It was a strange feeling, having his blood on my hands.
Don’t even ask how one person’s blood can feel so different from another’s. Truth be told, it was no different than the times when their blood had covered my hands. Yet when the blood of unfortunates – the blood of innocents – stained my hands, no amount of scrubbing could ever wash them clean.
But with his blood just beginning to thicken on my chapped hands, I felt as if I were bathing in London’s finest wine.
There’s an unspoken rule here in Whitechapel: You stay out of our business; we’ll stay out of yours.
Maybe that’s why no one stopped me as I searched for the one of the bobbies who patrolled these streets. Those with authority assumed the mere presence of law enforcement officers would prevent crime; but, without weapons, the constables were next to useless. Maybe if they were armed, maybe if they were just a little more useful, those poor women would still be alive today. Maybe the constables would have been able to stop it; maybe I wouldn’t still be haunted by their dying breaths as their lives bled out through the slits in their throats.
Maybe now his blood wouldn’t be joining theirs, the white of my skin barely visible through the crimson layer that coated my hands.
But maybes cannot change the past, nor were the constables any less useless now than they had been then. The one I stalked now didn’t even feel my presence until I grabbed his shoulder with my bloody hands.
“Inspector Abberline,” I demanded. “Take me to Inspector Abberline.”
The constable opened his mouth, maybe to argue or maybe to simply ask my name. I waved my hands in front of his face, and he closed his mouth quickly. In the dim light, the blood looked black, but there was no mistaking what it was. “I’ve got a story to tell, and I ain’t singing for nobody but Abberline.” Whether he listened because of the look in my eyes or the blood on my hands, the constable gulped and beckoned for me to follow.
A triumphant smile played across my face.
Finally, the world would know.
Every building, every corner, every bloody alley and streetlamp and stone in this horrible city brought back memories, dark memories that I had fought to hide somewhere in the shadowy recesses of my mind. Every step I took seemed to leave bloody footprints; every turn marked the route back to one of their corpses.
Would I ever be free from them?
“Who’s there?” Abberline’s voice snapped me out of my nightmarish reverie. The screams and pleas for mercy that haunted me constantly slowly faded back into my subconscious. Once my head was clear of them, I realized we had arrived at the Inspector’s office. I followed the trembling constable inside.
“What do you want?” Abberline sat at his desk, surrounded by papers and gruesome photographs. He glanced up at me and scowled. “Bloody hell, what’s a bangtail doing in my office?”
His remark cut deeper than he could have guessed.
“You better watch your gob! I ain’t no prostitute!” I began hotly before he waved me silent.
“Shut it, love. I’m busy.” He motioned towards the officer who had brought me in. “Now get out of here. Both of you.”
The constable was only too happy to obey.
I didn’t move. Abberline didn’t even look up to check I had gone. He just kept shifting through his papers and muttering to himself. Anger swelled up in my chest, and I clenched my hands into a fist. I ran my thumb over the knuckle of my index finger, feeling his blood smear down my skin. I unclenched my fists, and rubbed the blood across my fingertips. A grin crept across my face, and the anger slowly subsided. As his blood settled into the creases on my fingertips, a thought blossomed within my mind that made my grin widen: It was finally over. I had waited this long. I could wait for the Inspector to notice me.
A wall covered in photographs caught my eye. I strode over to them, only to be confronted by the long-dead faces I knew so well. I ran my stained fingertips over the surface of the pictures, as if by touching their necks I could heal their slashed throats, as if by touching their lips I could make them breathe again.
“They haunt you still, don’t they?”
Abberline tensed at the sound of my voice, dragging his eyes away from the papers to look at me. “What the hell are you still doing in here?” He saw what I was looking at and blanched. “The Ripper victims? Don’t look at those. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be troubled by the dead. Pictures like those will bring nothing but nightmares.”
I laughed, a guttural sound that made the Inspector jump. “Pictures are nothing to the real thing.”
