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Yeoryios Pantazis
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Sunday, February 15, 2004 - 10:08 pm: | 
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Dear Boss
Yeoryios Pantazis
To the mystery of Jack the Ripper.
I have been inside the mind of a killer. I have spent my last few months with the most infamous killer known today. I know how he acts, how he thinks. He lives for the thrill of the kill. He is insane but not stupid—he does what he does as if he were a doctor. He is the embodiment of every man’s desires—women, fame, money—only he manifests them with murder and mutilation. His Id—coining my friend, Freud—has taken control over his weaker ego and superego, and he knows it has, and the Id becomes his conscious and unconscious. He is not a monster, nor a vampire, ghoul, or devil. He does not drink the blood of his victims—in fact, he hates when it stains his clothes. He is not an incantation of the devil—in fact, he’s quite religious. He is not a liar, nor a cheat. He is every bit a man as you or I. What separates us from him is his job and his hobby—murder.
My friend, let me start by saying where I grew up, and how I got to where I am. I was born in France in 1850—but my parents were both Englishmen who had moved to France because business was good for my father. I had a sister, Sofia, who was the most beautiful girl in all of France with my mother’s golden hair and my father’s emerald eyes. My father was working as a lawyer in France while my mother had stayed home taking care of my sister. She was overprotective of her, and she didn’t want anyone taking advantage of her beauty. But in 1875—the year misery unexpectedly knocked at my door—my parents had passed away.
My father had been murdered walking through the streets of Paris, France, alone. I had heard that they beat him over the head and then dragged him to the alley were they tortured him before delivering the final blow. I was more sickened to why man would kill his own kind then by my father’s passing. My mother committed suicide hanging herself soon after my father’s funeral—she couldn’t bare the pain of losing her one true love. She had left me to take care of Sofia on my own—at the time I was twenty-five and had a job working at a bakery with a salary that could hardly feed a mouth let alone two.
The deaths of my parents were painful for Sofia. She collapsed—mentally and physically. She was no longer the beautiful girl I remembered. She had black patches beneath her eyes and had got the habit of picking out strands of her hair—she was almost bald. Mentally, she had lost sight of all things—she hardly ate, slept, or did anything really. She would pretend like she was talking to my mother in the kitchen—or she’d talk to me like I was father whenever I came back home from the bakery. I was worried to leave her alone—but what else could I have done? I couldn’t possibly afford a maid or nurse. Neighbours told me she would stand on the roof of our house and scream as loud as she could, dancing around, threatening to jump. God’s honest truth, I wished she did.
But she didn’t jump—no matter how many times she threatened to do so—she would never do it. Instead, she had been the victim of a rape. I found out that every night she’d sneak out of her room and been spending time with a street gang—possibly the same one that had murdered my father. She accepted them as her friends even though they would beat her senselessly and throw her around like a piece of meat. When the police showed me her body her face was bruised and clothes had been torn off and there had been cuts all over her body—particularly around her abdominal. The worst of it all was that every time I looked at her I pictured her when she was only seven—a child with golden hair and emerald eyes. Now those eyes would never open again—and the hair—not a single strand on her head.
It was in 1888 when I had heard that my uncle had passed away and left all his estate in London to me. Having nothing left in France except nightmarish memories—I took my things and left.
His house was in the district of Whitechapel. This district is known for its daily thievery, killings, and rapes—a common place for street gangs and their whores. Police thought that everyone was a suspect for a murder or theft. They questioned—demanding answers to where we were going, our names, where we lived, our jobs, what we had done the night before, and on and on. At first I felt threatened—but there were no criminals here—only drunks.
I found a job working as a butcher—that’s where I had learned to cut meat so keenly. It was good pay—more than my last one at the bakery—and I could afford enough money to get by the months. Even though things had seemed to brighten up, I was still living in my own misery. My memories did not leave me—they terrified me more than any cutthroat, and I found myself spending the balance of my earnings on booze—thinking I could drink my problems away. Sometimes I’d find myself waking up just outside the tavern doors reeking like whiskey—or whatever it was I drank.
“Get up, Boss.” Those were the first words he had ever said to me. The first time I had ever heard his voice. It didn’t hiss like a snake, or sound devilish—it was soothing and sophisticated. “C’mon now, I haven’t all day.”
