Have you ever had the feeling that you've done something before, even though you know that you never have? Did you ever have the feeling that you've lived a different life somewhere and sometime else? It's a feeling like deja vu, only more forceful, with a burning, almost fever-like intensity. Its like another soul is inside you, and you are sharing the same experiences. Have you ever had that feeling? I have.
My name is Jack Christopher Holmes. Nothing really special about me, I guess. My friends, what little amount of friends I had, would constantly remind me that I shared a last name with the famous detective. I knew I did, but it didn't seem to make much difference to me. I mean, lots of people had that last name, right? Just a poor, orphaned, lonely, teenager named Jack Holmes. That's what I used to think, anyway. I used to think I was any old guy, just struggling to survive. Some people say that you're at your best when faced by a crisis. I suppose they're right.
I guess I should start at the beginning. I remembered that it was cold that night. January 19th, if my memory is correct. The year was 1943. I was 17. Back then, I could have cared less about anyone, because the world could have cared less about me. My good for nothing tramp of a mother skipped off on my father and me when I was young, and he died of lung cancer the next year. No one wanted me. They shipped me off to an old home with a lot just like me: decrepit, sad forms of human beings. The times were well enough, but we lived in the backwaters of England, out past London in the countryside in a God-forsaken town, almost village-like. Prudence. It was a hell hole, forsaken by the eye of the Lord and of the government. It was as if we didn't exist. But it was the world to me.
Anyway, as I was saying, on the deep cold of January 19th, snow cresting outside my window, as I lay prostrate on my feather bed, my life changed as I knew it. It all started innocently enough, as do most things. A boy, not much younger than me, approached my bed, his eyes at his feet. I did not meet his gaze, staring as the light from my window played on the drifting snowflakes. The boy shuffled closer, and I noticed a notebook in his hand and a pencil over his ear. His nose wiggled slightly, and for some reason, I knew a sneeze was coming.
"Cover your nose," I said quietly. They were the first words I spoke to my acquaintance. He followed my instructions, putting his pale hand to his face, then he sneezed loudly, nearly shaking the dust from my bed. He sniffled slightly, rubbing his red nose, then finally brought his eyes up to my form. He smiled.
"Hello," he said. I took my eyes from the window and looked the boy over. He looked to be about 14, if not 15. His hair was a mousy brown, and it was mussed up over the top of his head as if he had just awakened from a slumber. His eyes were red, probably from sickness and watering eyes. He had a slightly thin frame, but I could see that he was well built for his age, as if he spent most of his time outside. I cocked my head a I looked at him.
"I don't believe we've met," I told him, "Are you new here?" He nodded vigorously, pointing to the bed across from mine.
"I'm supposed to share a room with you," he said. He extended his left hand, instead of the one he had sneezed on. "My name's Johnny Watson." I took the proffered hand and shook it.
"I'm Jack Holmes. Welcome to Hell," I told him, a smile creeping over my face. Watson laughed, and sniffled lightly again.
"It is quite a place, isn't it, though? I don't think I've ever been in a house this old." Watson paused, his nostrils twitching, and he sneezed again.
"Allergic to dust?" I asked. Watson's head shot up.
"How did you know?" he asked. I opened my mouth to answer, only realize that I had none.
"I have no idea." I hopped off my bed, brushing some of the dust from my father's old brown, button down longcoat. "How old are you, Watson?"
"I just turned 14," he told me, absentmindedly flipping through the notebook he held in one hand. I turned my head to look at it.
"Planning to be a journalist?"
Watson's bright blue eyes stared up at me, as if suddenly afraid of something. He shut his notebook quickly.
"I swear, Jack, if I believed in fortune-tellers and gypsies, I'd say you're one of them," he said apprehensively. I gave him an unsure look.
"I'm no gypsy, Mr. Watson, though I must admit-" I quieted as someone shuffled by our room in slippered feet. I turned to see who would be about that time of night, but I only cause a glimpse of a lavender night robe. I shrugged, and, turning back to young John Watson, I was surprised to see him already abed, his pencil flying across the coveted notebook. He glanced up at me, as if still frightened by what had passed between us. I sighed loudly.
