November 14th, 1888
I was running late. My child would be waiting at home, probably already asleep, maybe dreaming of me coming back with supper. I could feel my chest tighten with every step as the cold fog hugged the streets. The cobblestones were slick, reflecting the dim gaslights like black pools. I kept telling myself it was just a shortcut. Hanbury Street would get me there faster.
But I remembered the rumors. Whispers from a month ago. A woman found dead, vanished without explanation, a shadow that lingered in the alleyways. I shook my head. 'It's been a month. Nothing happens now.' Still, a shiver ran down my spine as I moved forward.
The street was unusually quiet. No carts rattling by. No horses' hooves clattering. Only my own steps, echoing unevenly, making the fog seem thicker, more alive.
Then I heard it. Faint, almost inaudible at first. Humming.
I stopped. My breath caught in my throat. The sound didn't belong to the wind. It was deliberate. Musical. Slowly, it formed words, but softly, almost mocking:
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top...
I froze. My heart slammed in my chest. I tried to convince myself it was someone else—another late-night traveller—but the tone… there was a weight to it, deliberate and chilling.
I hurried my steps. Faster, please, just get home. But the humming didn't fade. It followed me, bouncing off the fog, growing clearer, weaving through the alleys.
When the wind blows the cradle will rock~
I glanced over my shoulder. Empty streets. Shadows stretched longer than they should. Every flicker of the gaslights seemed to bend toward me.
I broke into a run. My boots clattered on the stones. I tried to tell myself it was imagination, that the killings were old history. But even as I told myself that, a small, sick part of me knew it wasn't.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will… fall.
I spun around. Nothing. My throat tightened, a sharp, twisting panic that made my stomach lurch. My hands trembled.
I decided to take a side alley, hoping the main square would feel safer—open space, other people. My chest burned as I pushed my legs harder. My shawl flapped around me, fog curling at my heels.
Down will come baby, cradle and all~!
I froze. There, under a flickering lamp at the alley's end, he stood. A tall figure, his hat low, obscuring his face. He swayed slightly, keeping time with the lullaby.
My stomach roiled. I tried to look away, but my legs refused to move. I couldn't see the wires strung across the alley until the last moment. An obstacle too late to avoid. My foot caught, and I stumbled forward, scraping my palms, my knees slamming against the wet cobbles.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top...
The man didn't step toward me. Not yet. He just watched, singing.
When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
The sound was soft, melodic, terrifying in its calmness. Each note twisted in the fog like smoke, carrying with it a premonition of inevitable horror. My hands trembled on the ground. My breath came in ragged gasps.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will… fall.
I dared to glance up, and the sight froze my blood. He was there, towering, calm, methodical. His hands moved almost casually, yet I could see the steel glint—a knife catching the pale light. My stomach flipped, bile rising as the inevitability pressed down on me.
I scrambled backward, hands scrabbling against the stones, but the knife came toward me with horrifying precision. Pain erupted. My throat burned, a hot, sharp sting. Blood pooled warm beneath me, sticky and suffocating. My hands flew up, trying to stop it, but it was no use.
Down will come baby, cradle and all~!
I could hear the wet, sickening sounds, the tearing, and my mind wanted to block it out—but my eyes forced themselves open. Red blossomed across the cobblestones, a stark, unreal contrast against the pale fog. The smell was iron, thick, choking.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top~
I gagged, retching. The taste of blood filled my mouth. My stomach revolted, but there was no escape. Every attempt to crawl away was met with the edge of cold steel, guiding me back, pushing me toward him.
When the wind blows the cradle will rock~
He leaned over me now, the lullaby quiet but still resonant, his voice low and calm. Every syllable was deliberate. The knife moved again, precise, surgical, cutting through what my mind refused to fully comprehend. Pain shot through me in waves. My vision blurred, edges darkening.
I tried to scream. My voice cracked and gurgled, swallowed by blood and terror. My hands clawed at him, at the fog, at nothing at all. The world narrowed to the metallic taste of iron, the cold press of the cobblestones, the inevitability of his movements.
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall~
My vision tunnelled. Panic clawed at my chest. My heart thudded in my ears. I couldn't think. Couldn't plan. Only survive. Only… try to survive.
I felt something rip free—movement behind me—and a part of me realized, through sheer horror, what had been taken. My body betrayed me. My strength was gone. My mind screamed.
Down will come baby, cradle and all~
I tried to roll, to crawl, to escape the edge of inevitability, but he was everywhere at once. Calm. Patient. Methodical. Each motion measured, surgical, precise.
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top~!
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry. Couldn't scream. Only the song, the fog, the cold wet stones, the inevitability pressing down as the world narrowed into pain, terror, and the song.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, silence.
The figure stepped back. The lullaby ended. My body lay trembling, limp, and my mind rattling with the weight of what had occurred. I tasted iron, felt wetness on my skin, heard nothing but my own ragged breathing. The fog hung thick and still around me.
The shadows stretched long and indifferent. And I knew—I knew—that the street, the fog, the figure, and the song were still there, waiting. Patient. Methodical.
I didn't move. I couldn't. Not yet.
And the last thought that crossed my mind, before darkness curled around the edges of my vision, was the lullaby.
Hush a Bye baby~!