A Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde Intervention

This was actually from last term's Textual Intervention. I didn't post it before as I did not like it very much, I prefer writing contemporary rather than period pieces, which is worrying as I chose to do history writing module next year. Anyway, this is rather obviously inspired by the Gothic novel The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde and is about what would happen to a woman if she were to take Dr Jekyll's concoction. It also has a little hint of a Succubus, a female demon who seduces men and does demony things.

The Strange Case of Lady Jacqueline and Mistress Heidi 


17 November 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

The wedding is now less than a month away and I am dreadfully excited. Roger has been sweet and kind, and his family have been so generous; they have allowed me to stay with them until the day of the wedding. I cannot wait to become part of their family as Mrs Dr Roger Stevenson. He has asked after you and I have assured him that you will be coming to the wedding; I know you would not want to miss it. You’ll also get to meet all of Roger’s eligible bachelor friends, they’re mostly doctors. I think you’ll particularly like Dr Jekyll; he would be the perfect match for you. He’s quiet but has a good heart.

Last week Dr Jekyll had an odd proposition for me, he asked me to take part in a scientific experiment, he apparently needed a well-bred female, which I thought was a peculiar variable for an experiment. Of course, I asked Roger about it first, he has such high respect for Dr Jekyll that he didn’t think anything of it and gladly accepted on my behalf. Roger says that I should feel honoured to be chosen for such an experiment and I Assured him I was.

Dr Jekyll gave me a vial of clear liquid and said to take a tablespoon of it every evening before bed. He says I must tell him if I have any adverse side effects. I have been taking this liquid for a week now and everything had been going fine. But Stephanie, something quite queer happened this morning; I awoke in my bed with absolutely no memory of the last evening, I do not even remember going to my bedchamber. The oddest thing was that I was still fully clothed, but the outfit I was wearing, oh Stephanie! it was shameful! The bodice was cut so low, my skirt was short enough to expose my calf and I wasn’t even wearing any undergarments. I am ashamed to think that someone may have seen me like this. And when I undressed myself this morning, for I dare not call in a maid, I found a man’s handkerchief tucked down the front of my bodice, it was monogrammed with the initials H.G. I was so shocked I threw it into the fire right away. I am dreadfully worried about what has happened to me. I shall have to contact Dr Jekyll immediately.

Much love Jacqueline.

20 November 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

It has been three days since my last letter and I am afraid that no one has seen or heard from Dr Jekyll for five days. Roger is terribly worried about him and as am I, though for different reasons. I have not told Roger anything about the other night; I dread what he may say.

Stephanie, something worse has happened. Roger has told me that one of his close friends was murdered three days ago and no one knows who could have done it. His name was Mr Henry Groome. The same initials that were on the handkerchief I had. I fear I have done something rotten. What should I do, Stephanie? I am so worried.

Much love Jacqueline.

23 November 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

It has happened again! I awoke this morning with no recollection of last night. I was dressed as wanton as before, in fact my lips were still heavily rouged. I have tried desperately to get in contact with Dr Jekyll but he is still missing; it’s been over a week now. Roger keeps asking me what is wrong but I simply cannot tell him. I am sure if he knew about what I think I have done he would call off the wedding immediately. Oh, Stephanie I desperately need your help.

Much love Jacqueline.

24 November 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

I have overheard from the maids that one of Roger’s friends, Dr Hastie Lanyon, has also been murdered. Apparently he was found in his bedchamber and no one even knows how he died; there were no marks but he was completely naked. The rumour is he was seen that evening with an immoral woman that seduced him and took his soul. Am I that woman? I wish Dr Jekyll was here for me to talk to. Is this what he meant by ‘adverse side effects’? I shall stop taking the liquid that he gave me, hopefully that will stop these strange and horrifying occurrences.

Much love Jacqueline.

30 November 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

I thought it could not get any worse. I do not remember the past three days at all. Roger says that I have been in bed sick, he says he’s been awfully worried about me, he does not want me to catch a fever so close to the wedding. He cautiously asked me if the liquid Dr Jekyll gave me had anything to do with this sickness. I said that I have stopped taking it and he seemed relieved. He has me bundled up in bed with many blankets and the maids bring me warm broth regularly. I am so grateful but I still cannot tell him the truth. I asked about Dr Jekyll again today but Roger says that he is still missing and that his friend Mr Utterson has been looking for him for days to no avail. The wedding is less than two weeks away and I hope that all this madness stops soon.