"Here, Watson," I said, taking off my day shirt to climb into my nightwear. I turned to him, showing him my exposed chest. "Tell me, by looking at my person, what can you infer?"
"What do you mean?" Watson asked, glancing up from his work. I spread my arms out to my sides, letting him take a full look.
"When I saw that you wrote in columns, all I did was infer that you were planning to write for a newspaper. All I did was take the information necessary and applied it. Now," I said, my mouth turning up into a smirk, "what can you infer about me?" I saw Watson's eyes slide over me, then he looked back up to my face.
"You have cigar burns on you arms," he said in a quiet tone. "Does that mean that someone you know smoke cigars?"
"Excellent, Watson!" I cheered, reaching to where my robes were spread on my bed. I pulled the nightwear on over my head, ruffling my dark hair as I did. "My father was a chronic smoker, mostly fond of American tobacco. On the occasion, he would become angered with me, and apply his cigar to my arm." Watson winced visibly. He then pointed to my wrist.
"You have stitches on your wrist. Whoever stitched you up was a pretty bad surgeon." It was my turn to give him an inquisitive look. His face flushed slightly, and he looked back to his notebook. "My father was a surgeon." There was a long awkward silence then, and I decided that was the best time to crawl into bed. I was close to turning off my lamp when I heard Watson's meek voice speak up.
"How did you learn to do that, Jack?" he asked. I only smiled.
"Elementary, my dear Watson." As I spoke those words, something back inside my head seemed to click, and I started. It was as if I had heard those words before... Somewhere. I felt as if I had said them at some other time, though I had no recollection of ever knowing another Watson. I shook the feeling away and clicked my light off with a single movement. All through the night, I could hear the faint scratching of my new acquaintance's pencil on paper. I was a light sleeper anyway, so when I heard the sound of Watson's pencil stop, I awoke slowly. I blinked a few times, and glanced at my quietly ticking watch. 5:00 in the morning. Close to breakfast time anyway. I sat up quietly, only to see Watson's face illuminated by a ray of light streaming in through our cracked door.
"Jack," he whispered. I cringed. Only my father ever called me by my first name. I got out from under my covers and crept next to his bed.
"Call me Holmes. Everyone does," I said quietly. I looked to where Watson's eyes were glued. He was staring out the door. I saw now what had him so transfixed. A hand was reaching through our door. It was low to the ground, as if the owner of it was crawling. I hopped form my position, and went to the door, opening it fully. I could hear Watson gasp.
"Don't Holmes!" he cried. As soon as he called out, I pushed the door open. I gagged instantly. A woman, still clad in her white nightgown, was crawling pathetically toward my door. I noticed then the blood splattered all across her person. It was lathered all over her face, her torso and her ligaments. I recoiled violently, my back slamming against the door painfully. The round, frightened green eyes of the woman turned to me.
"Jack," she whispered. Her bloody hand reached up. I tried furiously to back away, but I could move no further. My heart was hammering in my chest. I was terrified. Just as she was about to grasp my nightshirt, her hand trembled, and fell to the floor. Her lovely eyes closed, and she fell in a heap. She was dead.
I shook all over. My knees finally gave out, and I slid to the floor, breathing heavily. I heard Watson scramble from his bed in a flurry of sheets.
"Holmes! Are you-" He stopped short as he saw the woman at my feet. His hand gravitated to his mouth. Gradually, the sight of the woman grew less and less gruesome, as if I had seen something far worse, though I knew I had never. A frightened smirk appeared on my lips.
"I thought... your father was... a surgeon," I said between heavy breaths. Watson was horrified. He shook violently. I took hold of his nightshirt and kept him where he was. "Watson," I told him, regaining composure, "Go get Annie. She's the woman who runs the house." I pulled myself to my feet, but Watson remained. "Go, Watson!" Still shaking, Watson took off down the hall. His reverberating cried rang in my ears as he called out for the master of the house. All the children were roused. I stared at the woman, lying in a pool of her own drying blood, with pity. So beautiful, yet so...
"Dead!" Watson cried, pointing at the body. Both he and Annie had returned. Annie was clad in her flowered nightgown, her hair in braids. She was overweight, but her girth was largely outweighed by her kindness. She looked at the mess on the floor in front of me, then to me. I had put my hands on my hips, surveying the body. Her eyes fixed on me.
