“Once the body was made ready, Agnes Little was buried at Sharpe’s Row.” Martin said.

“Is there a tombstone?” the manes of Agnes Little asked with great concern. She surprised herself with how much she cared about a tombstone.

“Yes.”

“Oh!” The manes of Agnes Little smiled for the good fortune of Agnes Little. But then she remembered who she was, what she was, and the little joy she found seemed to be nothing more than a lot of foolishness.

“That surprises me. I thought it would be an unmarked grave. I’ve had friends of mine that had to be buried in unmarked graves. I wonder who paid for it? Certainly not mother, or grandmother. Daniel? Oh, I suppose it doesn’t really matter…wait, I suppose they aren’t actually friends of mine…but then again, why can’t they be my friends and Agnes’ friends? Oh, it’s so tricky being…this. So much thinking about things! It makes me feel so tired.”

“Just follow your instincts.” Martin said. “If you feel like Agnes, you are Agnes. If you don’t feel like Agnes, you aren’t Agnes. And if you change how you feel, don’t fight it. It’s like my friend Dr. Joseph Morton says--thinking too much about who and what you are will spread you thin like butter over toast. You’ll end up someone, but it’ll be a very thin someone.”

“Tell me please, Dr. Glass, this isn’t very important, but is there an angel on the tombstone?”

“I’m not sure, but I can make arrangements for there to be an angel statue on it, if there’s not one already there.”

Agnes opened her mouth, but hesitated to say something. Her ambivalence to her state of being was exhausting.

“No. Don’t bother.” she muttered at last. “It doesn’t matter.”

“If you ever find that it does matter, we’ll make sure an angel is there.”

“It really doesn’t matter. I’m never going to see it. I’m never going to Sharpe’s Row. It doesn’t matter if there’s an angel on her stone or not, a grave or not. It really doesn’t matter. Does it?”

“That’s for you to determine.”

The manes of Agnes Little sighed. “It is, isn’t it? But I can’t seem to come to a solid determination in my mind.”

“The personalities of living humans do not form in a single night. There is no race to your determination.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Glass. Please, continue.”

“Very well. At first, the police thought the Werewolf was simply one of your…” he blushed as he fumbled for the word. “...acquaintances who got violently upset with you.”

“He wasn’t one of mine and he didn’t want to “meet my acquaintance.” He came up to me. He stabbed me. He chased me. He knew what he wanted to do to me and it wasn’t the usual thing.”

“The police realized with the second body that Blackwall was plagued by a madman who liked stabbing women.” Martin said.

“Second body? How many did he kill?” the manes of Agnes Little asked.

“Before he was caught, five, including yourself.”

“Please tell me the names of the other four.”

“His second victim, also on Chopin Street, was Emily Clark.”

“Oh. I didn’t know her. I’m not sure whether to be happy or sad about that.”

“Emily Clark died in much the same way as Agnes LIttle. That was when my friends and I were contacted, because it was believed that only a mad ghost could be so violently insane. But he wasn’t a mad ghost, only a madman. We conducted various Operations to draw the presumed manes to our presence. He never came, because he didn’t exist. Still, we could ask his victims, and we did so. As strange as it is to say, tonight is not the first time we have met.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“I am very confused.”

“It is rare for a manes to immediately manifest following decoupling.”

“Decoupling?”

“Death.”

“Oh. Oh, but that does make sense. I’ve never heard of a ghost that immediately gets out of a body.”

“Immediate manifestation is extremely rare. Typically after decoupling, n manes spawns entirely within the Astral in a state similar to sleep. We manesologists call this state brgdo, after the Dyeus word for sleep. As a general rule, we don’t wake a manes from brgdo unless there is a pressing reason to do so. We normally wait for a manes to naturally awaken. Necromancy, summoning up the dead from out of brgdo, angers the psychopomps--the angels and faeries that escort awakened manes to various afterlives.”

“Why does it make them upset?”

“Because if manes can be woken up for any reason, then it creates a scramble to wake up all manes from brgdo. The psychopomps fear suddenly competing with a massive scramble for all the souls of mankind--past, present, and future, all at once, for the Astral exists beyond time. Due to the rule that manes can only be interacted with when they naturally awaken, psychopomps only deal with a trickle of the workload they otherwise would. And just like people, they hate to work more than they have to.”