Much love Jacqueline.

1 December 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

Last night I remembered what happened over the past three days. I keep getting flashes of it when I close my eyes. I remember lying to the maids, saying that I was feeling ill but then changing into such shameless clothing and climbing out of the window. I remember this but I do not feel like myself, it is as if it is someone else using my body. I see myself in a bedchamber with a man that isn’t Roger; I do not know who he is. Oh, Stephanie, I did terrible things to him. Such terrible things that I cannot bring myself to repeat. I pray that God shall not punish me for such sinful acts. If Roger was to find out he would not dare to marry me, or even talk to me again. But Stephanie, I know now. It was me. I was the one that killed Henry Groome and Dr Hastie Lanyon. It was me but at the same time not me. It seems that this immoral woman and I are the same person, using the same vessel but for different purposes. I do not understand; I have tried to live a life of purity and now this other side of me has developed. If only Dr Jekyll were here. Did he know something like this might happen? If so, why did he give it to me? Why would he bestow these horrors upon me? He is truly a cruel man. But how I wish he could be found! I know I should tell Roger the truth now, but I simply cannot. Revealing this sordid truth would devastate him. If only you were here, you would know what to do.

Much love Jacqueline.

6 December 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

Since my last letter there have been two more deaths. These men were all honest, hard-working people, Stephanie, and I have killed them. I remember it all this time. I remember going to these men, seducing them, killing them. But it wasn’t fully me. It was this other woman using my body, my own consciousness forced back for this other woman to take over. She steals their souls, she devours them whole, and she gains pleasure from this. She sickens me. I sicken me. Roger asks me many times if I am okay, he worries about me greatly. I feel deep shame that I do not have the courage to tell him the truth. I do hope Dr Jekyll is found soon.

Much love Jacqueline.

11 December 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

Dr Jekyll has finally been found, dead. I have no fears that it was me for now I remember every moment that this wanton woman robs from me. Roger told me this morning that Mr Utterson found Dr Jekyll dead in his study; apparently he had been there the whole time. They suspect that a seedy fellow by the name of Mr Hyde had been harassing him and might have murdered him, too. I hope that my next victim is this Mr Hyde.

Oh no, Stephanie! That was not me thinking, that was her, the other woman. She is seeping into my normal life; the day is mine and the night is hers but not anymore. Despite the fact that I have not taken the liquid in weeks this madness is getting worse. More and more I am having unholy and wicked thoughts. Her thoughts. This murdering harlot is trying to steal my body for her own demonic ways, but I shall not let her. I fear the worst now that Dr Jekyll is dead. I fear the worst because my wedding day is tomorrow. But I have a plan. I shall lock myself in my room, I shall tell the maids to not let me out, I shall tell the gardener to keep a look out around my window. I will not let this demon out to kill another man. I will be the strongest being. I shall win back my body and mind.

Much love Jacqueline.

12 December 18—

Dearest Stephanie,

Oh I pray for much forgiveness as truly there is no more hope. I thought my plan would work, and in a way I suppose it did. I did not leave my room to kill. This time the man came to me. And oh Lord, it was Roger! Oh, Stephanie! I did it, I killed him! I killed the only man I have ever loved.

I felt her. I felt the shift from my mind to hers; my soul to hers. I felt her anger when she realised the door was locked from the outside, her fury when she saw the gardener patrolling beneath the window. Her rage was terrifying and yet I felt satisfaction in the power I had over her. But later in the darkness of night, there was a soft knock at the door and I felt her excitement. When the door opened and we saw Roger enter I wanted to scream at him, yell at him to go away. How had he gotten in, I thought, the door was locked and the maids were meant to keep watch.

Oh, but Stephanie, I was pushed further from my body; this other woman was in charge now. She greeted him as sweetly as I would have. And when he said that he could not wait another day to share a bed she blushed so prettily. But I knew what she was really thinking. She was thinking about all the ways to seduce him and to take his soul. I felt her take over fully then. My mind and body was lost to her completely. I don’t remember what I did to him, Stephanie. I woke up this morning and his body was lying in bed next to me, stone cold. His face was already as waxy as a corpse’s and frozen in an expression of pure fear.