I opened my eyes and found that—once again—I’d been sleeping outside the tavern—drunk as a skunk, the expression goes. My back had been leaning against the wall and the first thing I saw was his boots—made with the finest leather, as he put it. I slowly looked up towards his face. He was wearing all black—shirt, trousers, vest, coat, and a black cane with a silver top.
His face—one that I will never forget—was quite stunning. His smile was accompanied by not one, but several golden teeth that were as clear as crystal—very mirror-like. His eyes and curly hair was as white as snow as if he’d been born with that kind of hue. His nose was pointed and looked as sharp as a dagger’s blade—but perhaps that was only the booze talking. He was old, around his mid-fifties—but he was as lively as an adolescent. His skin was pink with wrinkles that were a sign of knowledge rather than of age. On top of everything, he wore a black top hat with black silk tied around the bottom of it.
“It’s rude to reject a helping hand, Boss.” He said, I grabbed his hand and got up dusting off my trousers.
“Why are you calling me ‘Boss’? And who are you?” Were my first words to him. He was a peculiar character—especially in the Whitechapel district were help is no where to be found. He was charming, and always had a smile on his face as though every day was a celebration.
“Would you rather I call you ‘mate’? Or ‘nuttaah’—as the roguish teens would say. Or would you prefer I call you a ‘jerk off’?” He said, still with that smile on his face. “I got a job offer for you—if you interested.”
“I’ve already got a job.” I replied. He had ignored my asking who he was.
“Come. Let’s have a stroll to your place.” He said with his arm around my shoulder.
We started walking to my uncle’s house. At first I felt a little bit threatened thinking he might lead me to an alley and stab me to death—but it was quite the opposite—he was very friendly. As we walked he asked me:
“You enjoy the big of the fluff, right Boss?”
“Yes.”
“How bout money? Fame? All that sh*t.”
I nodded.
“You see Boss, you work for me and I guarantee you’ll never have to worry about the five knuckle shuffle again. I’ll get you the finest c*nt—guaranteed. And the daily bread and well-knowing—all guaranteed.” He told me. I must admit, he was very charismatic.
“I already have a job.” I said, and his smile changed too suspicion. “I work as a butcher.” Immediately, the ounce of doubt he had in his face deteriorated, and his smile grew even bigger—brighter.
“No worries, Boss. If anything that’ll help in productivity.”
“So what’s the job?” I inquired gradually gaining interest in this new and better job.
“For the first few weeks you’ll just be working as an observer. You know—training. I’ll teach you what you need to know and whatever else.” His explanation was vague but the ambiguousness of the description was intriguing. “Then, you’ll work as my assistant.”
“Assistant to what?” I inquired further.
“You’ll see, Boss. Can’t give you the full monty on it—it’s a bugger to explain. You’ll see though, you’ll see.”
We had stopped by my house. He told me that he would come by again tomorrow night, but it wasn’t for the job—he just wanted to go out for some drinks. He wished me a good day and gave me a warm handshake. I still hadn’t known his name—and God’s honest truth—I still don’t know what his real name is.
The next day was August 31—a day I’m cursed never to forget—I had quit my old job and was preparing for the night’s event. I was cheerful, thinking that things had finally picked up. I wore my finest suit—which wasn’t all that great but it was all I could afford—and did all that I could to make myself look professional. My guess was that the job had something to do with business—God, was I ever off—and that I would have to prove myself a trustworthy businessman.
I heard a knocking at the door. It was him—and someone else behind him.
“Eh, Boss. You don’t mind if old Charley comes with us do you?”
“No not at all, how do you do Charley.” I said sticking my hand out for a handshake.
“I-I’ma g-good.” Charley had said, I noticed he was carrying a small black briefcase with him. He seemed out of place but there was a father son relationship between old Charley and him. I later learned that he protected Charley and gave him food and a place to stay—anyone else would have thrown old Charley in the Institution for the Clinically Insane.
We went to a tavern, and we sat down. Charley was shaking and was a constant fidget. I felt sorry for him—the way he acted was the same way Sofia did when our parents had passed.
“Want anything to drink, Boss?” He said to me pulling out a clip full of money.
“Yes, I’ll have some whiskey. But you don’t need to pay for it, sir.” I said. I called him sir—I didn’t know what else to say.
“Don’t be calling me ‘sir’ now, and don’t you worry about the drinks it’s on me, Boss.”
“So then what should I call you?” I inquired.
“Why don’t you ask Charley over here? I’m going to get us some drinks.”
I asked Charley.
“H-his n-name is-s J-J-Jack-the-L-lad.” He stuttered.
