Story of a Madman

On December 18, 1918, I returned from France after completing my service as a medic and witnessing the horrors that the Great War inflicted upon the men and women of my generation. The physical evidence of the war was everywhere, with returning veterans who had missing limbs or the vast number who had gone and never returned. However, the non-visible wounds to the mind were less apparent, and many who suffered were sadly committed to institutions such as Leavesden Hospital in the south of London.

In January 1919, I began working as an orderly, assisting the doctors and nurses of the Leavesden hospital wing, where those deemed mentally and criminally insane were cared for. I saw horrible things during the war, but that experience never prepared me for what I would encounter during my brief time at the hospital.

One evening, during my rounds around the ward, I came across a room where a middle-aged gentleman sat and talked to himself. His name was Aaron, and he had been at the institution since 1894. His room was dimly lit, and he sat in the corner, oblivious to the world around him, appearing to be speaking to someone. The sign outside his door read “Dangerous Maniac.” Notwithstanding my experience in the war, I sensed an evil darkness next to this room.

Despite my apprehension, I knocked on his room door and asked if he was alright. He looked back with blank, expressionless eyes and simply said, “Hello.” I introduced myself to him and asked if he needed anything. “May I ask who you were speaking to,” I asked. “Just the loves of my life,” Aaron responded.

“Oh, you have more than one love; you must be a fortunate man,” I said. “Who are these lovely ladies, and do you see any of them now?” I asked.

“No, I don’t see them anymore, but I hear the whispers of my five passionate, canonical loves. I hear their screams of passionate fright during these dark encounters,” Aaron replied. A bit frightened and intrigued, I asked what their names were. Aaron replied, “Their names were Mary, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine, and another Mary.” The names did not immediately ring a bell in my mind, so I changed the conversation to ask him where he was from and to inquire a little bit more about his background.

Aaron said he and his family had moved from Eastern Europe in the 1880s and elaborated, “I moved into a dingy apartment in White Chapel with my brother and sister. All that we could afford, and I worked as a barber.” I asked, “Were you a good barber?”

Aaron smirked and said, “Yes, I was very skilled with the blade. I could give a gentleman the closest shave and make his skin smooth as a baby’s bottom. My blade was sharp, and I always wondered what would happen if I cut the skin. How far would the blade cut, and how much blood would come out?”

A bit stunned, I asked, “That seems to have excited you, why?”

He replied, “It was a fascination with the idea of having one’s life in your hands as you work with a blade. A sense of power over another.”

A bit frightened, I asked, “Why are you here?”

Aaron snarled and said, “It’s because of my lovely yet wretched sister. Her persistent nagging and demeaning attitude caused me to snap. I lunged at her with a knife in my hand. As a result, I was committed to Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum and then moved here.”

I felt I needed to change the conversation back to his loves, only to find things were darker and more macabre. I asked, “Why didn’t you marry one of your five passionate loves?”

Aaron sheepishly said, “These lovely ladies were not the marrying type. Their reputation prevented such a union.”

I responded, “So, they were working ladies of the streets?”

He responded, “Some would call them that, but I would say they were lost souls, and I was their savior.” Aaron said he met them near the pubs in White Chapel and would seek their companionship. He said they willingly went with them as he offered a safe place to rest and sleep.

Aaron’s eyes went dark like a predator as he said, “I was mesmerized by the pose of their body as they lay asleep…almost like they were in a permanent sleep. Also, since I knew I couldn’t be with them sometimes, I could keep a piece of them.” I asked, “Do you mean a piece of clothing or jewelry?” He replied with a sense of menacing accomplishment, “No, something much more valuable.”

Intrigued, I asked, “Who was your favorite love?” He replied that it was his last one, Mary Jane. He elaborated, “I had the most passionate encounter with Mary Jane. She gave me all the time to work my magic on her with my hands with surgical precision. She also gave me the opportunity to paint her, and I used different shades of red.”

Aaron sensed my discomfort and took joy in it. He said, “I was a writer too and wrote about my lovely ladies in the newspapers.” I asked, “Why did you write about them?” He said, “I wanted everyone in London and the world to know about them and what they meant to me.” We ended our conversation, and he recommended I look up his stories.

The next evening, I returned to Aaron’s door. I said, “Sir, I checked the papers and library records and found no evidence of your work.” He smirked and simply said, “Of course not, ‘Sherlock.’ My pen name is Jack, and I used it to disguise myself.”

I stepped back in shock. “You said, Jack?” Aaron coldly looked at me and said, “Yes, my boy.” My mind raced as I thought of the details of our conversation the previous night. The symbolic information and the names of the ladies he mentioned. I thought to myself, “Could he really be Jack the…”