I shall have to confess, there is no way of escaping this. I shall do it now. I will tell Mr and Mrs Stevenson that I killed their son and all those other men. I will accept the punishment gladly, for I know that the real murderer will also be suffering. Stephanie, this is the last you will ever hear of me.

Farewell.

Much love Jacqueline.

13 December 18—

Dear Stephanie Campbell,

As you are no doubt aware, your sister Jacqueline Campbell was supposed to marry our son Roger Stevenson yesterday. Only that morning we found our dear son dead in your sister’s bedchamber and Jacqueline missing, as well as most of our silverware and jewellery. If you are in contact with your deceitful, murdering sister please inform us as the police are very interested in finding her. These letters were the only thing left in her bedchamber, and as we are decent well-meaning people, not only did we not read them, even though there may be clues to her whereabouts, we have also sent them to you.

Again, if you hear from Jacqueline, contact us immediately.

Mr and Mrs Stevenson.

Sketch - Your Housemate Hitler

This is the final sketch out of the four and is based on voice. We were given the task of writing from different perspectives. First, we had to think of a situation we had been in involving lots of people. I chose a time that was very stressful and upsetting for me and it involved all my housemates. We then had to write about that situation from another person's point of view and in the first person...if that made any sense! After that we had to write the same situation but in the second person (you). Lastly, we had to write it again from our perspective but in the third person, and I'll tell you now, it's weird writing your own name in a creative piece!

So this piece is expanded from the second person one. It is very off-putting writing in the second person for the first time, but also a little bit enjoyable. It's new and different. Tell me if you think it works/you like it. It's also a little bit bitchy (apologies) but it is how I really felt about this situation.

Your Housemate Hitler

You and your housemates have been called into a house meeting. You know you shouldn’t be there but one of your housemates has caused a fuss. She doesn’t like her room and you’re the one to blame. Yes, it doesn’t make sense but that’s life for you. She says that you and your boyfriend have the two biggest rooms and it’s not fair. You tell her you’ve measured the rooms and that yours isn’t the biggest, in fact, it’s only one foot bigger than hers. She doesn’t even have the smallest room. She sits in silence before saying it’s not about the room size. It’s about her condition. She says it’s too dark, she gets SAD, you know, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and she needs a big window, like your one, to get more sun.

Bullshit.

You stare at her across the table, finding it hard to believe what you’re hearing. Last week she was an insomniac, then she was depressed, and now she has SAD too? You say if she wants sunlight that badly she can go sit outside. She doesn’t take that well. She changes tact. She says she doesn’t mind her room at all, what she really hates is your unaccommodating attitude. She thinks you’ve been horrible to her all term; you haven’t met her emotional needs. You tell her it’s only one week into term; you’ve barely even seen her, so how could you have time to be horrible to her as well? Your hands shake from the injustice. You’ve never wanted to hit someone this badly before and you’re not even the aggressive type. There is an awkward silence when no one says anything. Then she comes out with the killer strike.

You are a dictator.

She says everyone thinks it too; they’re just too cowardly to say anything. You look at the rest of your housemates, the ones you thought were your friends; they look down at the floor. Your blood boils and the temptation to leap across the table and throttle your bitch of a housemate is just too strong. You didn’t realise that telling people to do their washing up was on par with Hitler committing mass genocide.

Goffered by Ann Foulds

My Auntie Ann has recently published her very first book through eBooks on Kindle and I advise you to go out and buy it. It only cost 77p so it won't break the bank and it will also be a very enjoyable read.

Buy Goffered by Ann Foulds from Amazon.

I hope to get something published soon and my Auntie Ann gives me hope. She had worked at BT since she left school at around 16 and then one day many years later she just quit and decided to write a book. It just shows if you have a story to write and the determination, you can definitely get published. Look out for me on Kindle soon!

(Also, if you don't have a Kindle yet, get one! They are awesome!)

Here is a little more about self-publishing via @AdviceToWriters How Amazon Made Self-Publishing Cool.

Sketch - Agricolaphobia

Here is my third sketch, it is also the longest one at 828 words. It was originally called Farmerphobia but I realised after I have handed it in that it would have been more clever to do it Latin, hence Agricolaphobia.

