... Your attempt to scream may not 
have been because of the sight of blood, but merely an attempt to 
relieve your hectic workload.” 

“No! I know what I see, and I'm living this nightmare.” 

“Okay, Maurice. I have a suggestion. I've a friend who is a
hypnotherapist.” 

“No! Absolutely not. I knew this was an utter waste of time.” 

Maurice tied up his scarf and put on his overcoat. “You need help,
Maurice.” 

“What I need is a hot bath. A good day to you, Philip.” 

He watched from the obscurity of the shop doorway, as the mob moved in
on their prey. The flickering flames of the torches illuminated the 
night sky and displayed the terror that was registered on the young 
boy's face. 

The young child wept and begged for mercy, but the baying mob was
insensitive towards his pleas. They seized the infant and punctured his 
head randomly with their sharp knives. 

He witnessed the ritual, praying to God that they would release the
child, who could not have been more than four years old. The blood 
trickled down the boy's face, his eyes seemingly focusing on the shop 
doorway. 

One of the mob yanked at the hair of the child and swiftly ran his blade
across the young throat. He collapsed to the ground, but the butchery 
was incomplete. An elderly man, who was wearing a skullcap, tore away 
the boy's shirt and made a long slit along his abdomen. 

He watched in horror, his mouth agape, and the words refusing to form.
The boy lay in a pool of blood; the mob gloating over the body, until 
every drop had left the tiny body. Only then did they disperse. 

“Maurice! Wake up Maurice!” 

The trembling man sat up in bed and wept openly, his body as usual
saturated in sweat. Cheryl embraced her troubled husband. 

“It's okay, darling. Everything's going to be okay.” 

Maurice stared into the sad eyes of his wife. “I think I'm losing my
mind.” 

Cheryl kissed his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He held his head in his hands and recalled the terror. “Please God;
please don't let these awful nightmares be true. Don't let them be 
true.” 

“Maurice, I think you should hear this.” 

Cheryl reached onto the dressing table for the tape recorder. “What's
this?” quizzed Maurice. 

“You should hear this.” She turned on the recorder, and there was a
prolonged silence before the eerie words were uttered. “Pozwalany on 
udaje sie!.. Pozwalany on udaje sie!” 

Maurice narrowed his eyes and asked, “What is this?” 

“That was you, Maurice. You spoke those words before I woke you up.” 

“You recorded me?” 

“I'm sorry, but Philip thought it was a good idea.” 

“I don't know this language.” 

“Nor do I,” shrugged Cheryl. 

Maurice strolled towards the window and let in the cold air of the early
morning, watching as a flurry of snowflakes settled on the pristine, 
white road. “Who was I? Who am I?” 

Maurice had already made up his mind that morning. Deciding to skip
work, he drove immediately to the main library. He ignored his wife's 
advice to call Philip, insisting that this was something that he had to 
find out for himself. 

Carrying the tape recorder into the library, he settled down at an
isolated table. He turned on the machine and attempted to jot down the 
strange words. 

Pozwalany on udaje sie. Time and time again, he endeavoured to write
down the words. He turned on the PC and surfed the Internet. Locating a 
foreign translation website, he typed in the words. 

Several times, he was notified that no translation existed. He
persisted, and his eyes lit up when eventually the words appeared 
before him. 

Let him go.  Pozwalany on udaje sie. Let him go. “Polish? The words are
Polish?” he whispered. 

Although Maurice had looked forward to their short break in London, he
had no inkling that Philip and his wife Vanessa were to accompany them. 
The psychiatrist had not mentioned the nightmares up to now, but with 
his wife and sister on a shopping spree, he realised his opportunity. 

Philip knocked on the hotel door and entered, without being invited to.
Maurice was relaxing in an armchair, and reading a book. 

“Hope I'm not interrupting, Maurice. What's that you're reading?” 

The disgruntled gynaecologist closed his book and scowled at the
intrusion. “I thought you'd gone shopping with the girls?” 

“No way... I think now would be the appropriate moment for a chat.” 

“I don't feel like talking.” 

“So you speak Polish, eh?” 

Maurice strolled towards the drinks cabinet, and his companion took the
opportunity to read the book cover. “Slaughter of the innocents? Didn't 
know you were in to this sort of literature, Maurice.” 

Maurice handed Philip his gin and tonic and confiscated the book. “Did
you know that the Jews practised rituals throughout the ages, which 
involved the taking of lives of young Christian children?” 

“And why would you be interested?” 

Maurice swilled his whiskey and pondered over his decision to enlighten
his friend. “I gather that it was Cheryl that filled you in about me 
speaking Polish, so I'll give you my interpretation, on one condition.” 


“Go on.” 

