Free The Devil's Workshop by Alex Grecian

difference.”
    “Ah,” Hammersmith said. “Yes, that is strange.”
    “I would imagine he’d go back to try to reconcile with the girl now,” Folger said. “He was completely obsessed with her. Talked of nothing else.”
    Day and Hammersmith gave each other a look. Hammersmith drew his pad of paper and pen from his jacket pocket and made a note. The clerk had given them a solid lead in finding one of the missing men.
    “And here,” Folger went on, pointing to a cell on the otherside of the corridor. “Well, that’s a dead man in there, so we can close his file. But then next to him”—he pointed at the next cell in the row—“next to him we had Napper. Nasty little fellow. Followed a man from the Strand at the end of a workday, entered his home right behind him, and immediately killed him. Then he spent days with the man’s wife, alone in the house, before finally being caught.”
    “What did he do to her?” Day said.
    “Why, he ate her,” Folger said. He moved on to the next empty cell and so failed to see the expression on Day’s face. “And on the other side again, these two cells side by side, we had a bit of a John Doe.”
    “You don’t have a name for him?”
    “No. Never did. But he’s been in and out of institutions like this nearly his entire life. Family all killed when he was a child, and the boy was found living with their bodies, completely unaware that they were dead. Isn’t that odd?”
    “Um, yes,” Day said.
    “After that he started sneaking into people’s attics and hiding until they were asleep. He’d creep out at night, kill them. The whole family, I mean, kill them all and live in the house. He was found serving food to a family of rotting corpses the last time and eventually brought here.”
    “But you don’t know his name?”
    “He’s never spoken. Completely mute.”
    “You must have called him something.”
    “Well, some of the warders and the other inmates called him by a buggy sort of name. Some insect. Let me see here.” Folgerlooked through his file, then looked up at Day and smiled. “Oh, yes. Well, it makes perfect sense. They called him the Harvest Man after the species of spider. You know, it lives in attics. Quite an appropriate moniker, I suppose.”
    “Yes,” Day said. “And what about this cell?” He indicated the last empty cell in the row.
    “That one was . . . let me see. Ah, his name is Cinderhouse.” Folger looked up from his stack of files at Day. “Oh, it seems you’re familiar with his history.”
    “We’ve met.”
    “You arrested him.”
    “After he went to my home and threatened my wife.”
    “And after he abducted a child,” Hammersmith said.
    “And after he killed several other children and two good policemen,” Day said.
    “Well, it looks like you’ll have to arrest him all over again,” Folger said. “I remember interviewing him. I didn’t think he seemed particularly dangerous.”
    “He was dangerous enough,” Hammersmith said. “He just wasn’t very smart.”

10

    J
ack heard footsteps coming in the dark, wet shoes slapping the ground, someone moving quickly. It wasn’t the doctor; the doctor hadn’t visited him in days. And it wasn’t the policeman. This was someone new, a gait he didn’t recognize. Whoever it was, he was alone. Jack kept his muscles loose, his breath hot and steady under the canvas hood, and he listened. The footsteps slowed and then stopped as the stranger neared the opening of Jack’s cell.
    “Isn’t this exciting?” Jack raised his voice so that the stranger would hear him. “I haven’t had a new visitor in quite some time.”
    “What . . .” The stranger stopped, then started again, nervous. “What is this? Who are you?”
    Oh, the stranger didn’t know! He had stumbled upon Jack byaccident. Under the hood, Jack smiled. His cracked lips broke and he tasted copper.
    “Come closer, little fly,” he said.
    “I need to . . . There’s no time.”
    “Someone is