This is actually a relatively true story as my friends and I did have dens up by Jo's house. We loved playing in them and many things happened to us while we were up there. One time, we buried a dead mouse and then a few weeks later wanted to look at its skeleton. So, we dug it up only to find piles of maggots. That was not fun. Another time we were climbing in the trees. Well, I wasn't. I hated climbing trees as I thought I would break all the branches. However, Jo and Izzy loved it. Jo was practically at the top of the tallest tree when she fell. It must have been about 30 feet but she only got a scratch on her forehead. It was an impressive feat.

Here's a photo of me and Izzy sitting on the hay bales in the field. We are older in this picture, this was taken when we were about 13. In the sketch we were around 9 years old. 

Agricolaphobia

As a child, Izzy, Jo, and I had a den in the hedges surrounding a field next to Jo’s house. We played in it every day after school, and soon we had made more dens further up the hedges. However, there was one very important rule about these dens. Don’t get caught by the farmer.

Older kids had told us that the farmer had a huge gun and was deadly accurate, and wasn’t afraid to shoot trespassing children on sight. These kids told us that there was a boy that had gone into the farmer’s fields. He’d done it as a dare. Many people had heard the gun shots that day and the boy’s body was never found. We were terrified of these stories but that never stopped us, we thought we were smarter than the farmer.

One day we were messing around right at the top the field. From there you could see the whole of Ivybridge and I loved pointing out my house. This day was particularly pleasant as it was the height of summer; the sky was a cloudless expanse of blue, the recently cut grass was dry and springy, and the sun was comforting on our bare arms and legs. This glorious heat also warmed the drying cowpats; their stench gathered in your nose and settled in the back of your throat. Oversized flies buzzed happily around the dung, their shiny blue bodies flashing in the afternoon sun.

The heat had made us all lazy and we flopped onto the ground, careful to avoid the dollops of cowpat. We shaded our faces with our arms and chatted absently; the sounds of the field lulling us into a doze. The hum of passing bugs, the chirruping of birds from the bushes, and the occasional rustle of wind through the blooming trees. Then, a low grind rumbled in the ground, disturbing us from our day dreaming. My friends and I stared at each other.

‘Farmer!’ we shrieked.

The clanking of metal and the engine’s whine was only a hedgerow away. We leapt to our feet and legged it down the field. I was always the slowest of my friends and was never usually able to keep up; but that day I sped in front of them, terror leaping up my throat. The grind of the tractor was growing louder. With each beat of my racing heart my panic grew. I wished I hadn’t worn such brightly coloured clothing that day; the farmer would be able to see me from miles away.

I made it to the den first, just as the tractor roared into the field. I collapsed onto my hands and knees, and struggled through the gap in the hedgerow. Nettles attacked my arms, twigs scratched at my hair, and thorns bit my legs. I crawled as quickly as I could, but this still wasn’t fast enough for my friends. I could feel their frantic hands pushing me from behind. In my panic I accidentally scraped against the barbed wire that ran through the surrounding hedgerows. It cut into my back, tearing through fabric and skin. I chocked back a scream and fell into the depths of the den, with Izzy and Jo barrelling in after me.

We lay in a bundle, barely breathing, as the monstrous tractor trundled by. Through the branches I could see the farmer; his dark eyes scoured the area intently. I shrunk down into the leafy undergrowth, trying to hide my bright pink t-shirt from his piercing eyes. Silence fell as the tractor left the field. We all let out sighs of relief.

We had survived one more day. 

*

Two weeks after this terrifying adventure, the farmer came back. We hid deep in our den once more, hardly daring to breathe. I peered through the branches and was shocked to see Jo’s mum walking out to the farmer. I pinched my friends and motioned towards the adults. We all gasped as Jo’s mum turned and pointed directly at us. Busted. The farmer stepped out of his tractor and we shuddered. My heart faltered as he stomped towards us. His hands plunged into the hedgerow, pulling branches apart. Izzy grabbed hold of my arm, squeezing the feeling from it. I wanted to escape, but there was nowhere for me to run to. I stared in horror as the farmer’s head, shoulders, and torso invaded our den.

He didn’t have soulless eyes, pointed teeth, or blood soaked overalls. In fact, he looked like an ordinary man. He smiled at our terrified faces.

‘I hear you like playing in the field, that’s fine as long as you don’t spook the cows,’ he said in a thick Devonshire accent.

My friends and I nodded, too scared to speak. The farmer smiled and gave us a cheerful wink before leaving the den. Once he had driven off and Jo’s mum had gone back inside I finally spoke.

‘Well, what do we do now?’