“No more shrink-patient banter, and definitely no more talk of
hypnotism.” 

“Scout's honour.” 

“I believe now that I was this boy in a past life.” 

Philip raised his eyebrows. “Why the change of heart?” 

“If I'm correct, then I lived in Poland during the mid nineteenth
century... You see, the Jews were persecuted by the Poles, and yes, 
Christian children were sacrificed and their blood was drained, and 
sometimes drank... I witnessed such an occurrence in my nightmare.” 

Philip smiled and clapped his hands together. “I suppose it's possible,
but there could be a number of reasons why you're having these 
nightmares.” 

“No... I'm there just as I'm here now. It seems so real.” 

Philip cleared his throat. “Do you know, once I had a patient who
experienced vivid dreams, where he convinced himself that he was once a 
Roman centurion? During therapy, he explained to me with so much detail 
about things that could only have been read in books. So either, he was 
genuine or he was a fantasist. I followed him once, and he led me to 
the library. Do you know, that he withdrew Legions of the Roman Empire 
out for the twenty-seventh time?” 

“Are you saying that I'm making this up?” asked Maurice. 

“Not making it up, Maurice, but wanting it to be true.” 

“But I don't want it to be true! For Christ's sake, man, I just want to
learn the truth.” 

“And what if the truth hurts?” 

Maurice hesitated. “That's possible... You see, my latest dreams also
are not pleasant. I'm now in my teens, and I've attacked my sister with 
a knife.” 

“Bloody hell, Maurice.” 

“No, I didn't seriously hurt her... You see, we had an argument about
her hair.” 

“Her hair?” 

“In my dreams, nightmares; I'm now working in a hospital as a
hairdresser. It seems that I made a mess of my sister's hair, and she 
slapped me.” 

“But you hear no words?” 

“No... Everything is so unreal, as though my life is in slow motion.” 

Philip finished off his drink. “In my opinion, you need medical
treatment. Just how far will you let this enigma of a life take you?” 
Maurice sighed. “I have to see this out; don't you see? I want so much 
to find out who I was.” 

“You're certainly not the man that I once knew, Maurice... Damn you,
man! Think of Cheryl.” 

“I think you should go now, Philip.” 

The taxi driver glanced yet again through his mirror at the smartly
dressed man who seemed to be in a trance. He pulled up at the 
destination and turned to his passenger. 

“Goulston Street, mate. You sure you have the right place, guv? It's
three in the morning.” 

Maurice handed the driver a twenty-pound note and left the cab. “Your
change, guv.” 

Maurice ignored the offer and walked on slowly, feeling the cold
snowflakes numb his face. He pulled up his collar to help ward off the 
cold and advanced towards the row of shops. 

With unblinking eyes, he focused on the building. The arched windows
that were covered by cream blinds and the red brickwork seemingly 
familiar. His head throbbed and his throat was arid, when the scenery 
warped before his eyes. He paced forward along the cobblestones, until 
he was inches from the wall. Unconsciously, he reached into his pocket 
for the chalk and began to scribble. 

Out of the side of his eye, he noticed a remnant; red and so out of
focus with the other black and white surroundings. Without reading what 
he had written, he turned and walked away, strolling incoherently, as 
if he was being pulled towards his destiny. 

The mist came, and with it a sense of walking on the clouds. Was this
heaven? He found his answer when entering the doorway of a shabby 
house. He opened his mouth, unable to scream. He felt his heart 
pounding rapidly and the veins pulsating from his head. 

What had once been a woman was lying on the threadbare carpet, her
throat slit and her mutilated face minus a nose. Her bloody abdomen was 
slit and her liver lay beside her. 

Maurice ran, his eyes filled with tears. He strived to run faster, but
gravity prevented his progress. It was as if everything was in slow 
motion. He turned into the alleyway and passed the wall that had 
intrigued him so, just minutes before. He turned his head and halted. 
He edged closer and read the words. 

THE JEWES ARE THE MEN THAT WILL NOT BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING. 

Maurice stirred when hearing the rattling of cutlery. He sat on the edge
of his bed and considered what had been his worst nightmare. He felt 
afraid and so lonely. The memory of his nightmare was still so fresh in 
his memory. 

“You're awake early,” said Cheryl, who was nibbling on a piece of toast.
Philip and Vanessa sat opposite her. “I hope you didn't mind me 
inviting Philip and Vanessa for breakfast. I didn't expect you up, and 
you know how much I hate to dine alone.” 

Maurice joined them and poured himself a cup of tea. “Why didn't you
expect me up?” 

“You didn't come in until almost six this morning, dear. Wherever did
you go?” 

Maurice dropped his teacup. 

“Are you okay?” asked Philip. 

