Speaker 1: Imagine waking one morning and discovering the world can no
longer see you. At first, it might seem like the
greatest gift ever imagined. No locked door could stop you,
no secret would remain hidden. You could walk amongst millions
of people and never be noticed. But what happens when
you can no longer see yourself? In nineteen thirty three,
The Invisible Man terrified audiences with a monster unlike any
they had ever encountered, not because of claws or fangs,
but because the greatest danger was a man whose face
had disappeared long before his humanity did. This is the
story of doctor Jack Griffin. This is the Invisible Man.
The storm arrived just after sunset. It swept across the
English countryside with a violence that seemed almost unnatural, swallowing
the narrow roads beneath curtains of snow, driving every sensible
traveler indoors. Wind howled through the barren trees, bending their
skilled little branches until they groaned like old timbers on
the sinking ship. By nightfall, the village of Ipping had
disappeared beneath the blanket of white. The locals gathered inside
the warmth of the lion's head end, grateful for crackling fireplaces,
hot meals, and familiar company. Outside the world had become
a frozen wasteland where even the bravest soul would think
twice before venturing into the storm. Missus Hall had just
finished tending to the fire when some one knocked at
the front door, not politely, not desperately, three slow, deliberate knock.
The conversations inside the inn faded almost instantly. Another knock
echoed through the room. Missus Hall frowned, No one's out
in weather like this. One of the patrons muttered, and
if they are, another answered, there is the lost a
mad The third knock came harder than the first two.
Missus Hall reluctantly crossed the room and pulled open the
heavy wooden doors. The wind burst inside like an unwelcome guest,
carrying snow across the floor and extinguishing two nearby candles.
Standing in the doorway was a man. He was dressed
from head to toe in heavy traveling clothes dusted with snow.
But it wasn't his clothing that caught Missus Hall's attention.
It was his face, or rather the complete lack of one.
Every inch of exposed skin had been concealed beneath immatch
white bandages. Dark goggles covered his eyes, while the brim
of a wide felt hat cast another shadow across what
little remained visible. Only the tip of his nose protruded
through the wrappings. Even his hands disappeared beneath thick leather gloves.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, the stranger
stepped inside. I require a room. His voice was calm, measured, educated.
It carried none of the roughness miss Hall expected from
a traveler caught in such dreadful weather. We're we've rooms available,
she answered. If they're quiet, they are. If they're private,
missus Hall hesitated, they can be. Without another word, the
stranger reached into his coat and placed several gold sovereigns
onto them counter. The inn fell silent, More money than
most men in ippings saw in months, rested casually in
his gloved hands. Missus Hall quickly gathered the coins. I'm
sure we could find something suitable, the stranger nodded at
once excellent. He lifted his luggage without assistance. Missus Hall
noticed how remarkably heavy the cases appeared, glass clinking softly
inside one another gave off the unmistakable scent of strong chemicals,
not luggage, laboratory equipment. She led him upstairs to the
largest room in the inn. The stranger entered without a word.
Before missus Hall could offer fresh linens or supper, the
door closed firmly in her face. She stood, blinking for
a moment. Well, she sniffed, I've certainly met friendlier guests.
The following morning, curiosity spread through ipping faster than the snowfall.
Every one had seen the mysterious traveler arrive. No one
knew his name, no one had seen his face. By breakfast,
theories filled the dining room. A war injury, suggested one farmer,
burns said another. Small pox whispered an elderly woman. One
particularly imaginative patron leaned closer, I've heard London's crawling with anarchists.
The table erupted into laughter. Missus Hall wasn't laughing. She
climbed the stairs, carrying breakfast on a silver tray, before
stopping outside the stranger's room. There it was again that
smell ether alcohol, something sharper she couldn't identify. She knocked gently,
your breakfast, sir, No answer, she knocked again, still nothing.
Assuming he had gone out, Missus Hall carefully unlocked the door.
It opened only a crack. Books covered every available surface.
Sheets of handwritten calculations littered the floor. Strange bottles filled
with brightly colored liquids crowded a workbench that certainly hadn't
been there the previous evening. Steam drifted lazily from a
collection of glass tubes connected by copper coils. The room
looked less like an inn and more like a laboratory, Sir.
She stepped inside. The breakfast tray rattled in her hands.
The room was empty, so she thought. Without warning, the
door slam shut behind her. Missus Hall gasped. The lock
clicked slowly. The breakfast tray lifted from her trembling hands,
not dropped, lifted, it floated through the air, as though
carried by invisible servants, before settling gently onto the table.