He stared past me. “Christ, what’d you get on the pictures?”
The pictures looked more realistic now, with the smears of blood across their throats. I turned away and stared at Abberline.
“I killed him.”
“Really? Who?” Abberline seemed unfazed, as if he had seen so much murder it no longer touched him. I knew better. Being expose to so much death and blood is like poisoning your spirit; your soul slowly decays as the hate runs deeper.
“My father,” I replied, equally unfazed.
“And you had to come tell me this personally? Why not just turn yourself in to one of the other officers, eh love?”
“Because you knew my father.”
Abberline narrowed his eyes and stared down his nose at me. How he managed to stare down at me while he was seated puzzled me, yet it made me think back to the other times, when I had seen him staring down his nose at the lifeless bodies on the ground. “Who are you?” He asked.
A fair question, but not one I was willing to answer yet.
Instead I turned away to stare at the Ripper victims again. I tapped each of their pictures, chanting their names softly as I did so. “Mary, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine, Mary Kelly.” I could feel Abberline’s eyes burning into my back, but I kept chanting.
Mary. She was the very first, before things spun out of control. The first taste, before I became accustomed to the corrosive taste of guilt and the metallic smell of blood.
Annie. Dark Annie. She was one of the ones I remembered best, her intestines sliding across her shoulder to rest on her collarbone, her abdomen laid completely open to expose her insides to the dark night. Sprays of blood on the fence behind her, and all I could do was stare at my fingertips, my bloody, quivering fingertips and pray to God it wouldn’t happen again.
Elizabeth. Of course God didn’t hear. Elizabeth was never finished; a man and his pony wandered into the scene of her death, interrupting the frantic process. I would call her lucky, to escape with only a slit throat.
Catherine. She and Elizabeth were killed the same night, although Catherine wasn’t as lucky as Elizabeth had been. She was hacked and hewn apart, her face mutilated, her entire body split down the middle. Choice organs were removed; a kidney was sent to the police not long after. The double job had pushed me to my limit, I was sure I was going to break. It had to stop soon.
Mary Kelly. The grand finale. Poor Mary Kelly, she was the youngest of them all. She wasn’t even politely cut open, her organs nicely placed aside. Her death was the frantic killing of a madman, hacking and stabbing with no apparent cause or reason. Blood painted the entire back wall; so much blood it seemed like none could be left in her body afterwards. She was mutilated beyond recognition, her breasts lopped off and thrown by her head, her liver by her feet, and her spleen on the bed to her left. She was the one who stood out the most in my mind; every time her screams echoed in my head, I felt the sensation of her blood on my hands. It was after Mary Kelly – after I grew sick of her blood tainting my hands – that I knew I had to end it.
“You’re sure I knew your father?”
“Yes. Yes, Boss, you knew him quite well.” I heard him gasp as he recognized my nickname for him. He began to shuffle through his papers, fervently looking for the one I had eluded too. I moved away from the Ripper victims, tapping other photos of unsolved cases the Inspector had on his wall. “You knew him quite well.” I smiled slightly as he stopped his shuffling. He had found the paper, the “Dear Boss” letter.
The most famous Ripper letter.
As Abberline’s eyes scanned the letter repeatedly, trying to figure out whether I could have written it, I quietly began to repeat, “But you wish you never knew him, you wish you never knew him.” More unsolved cases, more victims, each getting a red fingerprint as I tapped my way across the room. Then I saw a picture I recognized, and froze. An icy fist seized my heart, stopping it momentarily within my chest.
The picture was a woman’s torso, just a torso with all the limbs cut off – headless, limbless, unidentified. Someone had written “Ripper?” across the top of the picture. I leaned in closer, knowing what I would see and still desperately hoping I was wrong. Three tiny freckles formed a triangle to the right of the bellybutton, and a birthmark shaped like a cloud rested just on top of the collarbone.