"Holmes," she said, her voice full of anguish, "What happened?" I turned my eyes to her.
"That's what I plan to find out."
My name is Jack Christopher Holmes. Nothing really special about me, I guess. My friends, what little amount of friends I had, would constantly remind me that I shared a last name with the famous detective. I knew I did, but it didn't seem to make much difference to me. I mean, lots of people had that last name, right? Just a poor, orphaned, lonely, teenager named Jack Holmes. That's what I used to think, anyway. I used to think I was any old guy, just struggling to survive. Some people say that you're at your best when faced by a crisis. I suppose they're right.
I guess I should start at the beginning. I remembered that it was cold that night. January 19th, if my memory is correct. The year was 1943. I was 17. Back then, I could have cared less about anyone, because the world could have cared less about me. My good for nothing tramp of a mother skipped off on my father and me when I was young, and he died of lung cancer the next year. No one wanted me. They shipped me off to an old home with a lot just like me: decrepit, sad forms of human beings. The times were well enough, but we lived in the backwaters of England, out past London in the countryside in a God-forsaken town, almost village-like. Prudence. It was a hell hole, forsaken by the eye of the Lord and of the government. It was as if we didn't exist. But it was the world to me.
Anyway, as I was saying, on the deep cold of January 19th, snow cresting outside my window, as I lay prostrate on my feather bed, my life changed as I knew it. It all started innocently enough, as do most things. A boy, not much younger than me, approached my bed, his eyes at his feet. I did not meet his gaze, staring as the light from my window played on the drifting snowflakes. The boy shuffled closer, and I noticed a notebook in his hand and a pencil over his ear. His nose wiggled slightly, and for some reason, I knew a sneeze was coming.
"Cover your nose," I said quietly. They were the first words I spoke to my acquaintance. He followed my instructions, putting his pale hand to his face, then he sneezed loudly, nearly shaking the dust from my bed. He sniffled slightly, rubbing his red nose, then finally brought his eyes up to my form. He smiled.
"Hello," he said. I took my eyes from the window and looked the boy over. He looked to be about 14, if not 15. His hair was a mousy brown, and it was mussed up over the top of his head as if he had just awakened from a slumber. His eyes were red, probably from sickness and watering eyes. He had a slightly thin frame, but I could see that he was well built for his age, as if he spent most of his time outside. I cocked my head a I looked at him.
"I don't believe we've met," I told him, "Are you new here?" He nodded vigorously, pointing to the bed across from mine.
"I'm supposed to share a room with you," he said. He extended his left hand, instead of the one he had sneezed on. "My name's Johnny Watson." I took the proffered hand and shook it.
"I'm Jack Holmes. Welcome to Hell," I told him, a smile creeping over my face. Watson laughed, and sniffled lightly again.
"It is quite a place, isn't it, though? I don't think I've ever been in a house this old." Watson paused, his nostrils twitching, and he sneezed again.
"Allergic to dust?" I asked. Watson's head shot up.
"How did you know?" he asked. I opened my mouth to answer, only realize that I had none.
"I have no idea." I hopped off my bed, brushing some of the dust from my father's old brown, button down longcoat. "How old are you, Watson?"
"I just turned 14," he told me, absentmindedly flipping through the notebook he held in one hand. I turned my head to look at it.
"Planning to be a journalist?"
Watson's bright blue eyes stared up at me, as if suddenly afraid of something. He shut his notebook quickly.
"I swear, Jack, if I believed in fortune-tellers and gypsies, I'd say you're one of them," he said apprehensively. I gave him an unsure look.
"I'm no gypsy, Mr. Watson, though I must admit-" I quieted as someone shuffled by our room in slippered feet. I turned to see who would be about that time of night, but I only cause a glimpse of a lavender night robe. I shrugged, and, turning back to young John Watson, I was surprised to see him already abed, his pencil flying across the coveted notebook. He glanced up at me, as if still frightened by what had passed between us. I sighed loudly.
"Here, Watson," I said, taking off my day shirt to climb into my nightwear. I turned to him, showing him my exposed chest. "Tell me, by looking at my person, what can you infer?"
"What do you mean?" Watson asked, glancing up from his work. I spread my arms out to my sides, letting him take a full look.