His Hall heart hammered against her ribs, Who's there? No answer,
only breathing close, very close. She turned nothing. The room
was empty. The chair scraped against the wooden floor by itself.
One of the notebooks flipped open, pages turned without anyone
touching them. Missus Hall back towards the door, unable to
tear her eyes away from the impossible sight unfolding before her.
And then a voice whispered from somewhere, just inches from
her ear. You should have knocked, she screamed. The breakfast
tray crashed to the floor, crockery shattered, the bedroom door
burst open. Several guests rushed into the hallway, just in
time to see Missus Hall stumble from the room, her
face strained of every trace of color. She tried to
explain she truly did, but every sentence sounded more impossible
than the last. Behind the still closed door, the stranger
stood perfectly motionless. He listened to the commotion fading downstairs.
The stranger smile, though no one alive could see it.
Recovered from the private laboratory of doctor Jack Griffin, October third.
There is a prevailing belief amongst my colleagues that the
limits of science have already been defined to find that
notion profoundly unimaginative. Every year we discover new species, new elements,
and medicines. Yet when one proposes that light itself might
be manipulated within living tissue, the room fills with laughter.
Light obey's laws laws may be rewritten. If flesh could
be made to refract light perfectly, he would cease to
cast a shadow. He would cease to be seen, not disappear,
just become invisible. Arthur called the theory dangerous. Doctor Cranleigh
smiled politely before suggesting, I focus on practical medicine. Practical medicine,
as though curing headaches are somehow nobler than changing the
course of human history. They'll understand soon enough. November nineteenth,
I've synthesized a new compound for now. I've labeled it monocane.
The name is temporary, the formula is not. The solution
appears stable for nearly six hours before separating at the
harmless component. If I could increase its longevity, I may
finally be able to begin biological testing and not inform
the university. Great discoveries should belong to those willing to
make them. December seventh, Subject one a white laboratory mouse injection.
Successful pulse elevated for approximately forty three seconds. Violent trembling followed,
and then then the impossible. The ears vanished first, the
tale followed. Within minutes, the entire animal disappeared before my
eyes not faded vanished. I could still hear it scratching
inside the cage, still feel it beneath my hand. Its
heartbeat remained perfectly normal. The mouse was alive, perfectly alive,
completely invisible. I laughed for nearly ten minutes. I couldn't stop.
December fourteenth. The effect is reversible, or so I believed.
Subject one has failed to reappear after one hundred and
sixty eight hours. Dissection impossible, observation ongoing. I can hear eating, running, sleeping.
It still exists somewhere. This changes everything. January two. Flora
visited today, since I've been working too hard. She worries,
She always worries. She brought tea flowers, tried convincing me
to spend an afternoon away from the laboratory. I nearly agreed, nearly.
Then I looked at the equations spread across my desk.
History doesn't wait for holidays. She kissed my forehead before leaving.
I promised her I would rest. I lied. January twenty eighth.
I believe that I've solved the instability. Monocane no longer
affects only surface tissue. It now penetrates every cell, blood, muscle, bone.
The mathematics suggests complete optical neutrality. Theoretically, the human subject
should become entirely invisible. Theoretically. February third, Arthur visited. He
found the laboratory in considerable disarray. He asked if I'd
been sleeping, an unnecessary question. Sleep is inefficient. He questioned
my use of monocane, said, prolonged exposure to its vapors
may have neurological consequences hallucinations, personality shifts, aggression. I reminded
him that every meaningful discovery has demanded sacrifice, and he
looked at me with pity. I despise pity. February eleventh,
Animal testing continues. Subject seven becomes invisible within seventy nine seconds.
Subject seven attacked Subject six, despite showing no previous signs
of aggression. Interesting. Perhaps sensory deprivation alters behavior. Further study required.
February eighteenth, I have begun hearing footsteps in the laboratory
after midnight. We've stopped whenever I investigate. Lightly fatigued. February
twenty first, the footsteps return. February twenty second, No, not footsteps,
someone is breathing. February twenty fourth, there's no one here.
March first, I've reached the unavoidable conclusion that animal testing
can provide no further data. The equations are complete, the
compound is stable. There remains only one unknown. Human physiology
ethics committees would spend years debating permission years. The world
belongs to those willing to act. Tomorrow. I become my
own final experiment. March second, nine, fourteen p M. Injection administered,
no immediate reaction. Holse elevated mine. Mild dizziness, handshaking, vision
unchanged nine to sixteen PM, severe burning sensation. Every nerve
feels feels wrong. I can't continue writing. God, the pain.