I gently ran my finger over the picture, leaving a smear of red that ran the length of the entire torso.
“Mother,” I breathed.
I never realized she’d been found.
“Now you listen here.” Abberline hadn’t heard me, and now he was slowly making his way towards where I stood. “You can’t just come in here and get blood all over my photos. Either tell me your father’s name or get the hell out of here.”
I whirled around to meet his eyes. I think it scared him when I laughed.
“Jack,” I said.
“Daddy’s name was Jack the Ripper.”
Author notes
There are so many serial killer stories from the point of view of the killer, or the investigator looking for the killer. But I always wanted to know what a serial killer would look like from the point of view of a family member...
1888
A contest entry
- Dark and Exciting...take two by LostShadow.
320 points, ended May 5, 2007, 23 entries
Honorable mention
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - Fun with History by Bitter Irony.
450 points, ended July 18, 2007, 6 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - 17th, 18th and 19th Century Fiction by Bitter Irony.
250 points, ended September 13, 2007, 11 entries
Honorable mention
• next story in this contest, remove from contest - The Writer's Challenge: Round X by Asfand.
175 points, ended October 19, 2007, 21 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 20 of 20
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Brilliantai ~
One of the finest writes in the contest, very well developed in every way, extreamely good theme and point of view, captivating and very nicely penned down ~
Theme ~ 9.2/10 -- Really a fantastic effort with the theme, it was such a delight to read something dark, gory and even so literally wonderful ~
Originality ~ 14.6/15 -- Very original ~
Flow ~ 22.5/25 -- The flow was nice and pretty well put words were used in this write, over all a very godo effort ~
Feeling ~ 17.9/20 -- The feeling of the killer was well adapted and quite well given out due the dialogue but, the other emotions played could have been better put ~
Structure ~ 27/30 -- Very well-structured and though out, quite befitting to everything you wanted ~
Total 91.2/100
* Being expose <- (exposed)- to so much death and blood is like poisoning your spirit;*
Great job on this one ~
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Thought provoking. This was very interesting.
Great write, and I have to say this one grabbed me. Now, for the score...
Theme~ 9/10 > This was wonderfully developed, but I still felt as though it was missing something. Perhaps it was trailed out too long without enough answers in between.
Originality~ 14/15 > Great. It was very thought provoking, and I think you really came at this from an original point of view.
Flow~ 23/25 > It flowed exceptionally well, but I feel there were a couple transitions that were awkward. They could be phrased differently, and this would help with the flow.
Feeling~ 18/20 > Very descriptive but I felt it was lacking something. Mostly I didn't like the blind spot when she saw the photo of her mother. What did she feel? Or didn't she feel?
Structure~ 25/30 > Your structure is almost flawless. There are couple places where you had the wrong punctuation or the wrong word, but that's fixed easily enough.
Total ~ 89/100
Great job! Thanks for the contest entry, and good luck! -
Excellent first line, though the second paragraph could do with some editing: try to avoid repeating the words "blood" and "hands" so much, and see if you can make that last sentence a bit more subtle.
Also, watch for the occassions when all your paragraphs end with the same word: in this case, "hands" keeps cropping up.
Otherwise, your prose is great: it flows well from word to word and idea to idea. Your characters are great also, though a remain a little confused on the daughter's relationship with the crimes. Did she help? Did she commit them?
Also, your ending was a little anti-climatic, since all the clues in the story itself made us certain of her relationship to Jack the Ripper.
Anyway, great work. Thanks for entering the contest, and good luck!beginning: 4, language: 3, plot: 3, ending: 3, dialog: 4, characters: 4.
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I agree with Violet. This is good and really has a twist with it. I do not know the characters in the story either. I'll have to look them up!
Good luck in the contest!
- KariKaRama - -
Thanks for your entry.
You story in quite disturbing. Of course, since it was intended to be, that is a good thing
Definately a new twist to the story we are familiar with.
