Whitechapel

4,406 years since initial death
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Micheal couldn't believe it.

Two men stood over the body examining the body, they were the ones who called for help. They seemed like ordinary civilians, both of whom showed genuine concern and fear over the body.

If he wasn't already used to blood and gore, he would have thrown up. While wearing his darkened gloves, he placed a hand over the pool of blood on the pavement. It was still warm. Since the blood hadn't dried out, the killer couldn't have gotten far.

"Did you see anyone nearby that could have done this?" He asked the witnesses, who were still puzzled by the situation.

They both shook their heads. Not another soul was present among them. The police eventually arrived to clear the scene. Investigators examined the crime, and it was immediately featured on the front page of the newspaper. Officers worked around the clock to discover any other clues or secrets that could lead to the possible culprit, but nothing came up.

It was a brutal murder, with no real motive behind it. Every witness including Michael was interrogated, all of their alibis checked out. His bloody gloves were questioned, but with witnesses to confirm he touched the blood after the murder, he was set free. Nothing further could be added to the case, and nobody was suspected of the crime.

Michael returned home and washed himself. The smell was putrid, and he trashed his bloody gloves. It was a kill savage enough to blame on a wild beast. The woman's remains constantly flashed inside his head. Seeing her with the slit throat, her inners slipping out of her torn abdomen, the river of blood oozing; he'd seen it all before.

Often times at war, he had seen unfortunate souls get ripped apart by blades or by mere hands. Whoever killed that woman must have had experience. It reminded him of himself, and the thousands he had massacred along the years. He couldn't help but think back to Madrid and remember what he had done.

He pondered the thought. There was also the mystery behind Set. It had never shown such weakness in the thousands of years he'd seen it. Something wrong was afoot, and he had a hunch it may even be supernatural. 

Women were being killed off the streets, that was apparent. The murdered body Michael had seen belonged to a prostitute named Mary Ann Nichols. Several murders against female prostitutes were becoming an often occurrence recently, however this one was the first to be brutalized in such a manner.

While Michael wasn't able to help track down the killer, he was able to warn the public, especially local bars and inns to be aware of any possible murders. In a week, most of London knew about the murder, although not many paid much attention to it.

Eight days after the first murder, Michael was once again outside in the night. The streets of Whitechapel were silent. He spent his days at the barber shop, and his nights outdoors on the hunt. He had nothing else to do, and stopping a killer seemed like fun work. He walked down the roads with his black coat blowing in the wind, his top hat making him look menacing as his shadow lingered behind him in the nearby street light. Just his appearance alone could make people suspect him to be the killer, but he wore it for a reason.

He wanted to be feared. Several women late at night had walked away from him just because of the way he was dressed. They were scared, and he liked that. However, he only liked it as it was getting the job done. He was practically saving them.

For several hours, he roamed the streets. His eyes were opened for any suspicious activity, but there was nothing. It was two in the morning, everyone was asleep. Three in the morning, nobody was outside. Four in the morning, a few men were spotted walking nearby, but they were unarmed and seemed to have been minding their own business. By five, he was exhausted and needed to sleep.

It was a long walk back to his apartment, so he lay seated on a nearby bench. With the sun about to rise, it was far too late for a murder to occur. He was about to doze off and head into a slumber, but it was never that simple. Almost immediately, he was awakened by a distressful noise ahead.

It was the sound of a woman calling for help. Michael heard it clear as day, forcing him to stand and investigate. His slow pace gradually increased until he found himself running. Vaulting over a fence, he found himself in the backyard of a lodging home. There, he spotted a lady of the night. A middle-aged woman in a whore's outfit, staring right at him.

She had a horrifying look on her face, slowly raising a hand to point at him. Why would she be pointing at him? He gestured her to calm down, but she wouldn't. Something about her seemed off, and her worrying was suddenly starting to annoy him. He couldn't help her if she won't relax.

Placing a finger against his lips, he continued to try his best. But she wouldn't stop. Her voice dug straight through his ears, pounding against his brain. That horrible noise, he needed it to stop. His hands trembled and his teeth gritted against each other. Now furious, he had to force her to shut up.

So he reached into his pocket and clenched his knife.

The woman ahead couldn't move. She simply stood still and screamed as Michael edged his way closer.

"No, no!"

Those were the last words she ever spoke before he drove his knife across her throat.

She collapsed to the ground, showing no further resistance as he loomed over her. He knelt over her corpse with his knife gripped. She was finally quiet.

Nothing stopped him from beginning to tear her apart. It was absolutely delightful. The gushing blood and spilled organs; she deserved this fate. She just wouldn't stay quiet.

But his euphoria wouldn't last. Nausea overtook him and he staggered backwards. Something was inside of him, and his eyes widened when he spotted a lion's paw protrude out of his chest. But Set wasn't behind him, rather it appeared the lion was trapped inside his body. 

A whistle blew loudly, followed by a shout. A police officer entered the scene. 

Then a second officer appeared. Followed by a third. He was suddenly surrounded. 

Another paw exited his body, and Set's head emerged from his neck. Within the twisted mutation that occurred, Set roared and Michael screamed in horror. All the while, the police yelled at him.

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

Michael jolted awake.