It feels as though my blood has been a replaced
of molten glass. My skin. It burns my bones, Dear God,
my bones. I crawled to the mirror. My face had
begun to fade, not disappear, all at once. It happened,
pieced by peace. My fingertips became transparent than my wrists.
The flesh along my arms dissolved into empty air. While
I watched, veins vanished, muscles vanished. There's no blood, only
have since I screamed until my voice failed. The transformation
continued across my chest, my neck, my jaw, my own
teeth disappeared while I watched my mouth become nothing at all,
and then nothing. The mirror reflected the laboratory behind me, books, glassware,
the lamp, the chair, everything except me. I raised my hand.
The bandage lying on the table lifted by itself. I laughed.
I think I laughed. I cannot remember. March fourth. Exhilarations passed.
I remain invisible. No combination of reagents has reversed the process.
My clothing still appears normally when the living tissue is affected.
I wrapped myself completely in the hat, gloves, bandages, dark glasses.
The disguise is deficient enough. No one questioned me while
purchasing supplies today, no one person looked twice. How strange
to become invisible, only to spend every waking hour pretending
to be visible again. March seven. If I have not slept,
every time I close my eyes, I dreamed that I
no longer exist, And when I wake, I cannot immediately
tell whether my eyes are open. Darkness looks exactly the same.
March ninth. Arthur was wrong. Moncane does not simply alter
the body. It changes something else. My thoughts move too quickly.
Now people speak so slowly. Their concerns seemed tiny, insignificant.
How did I ever tolerate ordinary conversation? How did I
ever call these people my peers? March eleventh. I caught
myself speaking aloud. Today. I was alone. I thought I
was Someone answered. I searched the laboratory for over an hour.
There was no one there. March thirteenth, Flora. Today I
watched her through the window. She called my name, she cried.
I almost opened the door. Almost she would have seen
what I'd become, or worse, she would have pitied me.
I could not bear that. She deserves to remember Jack Griffin,
not whatever is writing these pages now. March fifteenth. There's
only one path forward. I will perfect Mono Kaine, I
will master it. The world mocked my work. Soon the
world will kneel before it to understand what genius truly costs.
And if they refuse, perhaps.
Speaker 2: They deserve whatever comes next.
Speaker 1: The days blurred together inside the cramped room of the
Lion's Head in the curtains remained drawn, the doors remained locked.
Every mirror had been covered. Jack no longer cared to
look at reflections that refused to acknowledge his existence, his
laboratory had become a prison of scattered papers, broken glass,
and half finished equations. Bottles of monocines stood alongside dozens
of failed antidotes, each one ending the same way. Nothing,
No matter how he altered the formula, no matter how
carefully he calculated each reaction, the invisible man remained invisible.
At first, he had met every failure with determination, but
now he met them with silence. The village outside continued
with its ordinary life. Children laughed in the streets, Farmers
argued over fences. Church bells rang every Sunday. Jack listened
from behind his locked door. They sounded impossibly distant, as
though they belonged to another world, another life, his life.
There were moments, brief, fragile moments, and he almost convinced
himself everything could still be repaired. He imagined returning to Flora,
standing beside her in the university gardens, explaining everything. She
would help him she always had. The thought lingered until
he caught sight of his bandage for election in the window.
The illusion shattered. Who could possibly love a man who
no longer existed? The headaches began soon after. At first
they came only in the evenings, a dull pressure between
his eyes, then whispered barely audibly, strangers speaking from another room.
Jack searched the laboratory again and again, behind shelves, inside cupboards,
even beneath the bed. No one. The voices remained. You've
done it, one whispered, They laughed at you. Another answered,
they'll never laugh again. Jack slammed both his hands against
his ears. Stop. The room fell silent. He exhaled slowly,
and then laughter, not outside but inside his own mind.
Sleep abandoned him entirely. Ours disappeared. Sometimes he would awaken
standing in the center of the room, with no memory
of leaving his chair. Other times he found pages of
calculations written in his own handwriting equations he could not
remember solving. One morning, he discovered the words they cannot
see what is better than them, repeated hundreds of times
across an entire note book. He had no recollection of
writing them. He burned the notebook anyway. Missus Hall continued
bringing meals to his room. Shed never look directly at
him any more. The villagers had begun whisperingly, spoke of
strange noises, furniture moving after midnight, footsteps pacing endlessly, across
the floor. Sometimes laughter, always laughter. The inn itself seemed
eager for him to leave. Jack couldn't blame them. He
wanted to leave too. He simply had nowhere left to go.