"When I saw that you wrote in columns, all I did was infer that you were planning to write for a newspaper. All I did was take the information necessary and applied it. Now," I said, my mouth turning up into a smirk, "what can you infer about me?" I saw Watson's eyes slide over me, then he looked back up to my face.
"You have cigar burns on you arms," he said in a quiet tone. "Does that mean that someone you know smoke cigars?"
"Excellent, Watson!" I cheered, reaching to where my robes were spread on my bed. I pulled the nightwear on over my head, ruffling my dark hair as I did. "My father was a chronic smoker, mostly fond of American tobacco. On the occasion, he would become angered with me, and apply his cigar to my arm." Watson winced visibly. He then pointed to my wrist.
"You have stitches on your wrist. Whoever stitched you up was a pretty bad surgeon." It was my turn to give him an inquisitive look. His face flushed slightly, and he looked back to his notebook. "My father was a surgeon." There was a long awkward silence then, and I decided that was the best time to crawl into bed. I was close to turning off my lamp when I heard Watson's meek voice speak up.
"How did you learn to do that, Jack?" he asked. I only smiled.
"Elementary, my dear Watson." As I spoke those words, something back inside my head seemed to click, and I started. It was as if I had heard those words before... Somewhere. I felt as if I had said them at some other time, though I had no recollection of ever knowing another Watson. I shook the feeling away and clicked my light off with a single movement. All through the night, I could hear the faint scratching of my new acquaintance's pencil on paper. I was a light sleeper anyway, so when I heard the sound of Watson's pencil stop, I awoke slowly. I blinked a few times, and glanced at my quietly ticking watch. 5:00 in the morning. Close to breakfast time anyway. I sat up quietly, only to see Watson's face illuminated by a ray of light streaming in through our cracked door.
"Jack," he whispered. I cringed. Only my father ever called me by my first name. I got out from under my covers and crept next to his bed.
"Call me Holmes. Everyone does," I said quietly. I looked to where Watson's eyes were glued. He was staring out the door. I saw now what had him so transfixed. A hand was reaching through our door. It was low to the ground, as if the owner of it was crawling. I hopped form my position, and went to the door, opening it fully. I could hear Watson gasp.
"Don't Holmes!" he cried. As soon as he called out, I pushed the door open. I gagged instantly. A woman, still clad in her white nightgown, was crawling pathetically toward my door. I noticed then the blood splattered all across her person. It was lathered all over her face, her torso and her ligaments. I recoiled violently, my back slamming against the door painfully. The round, frightened green eyes of the woman turned to me.
"Jack," she whispered. Her bloody hand reached up. I tried furiously to back away, but I could move no further. My heart was hammering in my chest. I was terrified. Just as she was about to grasp my nightshirt, her hand trembled, and fell to the floor. Her lovely eyes closed, and she fell in a heap. She was dead.
I shook all over. My knees finally gave out, and I slid to the floor, breathing heavily. I heard Watson scramble from his bed in a flurry of sheets.
"Holmes! Are you-" He stopped short as he saw the woman at my feet. His hand gravitated to his mouth. Gradually, the sight of the woman grew less and less gruesome, as if I had seen something far worse, though I knew I had never. A frightened smirk appeared on my lips.
"I thought... your father was... a surgeon," I said between heavy breaths. Watson was horrified. He shook violently. I took hold of his nightshirt and kept him where he was. "Watson," I told him, regaining composure, "Go get Annie. She's the woman who runs the house." I pulled myself to my feet, but Watson remained. "Go, Watson!" Still shaking, Watson took off down the hall. His reverberating cried rang in my ears as he called out for the master of the house. All the children were roused. I stared at the woman, lying in a pool of her own drying blood, with pity. So beautiful, yet so...
"Dead!" Watson cried, pointing at the body. Both he and Annie had returned. Annie was clad in her flowered nightgown, her hair in braids. She was overweight, but her girth was largely outweighed by her kindness. She looked at the mess on the floor in front of me, then to me. I had put my hands on my hips, surveying the body. Her eyes fixed on me.
"Holmes," she said, her voice full of anguish, "What happened?" I turned my eyes to her.
"That's what I plan to find out."