“Jack?”
“Y-yes, mate.”
Jack was a peculiar name. When I looked at him I couldn’t picture him as a Jack. He just didn’t look it. And when Charley used the slang, Jack the Lad, meaning a young fellow who was rebellious, that was quarrelsome. But he didn’t mean rebellious as in going against the Monarchy—he meant it as in careless.
Jack came back.
“So your name is Jack.”
He smiled, displaying his golden teeth, “You got that right, Boss.” He put down several whiskey glasses on the table. “Go on, get yourselves a face.”
Old Charley was definitely a heavy drinker. He had drank much that night but he was never drunk—unless he was always drunk. Jack was different, he was neat—and like I said earlier, sophisticated—he took little sips here and their and spent most of his time scoping the tavern.
He hit me on the shoulder and said:
“Look at the buns on that one, Boss!” He yelled pointing at a very promiscuous girl—a prostitute, and one of many. “She looks pretty fit. You want her, Boss?”
“No, I think I’ll pass, Jack.” I replied.
“You refuse a lot of things, Boss. First my hand, than almost the job, and now a fine piece of arse.” Jack elegantly said. “I told you that this job was going to get you women, didn’t I? And I said that you’re an observer, didn’t I? Well then, here’s your first lesson.”
“So now we’re working.”
“Always Boss, right Charley?”
“Yes J-J-Jack-the-L-Lad. A-always.”
Jack called the girl over. Her name was Mary Ann Nichols—but she told us to call her Polly. She was very much a whore, and very filthy. She wore rags that looked like her only pair of clothing and she had a very dark complexion. Her brown hair was turning grey and her teeth were black. She was a very drinker and smelled like it too.
“How do you do miss.” Jack addressed her.
“Very fine gentlemen.” She gave us a loose smile. “Who do we have here tonight?”
“My name’s Jack and these are my comrades.” He said. His voice was deeper than usual.
“C-comrades.” Charley repeated.
She sat down between me and Jack. She moved her chair closer to Jack stroking his arm—she could tell he was the one with the money. I remained quiet—observing.
“I’ve got a proposition for you missy.” Jack said taking out his money clip again. He then whispered in her ear and she giggled. It was obvious what the proposition was.
Then we left. Jack taking Mary with his hand around her bottom and whispering dirty words in her ear. Charley followed close behind and then I tagged along last. It was dark out around midnight. There was hardly anyone out—only passed-out drunks. We went to an alleyway. I became uneasy—wondering just what on earth were we doing in an alleyway this late at night with a whore. And to think that this was the job. I was in no mood to observe intercourse between Jack and Mary—believe me, my friend.
“You fancy you can take on all three of us?” Jack said referring to me and Charley. He then put on a pair of white gloves made out of silk—which was odd.
“All t-three of us-s-s.” Charley repeated.
“It’ll cost you more.” Mary replied only thinking about money.
“At the same time?” Jack joked—but now that I think about it, I don’t think he was joking.
Mary just laughed it off and Jack went up close to her and stroked her hair. I was feeling sickened, expected to see what I had not wanted to see. But when Mary lifted her skirt Jack grabbed at her neck viciously and began to strangle her. I gasped.
“What in the hell are you doing, Jack?” He didn’t respond he just held on tighter and tighter on to the neck. He had incredible strength, and her struggle to break free was effortless. Gradually the struggle softened and Mary Ann Nichols took in her last breath—she was dead.
Jack laid her down to the ground softly and shifted her head to the left.
“The case, Charley.” He said and old Charley—who was oblivious of the situation—opened the black briefcase to reveal a long-bladed knife. This was Jack’s ‘tool’.
“What the hell are you doing, Jack?” I exclaimed again.
“It’s all apart of the job, Boss. Now just watch.” He said and taking the knife into his left hand violently cut the throat of Mary Ann Nichols. The incision was deep and the blood poured down. “Don’t want to get any blood stains on the clothes now, eh?” Charley laughed and jumped around in excitement.
“What kind of job is this? This is murder!” I said and that being said I knew that I had signed an unwritten contract to a murderer. He knew where I lived. What’s worse is that I couldn’t go to the police. I didn’t know Jack’s real name or where he lived. I thought of calling out for the police then but I was scared—the knife was sharp and its one eye was pointed and red with blood.
Jack looked up at me. His eyes turned pitch black “Are you watching?” I couldn’t believe it. I was scared out of my mind but Jack took it like it was nothing. He was enjoying it.