One bitter evening, hunger finally drove him outside. Wrapped tightly
in his hat, coat, scarf, gloves, and fresh bandages, he
walked through the snow covered streets with his head lowered.
Children stopped playing as he passed. Adults watched him from
behind frosted windows. Fear had a smell. Jack could almost
taste it. He entered the village apothecary just before closing.
The elderly chemist glanced up evening Jack placed a hand
written list upon the counter. I need these components. The
chemist adjusted his spectacles, his polite smile faded. I sold
you rather a great deal of these chemicals already. I more.
I'm afraid I can't. Jack's jaw tightened beneath the bandages.
I'm afraid they're dangerous in the quantities you're requesting. I
know precisely what they are. I'm sure you do. The
chemist gently slid the paper back across the counter. But
I won't be a part of whatever you're doing For
several long seconds, neither man moved. Then the whispers returned.
He thinks you're a fool. He pities you, just like Arthur,
just like Grandly, just like everyone. Jack's breathing quickened, The
room seemed to tilt. The chemist's face blurred. For one
horrifying instant, it wasn't the chemist standing behind the counter.
It was Arthur Kemp, smiling, laughing, shaking his head. Impossible,
you've gone too far. The illusion vanished. The chemist stood
where he always had. Concern filled his eyes. Sir, are
you quite all right? Jack reached for the counter to
steady himself. Instead, his gloved hand found the chemist's collar.
He never remembered making this decision. One moment they were speaking,
the next, the old man was crashing backwards through shelves
of glass bottles. Chemicals exploded across the floor. The chemist
cried out, scrambling to his feet. Help. Jack heard the word,
but it no longer meant anything. The whispers had become thunder.
He's stopping you, He's taking everything from you. Finish it.
The chemist stumbled towards the door. He never reached it.
Jack caught him from behind. The struggle lasted only moments.
A display cabinet shattered, glass rained across the floor. Then silence.
Jack stood frozen, His breathing echoed through the ruin shut up.
The chemists lay motionless amongst broken bottles and spilled medicine.
A pool of dark liquid spread slowly across the wooden floor.
For the first time in weeks, the voices stopped. Jack
stared at his trembling hands, or rather at the empty
space where his hands should have been. What his voice cracked?
What have I done? There was no answer, only the
wind outside. Then bells. Someone heard the commotion. The village
was coming. Panic seized, and he stripped away his gloves,
his scarf, his coat, his hat, bandages fluttered to the
floor like discarded skin. By the time the first villagers
reached the shop, the killer had vanished. The front door
swung slowly in the winter wind. No footprints led away,
only an empty road, disappearing into falling the snow. Jack
ran into the village, disappeared behind him. He collapsed beneath
the skeletal branches of an ancient oak, gasping for breath.
His invisible chest rose and fell violently. He could still
feel the chemist's heart beat beneath his fingers. Still hear
the terror in his voice. He hadn't meant to kill him.
He knew that, didn't he. The question lingered in the
frozen air. The answers never came. Instead, the whispers returned, soft, satisfied,
see how easy it was. Jack buried his invisible face
in his hands. Hot tears fell into the snow. For
the first time since injecting monocane, he was no longer
searching for fame, or recognition, or even greatness. He wanted
only one thing to become visible again, not so the
world would see him, but so that when he looked
into a mirror he might still find a man worth saving.
The newspapers called it murder. The police called it an investigation.
The people who survived called it something else. They called
it the Invisible Man. It began with stories no one believed.
A carriage rolling downhill with no driver at the reins,
a shopkeeper thrown through his window, oh by unseen hands,
doors opening by themselves, footprints appearing in fresh snow before
stopping abruptly in the middle of an empty field. The
newspapers laughed. The villagers did not, because they had seen
what the newspapers had not the blood. Jack Griffin wandered
the countryside like a ghost, invisible, hungry, untouchable. He stole
food from the market stalls without lifting a coin. He
entered homes while family slept, standing silently in dark corners,
listening to stranger's breath. At first, he told himself he
was merely surviving. The lie became easier every day. Monocaine
had done something terrible to his thoughts. People no longer
looked like people. They looked like obstacles, variables, subjects. He
found himself wondering how long it would take someone to
panic if they heard footsteps behind them but saw no one.
How long before fear became madness. The answer, he discovered,
wasn't very long. A farmer named Edwin Mercer became the
first Jack watched him for nearly an hour. Mercer worked alone,
repairing a stone wall bordering his property. No nearby houses,
no witnesses. Perfect Jack picked up a loose rock and
tossed it into the trees. Mercer turned nothing. Another stone
landed behind him. Again, he found nothing. By the third noise,
the farmer's breathing had changed. He knew someone was there.
