Jack · Chat

It was a rare rainy day in London. In front of the manor's main entrance, rain dripped from the eaves, tapping out a delicate rhythm on the stone steps. I had arrived earlier that day and was told to wait in the drawing room on the west wing of the main house. A few others had already arrived at the manor, keeping a polite yet wary distance from one another. No one truly knew what this "game" meant, but everyone could vaguely sense that something here was terribly amiss. At seven in the evening, he arrived. I saw him through the window. A carriage came to a stop at the manor entrance, and a tall, slender figure stepped down. Strangely, his trouser cuffs and shoes were spotless, as though the rain had never touched him. Yet his shoulders were wet, the dark fabric of his cloak heavy with absorbed water. He opened a black umbrella and walked unhurriedly toward the main house. Someone—a smartly dressed gentleman, as I recall—hurried out ahead to greet him, likely eager to display good will. I watched the scene unfold through the windowpane. Jack did not respond to his greeting. He paused, and then did something unexpected: he turned his back. Standing with his back to the man who had come to welcome him, he drew the umbrella closed and began wiping it down. His movements were slow, meticulous. He wiped the canopy first, then the handle, before retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands. His hands were gloved, so he was wiping the surface of the gloves. Yet the intensity of his focus far exceeded any need to wipe off rainwater. He was wiping the finger pads. One by one, repeatedly, rubbing the pad of every single finger. The man who had gone out to greet him stood frozen in place, the smile stiffening on his face. Those few seconds stretched agonizingly long. Then Jack turned around. Tucking his handkerchief away, he bowed slightly and spoke in an unhurried cadence: "My sincere apologies. In such dreadful weather, it is rather difficult to maintain proper etiquette." His voice was low, with a husky quality, as though echoing from far away. Yet his face—that featureless face—bore no trace of apology. The records would note, "Facial expression: devoid of remorse," but at that moment, I wasn't even sure if it counted as an expression at all. His mask was a blank contour; when you looked at it, it seemed to gaze back, yet you could discern nothing. You could only see what you wanted to see—and what you wanted to see was precisely what frightened you most. As he stepped into the main house, from my vantage point, his figure was practically a silhouette against the backlit doorframe. He was tall. Taller than anyone else. His shoulders were broad, yet his arms were unnaturally long, hanging well beyond normal proportions. His hands—clad in white gloves—rested quietly at his sides, his fingertips nearly brushing his knees. As he passed the drawing room doorway, he paused. I hadn't heard any footsteps, yet he simply halted. He tilted his head slightly, that featureless face seeming to "look" toward the people inside the room. In that instant, my heart leapt into my throat, as though something in my chest had been seized in a vice grip. Then he walked away. Without uttering a single word. Later, I heard from others that he referred to himself as an "art student." No one inquired who his master was, nor did anyone ask what he painted. But one detail was noted down: the man who had tried to greet him mentioned that when he brought up his profession as a clerk, Jack's smile was "quite charming." Afterwards, I kept wondering what that "charm" could have looked like. How could a featureless face "smile"? But on second thought, perhaps it was precisely because no concrete expression could be seen that the smile seemed omnipresent. You could only feel its presence without ever pinpointing it. Much like the fog. You know it is there, you know it envelops you, yet when you reach out your hand, you grasp nothing. That night, I slept fitfully. Though a fire burned in the drawing room hearth, a cold draft seemed to seep through some unseen crack. Sometime before dawn, I woke once, dimly aware of a faint sound in the haze of sleep. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Drip-drop, drip-drop. It sounded like footsteps. Or perhaps the rain. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself and did not get up to check the window. For I had an inexplicable certainty: if I did look, I would see something—or more accurately, I would see "nothing." A blank void. A faceless man standing in the rain, wiping his hands. One by one. Slowly. Meticulously. Rubbing the pad of every single finger.