Then he took the knife and dug it deep within the abdomen. He took it out and did it again—three times—jaggedly digging into the woman’s abdomen. And then again and again. Deeper and deeper. Incision after incision. It was madness—but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of it. What was going on through Jack’s head? What drives a man to such insane killing? Was it ritual? Was it for the thrill? Did he just not like whores?
And then he was done.
“Not bad, eh Boss?” He said to me. I was horrified. Mary’s eye’s were still open and now so was her throat and abdomen. “What a work of art.” If this was art than it should be put behind bars—or beheaded.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Charley was still jumping around and laughed at the dead body. Jack took off his white gloves—that were slightly stained with blood—and then patted me on the shoulder. He and Charley left without any farewell, and I was alone.
The next morning the corpse was found. I went by—a little worried that maybe someone might recognize me. There was a large crowd around the murder. The body looked different in the day and was accompanied by a swarm of feasting fleas. It looked pale—almost purple, and the eyes were grey. Many were horror-stricken. The newspaper exclaimed that the murder was done by a butcher—this worried me the most since I quit my job as a butcher following the day of the murder. Could I have been a suspect?
I remained quiet for the next few days spending most of my time looking out the window trying to see Jack or Charley. I was certain that they would come back and that these murders would persist.
A week past and on September 8—around midnight—I heard a knocking at my door. I knew it was him. I was drawn to the door. At first I pretended like I wasn’t home but he knew I was here and wouldn’t stop the knocking. So I opened the door.
“You ready to go, Boss?” Jack said. “You look like sh*t.” And I did, but could you really blame me? I was still wearing the same suit I wore the day of the first murder. I didn’t change—the thought didn’t even enter my mind.
“R-r-ready?” Charley was there too—holding the black briefcase. I could not get my eyes off of that case. I knew what was inside it. I thought that maybe the blood was still on it.
I went with them but this time I would threaten Jack if he did anything. Tell him that I’d call out for the police. We didn’t talk about the other murder—it was like nothing happened. Things were relatively quiet.
Then Jack spotted a prey—this one too was a prostitute. She was already dealing with some man but when Jack went over he furiously said, “Piss off”, and scared off the man—it was his eyes, my friend, his eyes scared everyone except Charley.
She was different from Mary. Her name was Annie Chapman. She had a colourless complexion with blue eyes that were stained of their innocence. She had dark brown hair that was wavy and, unlike Mary, her teeth were clean—or cleaner at least. She was plumb with a chunky nose.
“What’ll be sirs.” She said in a low voice.
“It’ll be a little more than a hump, dolly bird.” Jack said putting on the white gloves again—a new pair. This time he didn’t waste time with meaningless flatter and jest. He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then grabbed at her neck and strangled her. His methods were very much the same with Annie as it had been with Mary. I couldn’t understand why he was in such a hurry—perhaps he was scared that there’ve been more police out looking for him.
My eyes were fixed as Jack brought her down slowly. He called for Charley to bring his knife and as he brought it close to Annie’s throat I called out for him to stop.
“Now what’s the problem, Boss.” He asked caressing the blade. His eyes turned black and looked hungry—eager to see blood.
“Why must you do this?” I said in a demanding voice. I tried to call upon as much courage as I could. “If you cut her throat I’ll get the police after you, Jack. God as my witness—I will.”
He didn’t seem to care. Instead he came closer to me and I backed away slowly looking down at the knife. “If you do that Boss—I’ll fire you.”
“Y-y-yeah mate—f-f-fired.” Charley stuttered—he was quieter this time around.
When Jack meant fired he meant that I would end up like Mary and Annie. That’s when I realized that my life was in danger and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I was a puppet—or an observer—in this killer’s scheme.
I swallowed hard, “I understand.”
“Good, Boss. I knew you would. You’re my favourite after all.” He said patting me on the shoulder. I stepped back afraid he might pull me into the blade but he didn’t and laughed instead. “Don’t worry, Boss. I need you.”