He simply couldn't see who. Jack smiled. Always began with uncertainty.
He circled the farmer, slowly, deliberately, snapping twigs beneath invisible feet.
Mercer spun in every direction. Who's there? Silence? Jack whispered,
from only inches away. I'm right beside you. Mercer stumbled backwards,
his face trained of color. So I show yourself, Jack laughed.
The sound came from nowhere, everywhere. The farmer bolted. Jack
wouldn't let him run. He reached out and shoved him.
Mercer pitched forward, striking a stone wall with a sicket,
and cracked before collapsing into the snow. He never stood again.
Jack stared down at the motionless body. He expected triumph.
Instead he felt curiosity. A fragile people were now astonishingly easy.
They broke. He wrote the observation on his notebook that
evening subject expired after prolonged psychological distress followed by physical trauma.
Fear weakens judgment useful. Within days, the countryside descended into panic.
Parents refused to let their children leave the house, church
attendants dwindled, business is closed before sunset. Every unexplained noise
became evidence that the invisible man had returned. People no
longer trusted empty rooms, quiet streets, or even their own homes.
One could lock every door, bar every window and still
have no way of knowing whether Jack Griffin was already inside, watching, waiting, listening.
Inspector Sampson arrived from London with twenty officers. He believed
in evidence reason invisible killers belonged in penny dreadfuls, not
police reports. His confidence lasted exactly one afternoon. The officers
surrounded an abandoned mill after receiving reports of movement inside.
Rifles ready, they searched every room. Nothing. One officer laughed, nervously,
looks like our ghosts taking the day off. The laughter
echoed through the mill, and then another laugh answered, not
from the officers, from somewhere above them. Every rifle swung upward,
empty rafters. Inspector Sampson frowned, Who's there? Jack answered by
removing the inspector's cap. It floated lazily through the air
before disappearing into complete emptiness. Every officer froze, one whispered
a prayer. Another fire, The bullets splintered an old support beam. Silence,
then footsteps running across the wooden catwalk overhead. The officers
fired wildly into the darkness. Boards exploded into clouds of dust.
Still they hit nothing. Jack moved among them with terrifying patience.
He wasn't trying to escape, He was studying them. One
officer suddenly screamed, and invisible hand had wrapped around his throat.
The others rushed forward. There was no one there, only
their friend, clawing desperately at empty air. As something unseen
squeezed tighter, his face darkened, his eyes bulged, and then
the pressure vanished. He collapsed to the floor, coughing violently.
Jack laughed, a deep, delighted laugh that echoed from every
corner of the mill. At once. The officers broke, Some
fled outside, others fired blindly in the shadows. One dropped
his rifle entirely. Inspector Sampson stood alone in the center
of the chaos. His hands trembled, not from fear, from understanding.
You can't arrest something you can't They can't shoot what
you can't find. You can't defend yourself against an enemy
standing close enough to whisper in your ear. The hunt
had become impossible. Arthur Kemp folded the newspaper for the
third time. He didn't need to read it again. He
already knew the murders, the impossible sightings, the invisible figure
described by terrified witnesses. Only one man alive possessed the
knowledge to do such a thing. Jack Kemp stared towards
the fire burning in his study. He remembered warning him you,
remembered pleading with him to destroy Mono Kane before it
destroyed him. Instead, it had perfected him, or perhaps it
had erased him. A knock echo through the house. Three slow, measured,
deliberate knocks. Kemp's blood turned to ice. He knew that rhythm.
He opened the front door. No one stood outside, only
the cold evening, with wind drifting across the empty street.
He took one cautious step forward. Jack silence. Then the
front door slam shut in front of him. The dead
bolt turned by itself. Something breathed beside his ear, so
Jack whispered, you finally believe me. Camp didn't move, couldn't
because somewhere inside his own home, his oldest friend was smiling,
and there was absolutely nothing to see. Arthur Kemp did
not sleep the first night after Jack Griffin appeared at
his doorstep. He sat in the drawing room, with every
lamp burning, a revolver resting heavily in his lap. He
listened to the settling of the house, ticking of the
grandfather clock, to the rain tapping softly against the windows.
Every sound became a question, every silence became an answer.
He did not want. Jack had been there, He knew it.
He hadn't imagine the voice whispering beside his ear. The
impossible had stepped across his threshold and simply walked away again.