Best of luck in the contest. -
ooo! very good. i like that you took such a well-known character and added to it. i enjoyed this very much and it was indeed a chillingly well written addition to my contest! thanks so much for entering and good luck!
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Very interesting and intriguing. You've taken a well known character (Jack the Ripper) and added another facet to the story that has captivated many for years.
Thank you for entering, and good luck in the contest.
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You have a really great story idea going on here I love that Jack the Ripper had a daughter... who may have gone with him as he killed each person. I love the part where she wonders how someone's blood could feel different - perhaps, it's a psychological thing, "him" being her father or something?
As I said, you have a great story here - I believe.. the execution (of the idea) needs more work. I always expect stories to rouse some sort of emotion in me - I felt like I was behind a glass wall the whole time I read your story. If that was intended, then great work
Thank you for sharing this with us
GOod luck with the contest ^_^
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wow he had a daughter that wicked i liked this great job
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What an interesting thought....Jack had a daughter who accompanied him to the murders....I guess that we will never know what really happened with him, and it is spine tigling to think that what you have written here actually could have happened!!!!
This was a very well written piece indeed. You obviously know your facts on the Ripper case, and that shines through the piece. I also have studied many cases, including the Ripper, and I can appreciate how well you have caught the mood of the time in your piece.
It really was a great write....I love how I was asuming that I was reading the thoughts of a man, up until the police officer referred to them in a feminine term! A great twist! Althogether, this was a wonderful read, that I most enjoyed!
beginning: 3, language: 4, plot: 3, ending: 4, dialog: 3, characters: 4.
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Hm. Yuss, I'm also a little confused but could it just be that that was the point...? The perpetuation of the mystery, I mean? Nice job, anyway; well-written, and with a good flow of narrative. You handle secrets very well!
"Elizabeth. Of course God didn’t hear." - really clever allusion and an excellent example of authorial skulduggery.
Cheers,
Alex. -
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I'm sorry I didn't mean to make it so confusing
of course I meant to keep the reader in the dark until the end, building up tension and making it seem like she (the narrator) could really be Jack (..or Jill) the Ripper, but then in the end having it really be her father. Glad you enjoyed it! sorry again!
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I'm actually sort of confused after reading this..did she kill these people too? Or are these the real victims of Jack the Ripper? I know a little bit about Jack the Ripper and the background(I also remember that in the movie with Michael Caine my mom wouldn't let me see the last victim because it was too gruesome) but anyway..I don't really care to know actually, who the killer really was I mean..I'd like to interpret that myself..like what I see out of it because you wrote a story where I can do that..
I've already ranted enough, but I'd just like to let you know this was awesome and yeah..
thanks for entering my contest
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those are the actually victims of jack the ripper, both in the story and in real life. just like the torso she sees was a real murder case around the same time (late 1800s, England) and the inspector is the real dectetive who worked on the case
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Wow! Nice job!!! I LOVED the decriptions in the beginnging it kept me hooked great job Thanks sooooo much for entering and good luck!!!
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This was great! thanks for entering!
Good luck.
Em
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This is... AWESOME! I love the details. Nicely written ^_^
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disturbingly amusing
This has excellent flow, and by God, it draws the reader in. The gory details of the murders adds a delightfully disturbing edge to an already good read. Bravo.
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WOW
Er.....speechless. *I catch my breath*
This is an absolutely fantastic effort.
Hip Hip Hooray! Well Done
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fucking hell meechi. this was amazing. your writing has improved so much and i'm in love. the attention to detail and the first person narrative threw in an incredible emotional draw for me. the flow was easy to follow and you quickly drew me in. the end was surprising because i was half expecting the girl to be jack the ripper. speaking of the girl, i didn't know it was a girl until the inspector guy talked to her. i don't know if that was on purpose or not. but if its not you might want to throw some feminine detail in a little earlier. works either way. this was awesome love. keep up the good work.
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