The operation commenced and I watched in utter disgust. The head was placed on the right side and this time the incision into the throat was deeper than with Mary’s. Any deeper and the head would have been displaced from the body. The blood poured again so much that Charley had to throw a handkerchief over it to slow down the blood flow. Then the blade found itself to the abdomen. But instead of jabbing ruthlessly into the abdomen, the knife ripped it open. The knife severed the intestines from their attachments and Jack lifted it from the body and wrapped it around the corpse’s shoulder—but that wasn’t all. The knife had cut out the uterus and its appendages and Jack had taken it into his hand. The mutilation was complete leaving a bloody woman with her womanhood absent.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could Jack have managed such a procedure? And in the dark of night of all things. Perhaps Jack was once a passionate doctor. That would surely explain the money and smarts. But what could have drawn a doctor to do such things? Do all doctors later become obsessed with surgery and the body?
“What are you going to do with that?” I inquired looking at the organs in disgust.
“Trophies, Boss.” He said placing it delicately into a bag along with the stained gloves. “Trophies.”
“Why do you do this?”
“Dunno Boss. Maybe I’ve got a problem.” Jack said sarcastically. He took the bloody blade and licked it tasting the bitterness—I gagged at the sight. “Still warm.” He put the knife back in its case and he and Charley left.
I fell to my knees and a tear poured down my face. I wiped it with my hand and then looked to see that it was only water—for a second there my friend, I thought it was blood.
The next few days I spent locked in my closet—like I am right now. I was scared to walk out of the house—or even around the house. I was going mad. I kept thinking that everywhere I went Jack was there with his knife in hand just ready to slice at my throat. He wouldn’t strangle me to death. He wouldn’t lay me down on the floor. He would let the blood squirt. He would let it stain his clothing and he would taste the blood from the blade and cut open my abdomen and eat away at my guts. Him and Charley would have a feast. And then they’d take my testicles as their trophy. My friend, this is what my imagination crafts for my troubled mind. I no longer dream about my unfortunate sister, Sofia. I now had two new sisters to drive me insane. Their names were Mary and Annie—I even dreamt of them when I was awake.
All over the papers there were articles on Jack. They called him the Whitechapel Murderer. There were several articles written about him. I cut out each one of them and left it in the closet room reading them over and over. The rumours about Jack being a butcher was no more. Now they claimed he was a mad doctor. It was the only way they could explain his methods of killing. I agreed with them.
There was a letter outside my door that was slipped in through the door’s bottom opening. On the envelop it had written “Boss” in red ink—or red blood. I opened it up and the entire letter was written in the same red. It was dated September 25 and read:
Dear Boss.
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.
Yours truly,
Jack the Ripper
Don’t mind me giving the trade name
P.S. Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha
The letter terrified me. There was something strange about the way he wrote. It looked as if I wasn’t the only one who had gone mad. What I did with the letter was anonymously send it to the police in hopes that this would help in their investigation. I knew that if Jack were to find out my imagination would become reality. But I didn’t care anymore. This had to stop. And thus he was known as Jack the Ripper throughout the streets of the Whitechapel district and in all of London.
A few days later, on September 30, the incessant knocking started again—this time louder and more assertive. I thought Jack was mad that I had sent in the letter but when I opened the door his arms were open.
“Come here, you!” He said and gave me a—get this, my friend—a hug. He wasn’t mad at all. He was happier than ever.
“You aren’t mad?” I said. I sounded like a son who thought he had disappointed his father.
“Have you lost your marbles? The name Jack the Ripper is known throughout, Boss. Now didn’t I tell you there would be fame in this job?”
All the things he promised to me the day we first met—money, fame, women—they were all his obsessions. I had no money and I hadn’t eaten anything. There were no women—only sisters. And the fame—the last thing I would want is to be a suspect to these murders.
Jack was oddly alone and carried two instead of one cases. There was something different about tonight’s murder. For one thing, Charley hadn’t come this time. I don’t even know why I was going with Jack. I couldn’t bear to see another mutilation. When I asked him about it he said:
“Tonight I am promoting you.” Jack said as we walked through the streets in the dead of night looking for prey. “Tonight you are going to kill.”
“Me! No, Jack, not me! I couldn’t!” It was the truth. I couldn’t do what Jack did. First, I didn’t have the stomach for it, and second, I’m no doctor.
“But Boss, the knives are so bloodthirsty.” He said and handed me a case. I took it without knowing. My hands were acting on their own. “Look at those over there, Boss.” He pointed at two prostitutes. “What luck we have.”
Jack went up to them and the briefcase holding the knife dragged me close behind.
“How do you do misses?”