Perhaps it never had. Morning off no comfort. The newspapers
lay scattered across Kemp's desk. Invisible killer strikes again, countryside
paralyzed by fear, police baffled. Each headline felt heavier than
the last. Every witness described the same thing. Nothing, no face,
no shadow, no escape, only a voice, a laugh and then.
Speaker 2: Death.
Speaker 1: Camp folded the paper with trembling hands. That Jack Griffin,
he had known, would have been horrified by these stories.
The man stalking England now was wearing Jack's memories like
borrowed clothing. He delayed going to the police until noon,
not because he douted himself, because he knew exactly what
they would say. You're telling us your invisible friend is
returned from the dead. It sounded absurd even inside his
own mind. Inspector Sampson, however, did not laugh. The inspector
simply listened. He let Kemp finish, and then quietly asked,
do you believe he's coming back. Kemp looked towards the
office window. Snow drifted lazily through the gray afternoon. But
he told me something. Now. What he said, Kemp swallowed.
The betrayal deserves an audience. The room fell silent. Samson
slowly removed his spectacles, and then we'll give him one.
By sunset, Kim's home had become a fortress. Officers surrounded
the property. Every entrance was guarded, every window watched. Lanterns
illuminated the gardens, even the rooftops were occupied by riflemen.
It should have felt safe. Instead, Kemp had never been
more frightened because Jack had once explained invisibility over dinner.
People only notice what they expect to see. He said,
with a smile. The greatest hiding place in the world
is an ordinary room. Kemp understood those words. Now, an
invisible man didn't need darkness, He needed assumptions. The first
officer disappeared just after eight. No scream, no gunshot. He
simply failed to answer. When his patrol checked in. Two
officers found him moments later, his lantern still burning, his
rifle still leaned against the garden wall. His boots remained
standing in the snow empty. The man himself lay several
yards away, unconscious, beneath the hedge. His face had turned
an alarming shade of blue. Finger shaped bruises darkened his throat.
No footprints surrounded him, only untouched snow. Inspector Sampson stared
at the scene. He's inside the perimeter. No one argued,
because everyone suddenly realized the invisible man hadn't broken through
their defenses. He had already been waiting for them. Their
search lasted hours. Every cupboard, every cellar, every attic, doors
were ripped from hinges, floorboards lifted, walls struck with hammers.
Nothing the house remained empty, and yet objects continued moving.
The teacups slid slowly across the dining table before crashing
to the floor. A bedroom window opened by itself. A
portrait tumbled from the wall, exploding against polished hardwood. Each
sound sent armed men running. Each time they found nothing.
The house itself seemed haunted. Kemp no longer trusted his
own eyes. Twice he turned, convinced someone stood behind him.
Twice he found only open air. The third time. The
third time, a warm breath touched the back of his neck.
He spun violently, no one, and then a voice, so predictable,
are there? The whisper floated through the room like smoke.
You always did look behind you camp fires. A bullet shattered,
A mirror glass rained across the carpet, his own terrified
reflection fractured into a hundred pieces. From somewhere upstairs, Jack laughed.
The laughter moved down one hallway, across another, sometimes above them,
sometimes below. The officers chased it through the house until
they no longer knew where they were running. Jack was
playing with them like a cat, amusing itself. Before the kill.
Samson finally shouted stop. The house fell silent. The men froze,
and then they heard it, tap tap tap, walking, not running,
walking across the ceiling. Every officer slowly looked upward. Impossible.
The footsteps continued, one after another, deliberate, measured, as though
Jack were strolling leisurely above them. The plaster groaned, Dust
drifted from the beams, and then crash. The ceiling exploded.
A chandelier tore free from its chain and plummeted into
the room. Glass erupted in every direction. Men screamed, lanterns overturned,
Darkness rushed in. Gunfire thundered blindly. Muzzle flashes illuminated only cannock.
Someone cried out, I've got him. Another voice answered no.
A shot rang out too late. An officer collapsed. His
own comrade had fired. Jack hadn't needed to pull the trigger.
Fear had done it for him. Kemp fled not from
courage lost, but because he finally understood Jack's plan. This
had never been about killing policemen. It had never been
about escaping. Jack wanted one thing, Arthur Kemp. Everything else
was theater. He burst from the front door into the
freezing night. Snow crunched beneath his boots. Behind him, officers
shouted somewhere in the darkness. Whistles pierced the air. Kemp
ran harder, his lungs burned, his vision blurred, and then footsteps,
not his own, behind him, keeping perfect pace, crunch, crunch, crunch.