Maurice trembled and muttered. “The Jewes are the men that will not be
blamed for nothing.” 

There was a prolonged silence as the trio regarded Maurice. “Why did you
say that?” enquired Philip. 

Maurice swivelled his heavy eyes. “I don't know... Where have I heard
those words before?” 

Philip had suggested the early evening drink to Maurice, and they opted
for a table that offered them solitude, in the far corner of the hotel 
bar. 

“So where did you go early this morning, Maurice?” 

“I needed the fresh air and so went for a walk.” 

“You're lying. I checked with the hotel clerk, who told me that you
ordered a taxi to Goulston Street.” 

Maurice remained silent. 

“You do know where Goulston Street is don't you?” 

“I have no idea. There must be some mistake.” 

“Those words you spoke at the breakfast table. Why did you say them?” 

Maurice buried his face in his hands. “I don't know.” 

Philip continued. “You see, I've seen those words before... They were
scribbled on a wall in Goulston Street, Whitechapel, one hundred and 
nineteen years ago. Some say they were written by Jack the Ripper. 
Because of the misspelling of Jews and the appalling grammar, the 
murderer was believed to have had a fractured education.” 

Maurice shook his head and his eyes bulged. He recalled the bloody
remnant lying close to the wall. “I don't know why I said those words.” 


“I do... Take a drink my friend; I think you might need it... You see,
when you uttered those words, it ignited me. Something in the far 
recesses of my mind had been bothering me, and now I know what it was. 
I visited the library this afternoon, just to verify my suspicions.” 

“Suspicions?” 

“Let me finish, Maurice... It was when you mentioned the child
sacrifice. I knew that I had come across that story before. You see, 
there was a man of Polish descent, who was born probably in Russia in 
1864. His family and friends were victimised, because they were Jews. 
It is believed that he may have witnessed the murder of a Christian 
child by his own people... After working in a hospital as a 
hairdresser, he emigrated to London with his family in 1881. The family 
lived in the Jewish community of Whitechapel in Sion Square. His name 
was Aaron Kosminsky.” 

“No! They were nightmares.” 

Philip continued. “After the Ripper murders, Sir Robert Anderson the
head of the Criminal Investigation Division of the London Metropolitan 
Police claimed that the police had in fact learned the identity of the 
Ripper, but had declined to publicize the fact, because in his words, 
“no public benefit would result from such a course, and the traditions 
of my old department would suffer.” 

“Why are you persisting with this drivel?” moaned Maurice. 

“Drivel? An internal police memo was written by Anderson's second in
command, Melville Macnaghton, and only discovered in 1959. You see, 
there was a witness, but he refused to testify against a fellow Jew. 
Kosminsky had become insane, owing to many years of self-abuse, 
believed to be public displays of masturbation. He was released from 
Colney Hatch Asylum, and finally transferred to Leavesden Asylum for 
Imbeciles in 1891. He died from gangrene in 1919... So there you have 
it, Maurice.” 

Maurice ran his trembling fingers through his hair. “My God. Oh, my dear
God. I'm not an evil man, Philip.” 

“I know that. If indeed you were this Kosminsky fellow in another life,
then how could you be possibly deemed responsible? In fact, there's no 
conclusive evidence that Kosminsky was Jack the Ripper. Numerous 
authors, police officers, sceptics and even people who swore they knew 
who the Ripper was have made their views public, but nobody knows the 
truth, and probably will never know.” 

Maurice seized the arm of his friend. “So why did I go to Goulston
Street? Until last night, I had only dreamt of these events.” 

“Perhaps you were dreaming, Maurice. Sleepwalking is more common than
you can imagine... Listen, the brain is so complex, and who knows what 
secrets and mysteries the subconscious harbours. May I put it to you 
that you possibly read about Kosminsky and somehow adopted his 
persona?” 

“But I've never heard of this Kosminsky?” 

Philip was adamant. “Maybe you read about him as a child. That would
explain your choice of career as a gynaecologist.” 

“So, what do I do?” 

“Do? I beseech you to seek medical help... If not from me, then I have
several colleagues who I can recommend.” 

Maurice held out his hands and stared at them glassy-eyed. “God forgive
me.” 

Three months had passed since his conversation with Philip. He sat alone
in the padded cell, staring at the hundreds of lines of scribble on the 
bare walls. He held his knees and rocked back and forth, chanting to 
himself. His filthy bed sheets were stained with semen, and pools of 
urine added to the unpleasant odour. 

Maurice ceased his chanting, his eyes bulging and manic. “Why? Why won't
they believe who I am?” He raised his voice. “I'm Jack! Jack the 
Ripper, do you hear me? The Jewes are the men that will not be blamed 
for nothing!” 


Tweet