The firelight was dim and soft, but enough to light the room in a less then modern feel. That is, the less modern the better, or at least that is what the man sitting in front of the fire thought. He rested his head on the palm of his hand, while the other rested at his waist.

Now what do I do? He thought. His face held an image of pure boredom; his eyes glazed as he continued to stare blankly into the flames. The room, barley lit by the light emanated from within the fireplace, was rather large, but almost empty. There was a bed by the only window in the room, a rather large window. It stood over ten feet tall and eight feet wide, and it was evident that the window was not in use, for thick maroon shades were drawn across the entire length. The bed was nothing more than a cot, a small padded mattress resting firmly on a rusty metal frame. A dark, gray wool blanket lay upon the bed, its corners tucked under the mattress. Across the large room stood a lonely clothes dresser, with only a water pitcher resting on top. The room didn’t seem to have any pipes, that meant no running water. Along the walls rose shelves of books. No space along the walls were left blank. It was impossible to see what the walls were behind the books: stone, wood, plaster? The only one who knew that secret was the owner, and he is not in the mood for such talk. In front of the fire stood two large leather chairs of a black color. One was occupied already, but the other sat alone. Both were of extreme quality and in good condition.

He stood up. Joints popped as he moved his body at unusual angles.

"Ahh," he said aloud as he removed the stiff feeling from his long sitting body. He couldn’t remember how long he has been there in his chair. An hour? A day? A month? Who knew, surely he should remember but he has forgotten. It didn’t matter, really. It was all just for naught anyway. Next to his chair was a cane. It was black with a gold handle. The handle’s design was simplistic, almost a short stub; it was designed for one purpose and one purpose alone, to support him. And support him it did. He inched his way towards his bed, or rather the cot that represented his bed. His bones creaked and he wished that he were there already just to sit. Sitting, he heard the spring coils, which held its padded mattress in place, moan with anguish. He ignored the sound and reached under the pillow. Form under he retrieved a book, a small leather-bound book decaying with age. He wiped the front clean with his hand and opened to the first page. At first glance, anyone would mistake the writing for another language, but it was in fact English. The penmanship was delicate and hard to read and the style of the writing was that of the eighteenth century, and to today's eyes would strike anyone as old and archaic. But his fingers grazed the lines of words and he read the writing alone effortlessly. And why should he not, for they were his words.

"Such hard times. I'll shall never forget them," he said with a wide grin on his face. He flipped through the old dusty book. Dates flashed before his eyes. 1734, 1799, 1885, 1901, 1945, 1999. Up to the present day. All the entries fit into this little book with such ease, but that should be impossible. How could all of those dates, all the years in between fit into such a small space. Easy, he wanted them to, and he had to the power to do so, such was his wishing. He grinned as he passed by important dates. Images of a almost forgotten past jolted through his mind. He remembered wars, he remembered peace, he remembered new and marvelous inventions that made life easier for every human living in this foreign land of America.

He remembered being in a suit of blue carrying the red, while and blue flag into battle as his gray clad enemies approached him.

He remembered the feel of an automatic weapon tucked into this shoulder as he picked off German soldiers left and right.

He remembered the jungles of lower Asia and of all the "charlies" he was supposed to kill but never saw.

He remembered how good it felt. It was like old times. Like times long forgotten..

He had seen memorials built and destroyed.

He remembered progresses of this America and its supposed increase in living style. He preferred the older simpler days, and most everyone else would actually be much happier if they had still existed in those simpler times. He couldn’t stop progress; that much he knew, but he could always try.

Most of all, however, he remembered the lives; the lives he needed to survive. He looked at the list of names in the back of the book, but seemed to remain unfinished. He placed his finger at the top of the list, at the very first name. It was an important name, a name that held much sentimental value to him, for it was his.

"Greywell, Jonathan Greywell."

It was a name that he hasn’t heard spoken by anyone other than himself for a long time and he missed it greatly. He spoke the name with a clear sadness, as if he felt great emotional pain at the very sounding of it. A tear formed in the corner of his eye, and he quickly wiped away.

"Journal entry for December 15th of the year of our Lord 1862. I died this day. It was in a supposed decisive battle led by General Burnside himself... We thought it was going to be easy... We were told it was to be easy, we were lied to. And it is because of their lies that I must lay myself to rest. I write this on my deathbed. I await the final darkness to come and take my soul away once more.

The world will no longer have any Greywells. It is time I lay my age old family name to rest. God have mercy upon all my souls.

I hope the world can forgive me for the lies I told and the trickery I had to concoct in order to remain as I am."

"Journal entry for December 19th of the year of no Lord 1862. I hate the world, I hate all mankind. Why did I want to remain as one of them. I know its been a quick change, but death can do that to a man. I knew I was to die when I was hit. No man can take a shot to the chest as I did and not die, but I thought man was more considerate to the dead than this. I find myself on the side of the god damn road, in the middle of god knows where. I can only assume its along this march through the stinking vile flesh of the earth that they left me. They left me, I found a rat in my chest. I hadn’t even been properly dressed for death. Man does not and will not give a damn about anything unless it directly involves them. What would they have told my family, granted I have none, but it is the principles behind the situation that drives my anger. They are selfish and egotistical and childlike. Finally my eyes have been opened to them. I understand what they are about, and I understand what must be done.

Man will pay."

Greywell looked over his journal. It still amazes him to understand that his epiphany regarding the innermost working of the human soul and human desires came to him that quickly, and to this day has still not left him. He smiled that in his mind, in his soul, or what he had left of one, he was complete. Soul or not, it didn’t matter, he was whole now. And no one could take that away from him.