He stopped. The footsteps stopped he ran again. They followed closer, now,
always the same distance behind, never gaining, never falling back.
A game. Jack wanted him to hear it, to imagine
the invisible figure reaching towards him. With every stride, Kemp
stumbled in the middle of the deserted road. The village
around him remained dark, every door locked, every curtain draw.
No one dared answer the cries echoing through the night anymore,
because everyone knew if Arthur Kemp was screaming, the invisible
man couldn't be far behind. Kemp's breath came in ragged gasps.
He turned slowly. Snow drifted lazily through the empty road.
Nothing stood there, nothing except a fresh set of footprints,
one after another, appearing in the snow, walking towards him.
The last print stopped less than three feet away. Silence.
Kemp's eyes followed with terror. He raised the revolver with
shaking hands. I know you're there. The only reply was
a soft chuckle, so do I. Then the revolver was
torn from his hands by something unseen. It landed somewhere
in the darkness with a metallic clatter. Kemp stood alone, defenseless,
his heart hammered against his ribs. He realized something. Then
Jack could have killed him at any moment. Instead, Instead,
he wanted Arthur to feel what every one of his
victims had felt. Helplessness, the certainty of death, the unbearable
horror of knowing your killer was standing right in front
of you and there was absolutely nothing to see. The
screen that echoed across the snow covered countryside that night
would be heard by dozens of villagers. By the time
anyone found the road, there was no sign of Arthur Kemp,
only two sets of footprints, one from feet visible and
one from feet invisible, both leading into the darkness. The
sun never truly rose. Gray clouds smothered the English countryside,
leaving the morning cloaked beneath a cold, lifeless light. Fresh
snow covered the roads leading into Eaping, softening the scars
of the previous nights of Irelands. Inspector Sampson stood at
the edge of the village with nearly fifty officers, farmers, gamekeepers, hunters.
Men who had never held a police badge in their
lives had arrived carrying shotguns and lanterns, answering the same
desperate call. No one was hunting a man any more.
They were hunting a nightmare. A long table had been
set inside the village church maps covered its surface. Red
pins marked every sighting, every murder, every place Jack Griffin
had ever been seen, or rather where he had made
himself known. Samson studied the growing pattern. He isn't wandering,
he said quietly. One of the constables looked up, Sir,
he's circling. They inspector traced a slow circle around the
village with one gloved finger. He's keeping us here, but why?
Before Samson could answer, the church doors burst open. A
stable boy stumbled inside, gasping for breath. We found him.
The room fell silent. Found who Doctor, Doctor Kemp. Arthur
Kemp still lived barely. He was discovered inside an abandoned
shepherd's cottage several miles outside the village, Tied to an
old wooden chair with strips of torn bedding. His hands
shook uncontrollably. His eyes darted towards every empty corner of
the room. Even after the ropes had been cut, he
refused to stand. He never left. Kemp whispered. Sampson knelt
behind him. Who Arthur looked directly in the Inspector's eyes.
Jack silence he kept talking. What did he say? Kemp
swallowed hard. He said the world spent centuries fearing ghosts
when he should have feared men. Another pause, he said,
invisibility was at the discovery. Samson frowned. What was Kemp
stared towards the open doorway. Discover was fear. Hours later,
the first scream echoed through the eastern fields. Then another,
not cries of pain, warnings the invisible man had been seen.
More accurately, the snow had begun moving across an untouched hillside.
Footprints appeared, one after another, without any visible owner. Calm unhurried,
almost inviting pursuit. Sampson raised his rifles. Stay together. Dozens
of men followed the impossible trail. The footprints crossed the
frozen streams, slipped between bare trees, wound deeper into the countryside,
and then they stopped. The snow ahead lay untouched, no prince,
leaving no sign of struggle. Nothing. One officer laughed nervously, reardy,
His silence ended in a violent gasp, and unseen fore
seized him by the coat and dragged him, screaming into
the woods. Branches snapped, leaves shook, the screams grew fainter,
and then nothing. Panic spread through the search party. Rifles
fired wildly into empty air. Dogs barked furiously, before suddenly
tucking their tails and retreating. The forest irrupted into confusion,
exactly as Jack intended. David. No. Jack caught himself. For
the briefest instant, another man had surfaced inside his thoughts,
someone else's story, someone else's life. He laughed, perhaps he cried.
He could no longer tell Mono Caine had taken so
much his face, his flesh, in his sleep and mouth,
even his memories no longer belonged entirely to him. He
wandered between the trees, invisible hands brushing against frozen bark.