The girls grinned. The first, Elizabeth Stride, was pale with light gray eyes and curly dark brown hair. Her lower jaw was missing all her teeth, which was a very sick sight. The other was Catherine Eddowes. She had hazel eyes and dark ginger hair. She had a tattoo on her left forearm with the letters “TC” written in blue ink. They were both very different from each other. Elizabeth was more innocent while Catherine was eager to engage in sexual intercourse—so evidently, Jack took her aside laughing and joking while he signaled for me to take Elizabeth. I was shaking uncontrollably.
Elizabeth took me by the hand to the alley. While I followed behind her I open the case and took out the knife. It was sharp and with the reflection of the moon it emitted a blinding light. I hid the blade under my coat. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I still don’t know what drove me to do it. There was someone pulling on my strings, and the string that was attached to my heart ached.
Elizabeth—although she was innocent—forcible started to kiss me and caressing my body. I stood still—the stings wouldn’t budge. Then my imagination ran wild and for some reason Elizabeth had a striking resemblance to Sofia.
Tug—my heart ached.
Every kiss, every moan and every touch I pictured Sofia. I perspired and the beads of sweat ran nervously down my forehead and cheek. The heart tugged and tugged and now so did the mind. Then Elizabeth stopped.
“What’s wrong?” She said and as I looked into her face—she transformed. Her hair turned golden and her eyes turned emerald. I smiled remembering my once innocent sister. She was beautiful again.
And then the nightmares plagued.
One by one the strands of hair fell out. There were bruises on her face and her eyes—they ceased to open.
In horror, I pushed Sofia—I mean Elizabeth—away from me and with one swift motion I revealed the hidden knife and violently gashed at her throat. The blood squirted on my face and clothes. I could even taste the bitterness of the blood—it was like acid sizzling in my mouth.
I ran out the alley and towards Jack. I still had the knife in hand and with each step I took a drop of blood fell. When I found him the body of Catherine was on the ground—her throat and abdomen open.
“Jack, Jack, Jack.” I repeated now sounding more like a son who was eager to tell his father of what wrong he had done.
“Done already, Boss? I’ll be done in just a sec.”
From the groin up to her breasts there was an opening that was stretched to reveal every inside of her body. I cannot begin to describe the things I saw that night. It was like seeing a body turned inside out and twisted around and around like a wet towel.
Instead of waiting for Jack to finish I ran as fast as I could—the bloody knife still in hand. It was my ‘trophy’.
The police found the murders and were surprised to see that two were dead on the same night. People were terrified of the murders and claimed that Jack the Ripper was an immortal. They called him a vampire, a devil, and some other related names. They described him as strong as Hercules and as fast as the winter winds. In one of the articles there was another letter that was sent to the police. It was in the same handwriting as the other letter, but unlike the last one, Jack hadn’t sent it to me first—probably all part of his fame. The letter read:
I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. Thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.
Jack the Ripper
Many argued that the letter was a hoax. Jack the Ripper had become a fad amongst many sick Londoners. Passing by the police station I would sometimes find a bag full of letters just outside—obviously hoaxes. And another bag full of cut out body parts—ears, tongues, noses, eyes, fingers, toes.
But that was the last I saw of the famous Jack the Ripper. I’ve spent these last few days locked in the same empty closet. There was no more knocking at my door. All day I would cut out pieces of articles and read them again and again until I didn’t even need to look at them—I would just say them. My eyes never closed—never did I sleep. And my friend, the worst of it all was that I wore three scarves around my neck. It was protection.
One article I read was on another murder—this one being the most brutal of all. The murder took place on November 9. It wasn’t out on the streets—there were double the police out patrolling the area. The girl was named Mary Kelly—and yes my friend you’ve guess right—she too was a prostitute.
It was in her own room. The doctors said that she was lying naked in the middle of the bed. The sickness of the doctor’s description made me vomit more than once. I could see the body in my mind. The entire abdomen had been ripped open. The breasts were cut off and the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds and the face hacked beyond recognition of the features. The uterus and kidneys with one of the breasts were under the disfigured head. The other breast was by the foot with the liver between the feet and the intestines were placed on the right side and the spleen by the left side of the body. I could see all of this—vividly.
That was the last of the murders. There haven’t been any murders for a month now. Jack the Ripper had disappeared. But my madness will never disappear. Too many murders. Too many pale faces. Too many bloody knives. I stayed in that same closet for days and days. I refused to come out. Refused to eat or drink. Refused to sleep. I wanted to die but I couldn’t bring myself to do it—the strings still had their grip. They tugged. Harder and harder.
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