A few guards roamed around, one of whom had woken him up. Everything that had just happened was nothing but a nightmare. In reality, he was still seated atop the bench. His appearance was clean, there were no signs he had done anything.

It was approximately 6:30 in the morning. He'd been asleep for over an hour. Upon calming down, he spoke to the officers as they revealed a shocking truth.

To his surprise, there was another murder nearby just across the street. The body of a casual prostitute named Annie Chapman was found just outside her backyard, her throat was slit. She had also been mutilated, similar to the last body they had first found. They discovered her body at six in the morning, but they suspect she was killed almost an hour prior.

Just as the last murder, nobody saw anything or anyone. There were no clues, every suspect's alibi checked out, and the murderer was once again loose without any leads.

Michael was taken to the station for questioning, but even he would be released soon as there was no evidence against him.

"Date of birth?" The investigator asked him.

For a second, Michael paused. He blinked, trying to remember. "Apologies, it's been quite a long day. 1850 is the year. 11th of August."

"I see this is your second time here at the station, you were there at Nichol's murder?"

Michael tried not to sound suspicious. He had done nothing to these women, but it felt like more than a coincidence that he was present at both scenes. "Yes sir, Nichol had offered me company, to which I kindly declined."

"And what brought you to Buck's Row today so early in the morning?"

"I was actually helping you. Figured I could keep a watchful eye for any killer around. Been up all night patrolling the area till I needed to rest."

The detective cracked a chuckle. "Piss poor job at catching the culprit then. If the Leather Apron wasn't after the women, you'd have made yourself quite the target."

"Leather Apron?" Michael laughed. "Is that really what you're calling him? Ridiculous name."

"It's what the women call him. Some bastard in an apron used to harass the girls a while back before the murders. You got a better name?"

Michael left the station shortly thereafter. There was a lot on his mind that he needed to clear. He returned to his apartment and collapsed on his sofa. He sat alone in his room, surrounded by newspapers he had collected. 

He had seen the second murder after the police found him, and it resembled the first one. This was the act of one murderer, and the abnormality of Set not just confirmed, but it sparked a theory. Could these murders be the work of an Immortal?

The mutilation was done by someone with mastered experience, quite possibly someone in the medical field. He or she, though most likely he, is going after specific targets with a pattern and is disappearing without a trace or clue. It was all too suspicious to ignore.

He immediately ruled out wrath and sloth for obvious reasons. They were then followed by greed and gluttony as they seemed unlikely. Someone with lust may have seen these women as competition. Someone with pride may be doing this for self-empowerment or to send a message. And someone with envy may want something the prostitutes have that they don't, but he had trouble thinking of what that may be. Perhaps just simple jealousy?

Whoever it was, he was determined to discover the truth. But until then, he sat in the dark with nothing but his thoughts and a bottle of ale in hand. Chug after chug, it helped ease his mind. He flipped through some of the newspapers in the meantime. Traction was spreading because of these murders, and he took notice of the descriptions. 'Ripped' seemed to be the most common word. Another article read that a 'ripper' was stalking the night.

He flipped through the pages, wanting to read something that wasn't murder-related. He stumbled upon a headline that caught his attention.

'Beware the Spring-Heeled Jack! Could the Devil-like man or myth that terrorized London since 1837 have returned to haunt the public? Those who remember Jack will know the name Mary Stevens, when Spring-Heeled Jack leapt at her with inhuman capabilities. He immobilized her with a tight grip of his arms, kissed her face and ripped her clothes and touched her flesh with his claws as cold and clammy as those of a corpse! This is the story of Jack, the suburban folklore that bedeviled the English people.'

Michael chuckled.

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Historical Notes:

Mary Ann Nichols (Polly Nichols) was in and out of several workhouses for nearly a decade. She was arrested on multiple occasions of drunkenness, disorderly conduct, theft and prostitution. Eventually, she resided in a lodging-house and shared a bed with an elderly woman named Emily Holland.

Emily Holland was the last person to have seen her alive, initially attempting to persuade her to return home. But at the time, Nichols was too drunk, and refused her offer countless times. Nichols was 43 years old at the time of her death.

Depiction of Nichols's murder, Illustrated Police News, September 8th, 1888

Annie Chapman was a poor woman that lived in lodging-homes. She lived off of her weekly allowance of ten shillings (approx. £41) a week, provided by her husband before his death. Afterwards, she couldn't afford to live in the lodging-home and was forced to find a new and cheaper one.

She fell into a deep pit of depression and she lost the will to live. Her only source of income was gained by selling flowers, crochet work and casual prostitution.

Late at night, she left to earn enough money to pay for a night. Her final words before leaving the lodging-home were spoken to another lodger, saying "I won't be long Brummie. See that Tim keeps the bed for me." She was 47 years old at the time of her death.

Annie Chapman on her wedding day, May 1st, 1869

Spring-Heeled Jack was a popular figure throughout England and Scotland during the 19th Century. Many trials were held to determine his authenticity and some witnesses claimed Jack could breathe fire, had red eyes and had claws for hands. He was also described as Satan, to be 10 ft (3.0 m) tall, and could jump over houses. Despite being a 'villain' that parents would tell their children about to scare them into behaving, Spring-Heeled Jack eventually became known as an avenger of wrongs and protector of the innocent, which inspired some later comic book superheroes in the early 20th Century.

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