Every heartbeat sounded impossibly loud. The voices had returned, not
with spers anymore, a chorus thousands. They hunted you, they
mocked you. Finish it. Jack stopped. No. The voices grew louder.
There is no Jack Griffin. He pressed invisible hands against
invisible ears. I'm still here, then, why can't anyone see you?
The words struck harder than any bullet. Jack sank to
his knees. For one impossible moment, he remembered Flora her
laughter in the university gardens, her hand resting gently on his,
the smell of fresh ink inside his laboratory hope. The
moment lasted only seconds. Then it dissolved beneath another wave
of unbearable pain. The voices laugh. The gunshot shattered the silence.
A bullet tore through Jack's shoulder. He cried out, gout
and rage. In surprise. Blood destruck the snow bright Crimson.
For the first time in months, the invisible man could
be followed. There, Sampson shouted. The hunters surged forward. Jack ran.
Every drop of blood betrayed him. The snow became a map,
His invisibility no longer mattered. Another shot, another wound, more blood.
The circle closed. Jack stumbled into the center of a
frozen meadow. The villagers surrounded him from every direction. Rifles trembled,
No one fired, No one wanted to shoot empty air
until Flora stepped forward. She ignored every warning, ignored every
shouted command. Slowly she walked towards the invisible trail of blood.
Jack his breathing stopped for the first time. The voices
were said. She knelt in the snow. I know you're there.
Nothing moved tears streamed down her face. You don't have
to do this anymore. A faint indention appeared beside her,
as though invisible knees had given beneath an unseen body.
I've lost you once already. I won't lose you again.
Jack reached toward her, invisible fingers, stopping inches from her face.
He wanted to touch her, to know, just one more time,
what it felt like to be human. He looked down
at the blood staining the snow, his blood visible proof
that some part of him still remained. A sad smile
crossed lips. No one could see. I'm I'm tired, Flora.
The words were barely audible, so very tired. The voices screamed,
get up, kill them, rule them. Jack closed his eyes. No,
the single word echoed across the meadow. He stood, turned
towards Inspector Simpson, then spread his invisible arms. I surrender.
The inspector lowered his rifle too late. One frightened deputy,
seeing movement where there should have been none, fired, then another.
Then another. Gunfire rolled across the frozen countryside. Jack staggered backwards.
Blood blossomed across the untouched snow, whose invisible body collapsed.
Silence followed. No one moved slowly, very slowly, the impossible
began to reverse. Drops of blood hanging in the air
became veins. Veins became flesh. Bones emerged beneath skin. A
face appeared where moments before there had been only empty space.
Jack Griffin lay motionless in the snow. He looked impossibly young,
far younger than the monster the newspapers had imagined. Flora
knelt beside him, gently lifting his head into her lap.
His eyes opened one final time. I almost he coughed weakly,
I almost finished. Flora shook her head. No. Jack managed
the faintest smile. I'm glad. His breathing slowed. I couldn't see.
His eyes drifted towards the gray sky. Howe be beautiful
of the world? Still was? His hands found hers, and
then nothing. The wind carried fresh snow across the meadow,
but in minutes hit it began, covering the crimson stains
surrounding his body, as though nature itself wished to bury
what monocane had created. Spring arrived quickly. Snow melted from
the hills surrounding Eaping, revealing green fields untouched by the
Horrors of Winter. Inspector Sampson officially closed the investigation. The
newspapers printed their final headlines, The Invisible Man Dead. Most
readers dismissed the story as sensational fiction. Others believed every word.
Neither group ever learned the truth. Arthur Kempt personally oversaw
the destruction of Jack Griffin's laboratory. Every bottle of monocine
was shattered, every page of research fed into the furnace,
Every equation turned to ash. Flora watched in silence. She
said nothing. Some knowledge, she realized, demanded too high a prize.
As the flames died, Kempt noticed something unusual. One leather
bound journal had somehow escaped the fire. Its cover was scorched,
the pages black, and around the edges. He opened it.
Every entry had been reduced to brittle charcoal except the
final page. One single sentence remained untouched, written in Jack
Griffin's careful handwriting. The danger was never invisibility. The danger
was believing that no one could see the monster I
was becoming. Hemp closed the journal without another word. He
carried it to the fire. This time he watched until
nothing remained but ash. Or so he believed years later,
tucked away in the forgotten archives of an abandoned university laboratory,
a young researcher would discover a loose sheet of paper
folded inside an unmarked envelope. There was no title signature,
only a chemical formula and one word written neatly beneath it, monocane.