Guild of unpublished horror writers

Jack is old, no, he is ancient. He rests back in the bed with its crisp clean sheets. He is propped up by plump well-worn cushions. Around him sit his extended family, three children now in their 70’s, his eldest boy George had passed away two years ago from old age at 80. Five of his grandchildren were also there and 2 great grandchildren. There were many others, both in England and all over the world. His family had grown and spread over the decades and he himself had prospered and grown comfortable and calm.

A television had been brought in the room and a dresser had been dragged to the end of the bed to rest it on. One of the grandchildren had then spent considerable time wrangling cables and wire antennae to get the clearest picture possible. As evening closed in, excitement was mounting and anticipation was high. They were about to witness a momentous achievement in human history. 

The family fussed around Jack, offering him tea, plumping his cushions, wiping his chin. He was content, he felt connected to the world and reflected with a smile on the life he had led. Unknown to all around him Jack was one of the most famous people ever to have lived. He was destined to be famous for many decades, even centuries after her died. He may even be more remembered than the brave man they were about to watch take humanities first ever step onto the moon. Jack wasn’t the name he had been born with, it was one he had been given later in life. 

There were times these days when Whitechapel felt as far away from him now as the moon was. As remote and cold and distant and yet, just as the moon shines brightly some nights, Whitechapel could still burn brightly in his mind. At these times he would look down at his hands and they would no longer be withered, old and blotched, but would be strong, and powerful, and red.

Jack looked down at his hands, he looked at the moon, he smiled.