It was time for him to return to his work. He has taken to long of a break. The ripping must continue anew.

Then there came a small rapping at his door. He quickly slid the journal under the pillow. Having quite a bit of trouble rising, he grabbed his cane and used it to almost propel himself towards the door.

"Who is it!" He growled as he peered through the peephole.

"Campfire Girls cookies," came the response. There stood a young girl, maybe ten years old. Long flowing blonde hair reached its way to her upper back and she had on a uniform of light brown that was easily identified as belonging to another one of those organized youth groups that teach nothing but "family values and good manners" and all that other garbage that parents force upon their young. In reality, Campfire Girls and all the rest was nothing more than a parent created phenomenon devoted to giving the children a false sense of accomplishment and the parents at least one idea that their children had lived up, in some form, to their expectations. Nothing more. Greywell smiled.

"Would you like to buy some mister?"

Greywell unbolted his door and slid it open. His smile continued to ornament his face.

"Why yes, I will. But do come in. I’ll get some money. Would you like a glass of milk?."

The girl at first looked at the room, large, dark and foreboding. It scared her and so did this creepy old man. Her mother told her never to go into the stranger’s houses, but to just wait out in front of the house and let them order their cookies. But she looked at Greywell’s face, namely the huge friendly smile. What the heck, she was sure her mother would let her even if she was with her instead of keeping the car warm.

"Please," Greywell said and he held out a hand.

She smiled and giggled and took his hand. It was cold, ice cold. But then again, so was her own grandfather’s hand most of the time when she held it. She stepped into the room. Immediately Greywell took a deep breath. His eyes widened with delight.

"Your apartment is big. Why don’t you have much more stuff?" She said to Greywell as she looked around his room in the dim firelight.

"I don’t need much."

"Why? I have a lot of stuff and so does my mom and my dad and my grandpa."

"Well, I just never did."

He walked her over to the large black leather chairs.

"Hey don’t you need your cane?" She asked. He had laid his cane against the inside of the door and preceded to walk to the chairs without it. Without a hobble, or a limp, or anything. His walk and his stance was perfect.

"Not anymore." He said still with the smile on his face.

He sat her down in a chair and he took his place in the chair in which he sat earlier. He jumped up quickly.

"I forgot your milk, just a moment."

She sat fidgeting for only a moment. Greywell walked into the large shadow behind his chair and returned a moment later with a glass of milk. He handed it to her and she thanked him. She then took a large gulp; Greywell took his place back in the chair.

"So how old are you?" She asked Greywell after she lowered the glass from her mouth.

"Much older than you." He said again with a smile.

"Oh"

"How old are you?"

"Me? I’m 9."

"Have you been in the Campfire Girls long?"

"No, this is my second year. What's your name?"

"Jack. What's yours?

"Emily."

"It was nice meeting you Emily."

The shadows around Greywell moved, they merged into one large massive shape that oozed down to the floor. Emily looked at these moving masses with total confusion. Greywell just stared at her. The shadow mass moved under Emily’s chair and stopped. She screamed. The shadow shot through the chair and lifted Emily up into the air. It as transformed into the shape of a hand, a large demon clawed hand. Her empty glass fell from her hand and shattered onto the hard wooden floor below. The shadow quickly pushed her up to the ceiling. She managed to release another scream of fear before her screams became that of a gargling sound as she gasped for air. The hand was squeezing her into the ceiling, hard. He eyes bulged, he tongue hung limp from her mouth as she began to take on a bluish skin tone. Greywell simply sat below. In his chair he began a change of his own. He was visibly becoming younger. His gray hair faded into that of a more brown color. His grey-blue eyes deepened into a more pleasant shade of blue. His mustache grew at an alarming rate, yet his beard remained freshly shaven. His body was thickening. He simply was becoming young. Emily saw this through her fading vision. She wondered was happening and why she hd come in to his house. She wanted to know why she didn’t listen to her mother. She wanted her mother. She missed her mother.

Emily’s ribs finally gave way under the pressure and the hand was able to continue to squeeze her against the ceiling. Her spine was next to be shattered as the hand relentlessly pushed with godlike force. Emily was dead. As quickly as it had appeared, the hand released her and melted back into the shadows from which it had originally emerged. Emily’s body fell to her chair below. She landed back in her seat, only this time up side down. Greywell stood and walked over to his bed. He paid no attention to the flattened girl in his chair, for he had more important matters in need of attending.

He removed the journal from under his pillow and opened it to the back few pages and again skimmed the names. He removed a pen from the back folds of the book and looked for the proper place to write.

"Let me see... Ahh here we go." He looked at the last five names he had written. And next to them a date.

Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols, Friday, August 31, 1888.

Annie Chapman, Saturday, September 8, 1888.

Elizabeth Stride, Sunday, September 30, 1888.

Catharine Eddowes, Sunday, September 30, 1888.

Marie Jeanette Kelly, Friday, November 9, 1888.

And now...

Emily Farrows, Thursday, February 1, 2001.

Greywell closed the book and placed it onto his bed. He reached over into the shadow above his bed and removed a coat and hat. They were black and hadn’t been used in years, many years. As he put on his hat and coat he opened the curtains. Outside he saw a car, a blue ford station wagon. .

"Hello Janet Farrow."

And with that he walked out the door.

I’m finally out of retirement. Again a smile grew onto his face