‘It’s strange to me how little the powers-that-be in the universe seem care for living beings and how much they care for their ghosts.”

“It’s because manes are of a similar substance. The psychopomps see them, in a way, as kin.”

“So I’m kin to the gods and faeries? Ha. What a world this all is…but anyway, I suppose my murder counted as an exception to the rule?”

“Yes. The psychopomps allow a small degree of necromancy in cases such as your own.”

“I don’t remember you waking me up.”

“You wouldn’t. Rarely do manes remember what they dream about in the brgdo state. Our brief conversation was, to you, just another dream.”

“Was this bird-o state like it was outside, in the streets? Was I running and running and running from him over and over?”

“No. What happened outside is what we call a phantasmagoria. A phantasmagoria is when a manes repeats a specific portion of their lives over and over again, like the same chapter in a book being read several times over. Unfortunately, your phantasmagoria caused you to repeat your death. But it’s not like that in the brgdo state. The psychopomps wouldn’t allow the souls of humanity to slumber if it was like that. In brgdo, one’s entire life repeats again and again, not necessarily in order, but certainly in total. The bad parts repeat, but also the good.”

“If I dreamed of my entire life, it must have been a very bad dream.”

“The nightmare outside was just a small part of your brgdo, I assure you. A few minutes is nothing compared to a lifetime.”

“It was a lifetime of trash. Trust me, I know. But you are right. I’d much rather the bird-o thing than being gutted like a fish forever and ever. Dr. Glass, when we talked in my bird-o state, was what I told you helpful in capturing the Werewolf?”

“Honestly, no.”

“Hm. I’m not surprised. Nothing good could possibly come out of my life.”

“You were only able to recall a form wrapped in darkness.”

The manes of Agnes Little looked out the window. “Not too inaccurate.”

“Certainly not from your perspective. But the Werewolf was captured regardless, in the end. His third victim was on Meredith Street. After Emily Clark, the women of Chopin Street fled, and many went to Meredith Street.”

“To think the day would come that there were no whores on Chopin Street! Most miraculous thing I’ve heard all day, and I learned I died! Who was the third victim?”

“A young woman named Amelia Doyle.”

“Amy!?” the manes of Agnes Little gasped. “Oh, no,not Amy! I knew her, Dr. Glass. She was a young thing, much too young for this work.”

“It was reported that she was twelve years old.”

“God! She was a child! We knew she was young, but…oh the poor, poor thing…quickly, Dr. Glass, who was the fourth? I want to get this list over with.”

“The fourth was also on Meredith Street. Her name was Bethany Cates.”

The manes of Agnes Little sighed. “Well, I hate to say I don't care as much about her death as little Amy’s, but, well, I didn’t know Bethany that well. She was pleasant enough, I suppose, but we never talked much, and at any rate, she was just an old whore, like me. So that leaves one more. Who was the last of the Werewolf’s victims, Dr. Glass?”

“The last victim was Alice Williams.”

“Oh! Alice! Oh, poor woman! She was nice to me, Dr. Glass, she was nice to us all! She was too old for this line of work so she took to caring for us like a mother. She knew which men were good and which would beat you. She had a…well, she was sick sir, I believe you understand my meaning.”

“I do. She had a social disease.”

“Yes sir, she did, and those of us who had a little savings and were nice, we put some of our earnings aside to pay for her medicine. The poor woman could barely get out of bed. Everyone knew she was sick, too sick and old for a lock hospital. That didn’t stop the police from examining her again and again and again, of course.”

“If she was already known to have a social disease, why would the police examine her?”

“Because they could.”

“But the Contagious Diseases Act states that such examinations are for the discovery and regulation of social diseases. Wouldn’t one examination have sufficed?”

The manes of Agnes Little smiled at Dr. Glass.

He was young and thoroughly educated by men who moved like shadows through the background of the world. He knew the world of the streets, her world, only through books. His innocence was remarkable and precious.

“Pay you no mind, Dr. Glass, it’s not important. It’s just something whores have to deal with. But tell me, how did she die? How could he have killed her? She hadn’t walked the streets for years.”

“I’m sorry to say that the Werewolf broke into her home. He was emboldened by his previous killings.”

“He actually broke into her home?”

“He beat down the door in the middle of the night.”

“The monster…the rotten monster!!” Agnes slammed the table with her fists and gasped as they sank through.

She tried to move her arms and rattled the table.