The Whitechapel air was heavy with the smoke of a hundred thousand coal fires. In the dark small pools of dim, yellow light were cast by gas streetlights. Under the lamps hanging just in the light were scantily dressed ladies of the night who harried passers by for trade. Occasionally horse drawn cabs passed through creating a great deal of noise on the wet streets.
The well-dressed man moved quickly down the streets with the sharp sound of his stick striking the cobbles. Though obviously well off the man looked almost at ease in this notorious part of the city. He was an older man with thin, wispy white hair and a face so wrinkled he could have been a hundred. To his tails suit with his left hand he embraced a few thick books. Although seemingly comfortable in these surroundings sometimes he would stop to peer into dark areas and down back streets with a look of fear and dread. Yet still he carried on. Finally he reached a small door which he unlocked with a key from his ring whilst balancing the books and once again seeking something out in the darkness. The door opened with a slight squeak and he stepped down into the pitch black.
After putting the books down on his table he struck a match and lit the lamp behind his door before closing and locking it. Having locked it he also bolted it for his own safety and then set a small tallow candle burning. With his candle in hand the old man picked up the books and moved down into the room. His living space was sparsely decorated with only a small table, armchair and log fire, and plain white walls. The books were placed upon the table whilst the white haired form brought the fire to life. Even with the fire’s warm glow it felt cold, dark and uninviting in there.
It was very late, on finishing reading a small bundle of letters his attention was taken to a thick, leather-bound book. Before he opened this he checked the door again and looked all around both his reading room and the small kitchen adjoining with his candle. This done to his satisfaction he sat down to read the book. Sitting back in his chair he prized the tome open and as he did so a draught crept into the room. He continued and it built up into a ferocious wind. The cold gale bit his flesh so hard that he stopped reading and closed his book. When the pages slapped closed the wind fell to nothing. Even so the old man again searched the rooms and then settled down after looking to his watch for the time.
He opened the book and flicked forward to the page he had stopped at. Hearing a voice address him by name the gentleman looked up. Even though the voice continued to tell him to close the book and never look at it again, a dedicated search of the room could not find the speaker. His searching voice called out into the dark on more than one occasion yet the voice continued to tell him that the book was not his, that he had taken it from its rightful owner. The speech finished and he sat back down to the open book. As he lifted the book to himself sat in the chair, the fire blew out leaving him with only the candle and one gaslight left to see by. He peered once more into the dark and out from it stepped a vivid apparition in white so clear it almost glowed. It was like a morning mist but shaped like a woman and from it a scratching, grating voice screeched at him to return the book to its owner.
The old man’s sanity broke and he ran from the room up to the door that he fumbled at as he tried to unlock it quickly. Tearing the door from its frame he ran into the streets howling for a hansom carriage. The old man heard one approaching from behind him and turned to see the bright orange sunrise eclipsed by a cab racing toward him. At high speed the driver had failed to stop the horses that ploughed him down as his still terrified face waived about maniacally in the air crying for it to stop and take him away.