Whitechapel

4,406 years since initial death
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A letter titled 'Dear Boss' arrived at the police department signed by 'Jack the Ripper'.

Jack had confessed to the crimes. Michael was passed out drunk at home upon the letter's discovery early morning, with almost no recollection of the night prior. When he heard of the letter, the case became unusually stranger. If an Immortal was responsible for the murders, why send a letter? That ruled out the sins of lust and envy, leaving only pride behind as simply finding sick pleasure and empowerment from taking the lives of the poor and the defenseless.

He took a break from the investigation and chose to try and live his ordinary life. A few days later on September 30th, Michael entered a bar near Dutfield's Yard. His depression returned, and he sought his closest friend in the form of more alcohol.

But when he found himself staring at a woman seated beside him, he developed an idea. She was prettier than the rest, with smooth tanned-skin and long free-flowing hair dark brown in color. She wore a tightly-laced purple corset that highlighted her curves and thin body. Rather than a petticoat that draped at the bottom like most other women, she wore a skirt with a leather strap around her waist carrying what looked like a handle.

Michael thought it over, then leaned in towards her. "Evenin', madam. Are you a premium prostitute?"

She twitched and looked disgusted. Though she glared at him, his top hat concealed a good portion of his face underneath its shadow. She hissed. "Premium? Heavens no! Is this how you view women in general? As toys for your own pleasure? You pure scum!"

"Christ, miss, settle down." He expected this reaction, and he had to save it before she leaves. "I was merely testing you. There's a ripper out there, goes by the name of Jack. He's hunting whores, I wanted to ensure you weren't in danger."

"And this is how you conduct your investigation? I oughta smack the daylight out of you, you perv! You nor Jack could scare the likes of me."

He liked her confidence. "Alright miss, I apologize. I don't mean you any wrong. My name's Smith, by the way. Michael Smith. If you don't mind me asking, what's yours?"

He extended a hand to shake hers, but she never obliged. She looked away from him and firmly answered, "Valerie."

The name intrigued him. "Just Valerie?"

"My full name's none of your business now, is it? You'd best leave before I bloody up your suit." She refused to speak to him again, and he received the message. He sipped some beer and cleared his head, though a few nerves of his were definitely struck.

After a few moments of awkward silence, he took his leave. It was well past midnight, and the excessive alcohol hurt his head.

He wandered alone into the night with a clouded thought.

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Valerie exited the bar shortly after Michael had.

She was glad to be away from him. The men around these parts were all the same. The Ripper could be any of them, given how similar they all were around here. She did hear a rumor that perhaps the Ripper wasn't one person, but the work of an organization. 

In the dimly lit streets was a Men's Club ahead. She rested outside and leaned against the walls for a moment. She shouldn't have stayed this late. As she tried to clear her head, she heard what sounded like a struggle just around the corner. 

Meanwhile, a carriage drove beside her. She thought the noises might have been from the carriage or the horse that dragged it. But when she turned the corner to inspect it, she spotted a pair of female legs sticking out just below a suspended cartwheel. The remainder of the body was covered behind a building. Blood was still spilling from her hidden torso, and it leaked towards the road. 

She gasped, but never screamed. There was a shadow moving in front of the body. The killer was there, right behind the wall. 

When the carriage got closer, the driver finally spotted the scene. He let out a frantic yell, and the shadow shifted. Footsteps rapidly escaped and echoed further into the alley.

Valerie never thought it over. She sprinted towards the body and turned the corner. There was a man in dark clothing running away. A top hat rested atop his head, and a knife glistened in his hand. It was Jack the Ripper.

She chased after him with all her might. He wouldn't escape her, not when she was an experienced runner and a top athlete. 

His head turned, but it was too dark to make eye contact. Even their surroundings were hard to make out as they entered an opened area behind the shops. The Ripper darted towards the left and ran for another narrow alley. All the while, Valerie maintained a grueling pace after him. 

At the end of the short alleyway was a street, and the Ripper stopped to look both ways before crossing. Unfortunately, no one was around to spot him. Despite being in the heart of London, all these streets were left abandoned during the night except for stragglers, drunks, prostitutes and cold-blooded killers. 

The chase led into a construction yard littered with panels, barrels, stones and carriages. The Ripper had trouble running through these parts, but Valerie made it with ease. While he toppled down obstacles in her way, she vaulted over them and maintained pursuit. 

She followed him up a dirt ramp, and she spotted him stumbling down as he continued forward. He was clumsy, she wasn't. She slid down the dirt and leapt in the air to stick the landing. She stuck a hand out to grab his back, but he still wasn't close enough. 

Then, a wall presented itself at the end of his path. There were no more routes to take. She had him trapped at a dead-end, and now she'd finish him. Her hand slipped down to her waist to clench a weapon she had strapped. It was a small blunt handle with a button in the center. 

Once the Ripper turned and faced her, she pressed the button. Two short and narrow blades emerged from opposite sides of the handle. 

He tipped his hat lower to conceal his face, his other hand gripped his knife tightly. She charged forward, her double-bladed dagger held to her right for a powerful swing. Rather than attacking, she switched her position and dodged his jab. Standing right beside him, she angled her swing and stabbed him in the chest.

The wound wasn't deep enough to kill him, though she heard his groans. He reached out to grab her, but the second blade cut across his palm. She pulled the dagger out his chest and aimed for his exposed head. The weapon chipped through his hat and scarred his left side. It gashed into his cheek and ripped it apart vertically. His blood stained the edge of her hilt, and he yelled. 

She stepped behind him and grabbed him into a chokehold. It was time she finished this with a swift end. Just as he had sliced the throats of all his victims, she would deliver poetic justice. But once she placed her blade to his neck, he ran backwards with her. He slammed her back into the wall, and she lost her grip over her dagger.

As she stabilized herself, he slammed her repeatedly against the wall. His body turned around, and his hand grabbed her face. One more pummel sent her crashing down to the pavement. 

She couldn't fight back, and she looked up at his bloody figure, his black suit was ripped and damaged. Though he was wounded, he readied his knife to kill her. But she wasn't going to let him. 

Of all the things in the world, a goat's cry is what stopped him. He turned away, and standing behind him were a few goats varying in size and color. One of them approached Valerie and rested with her. It licked her face and placed a hoof over her hand. The other goats faced the killer and bleated aggressively. 

She waited for them to attack him, but before they could, the Ripper suddenly sprinted away. One goat rammed its horns into his legs and he stumbled forward. He scurried and stood back up to escape. He disappeared into the dark, and all the goats hurried to Valerie's aid. 

They helped her up as each one took turns to lick her. Slowly but surely, she felt her own strength return to her. She stood tall and sighed, she lost him. 

She left the scene and avoided the police. She'd rather not discuss this with them. As she walked in the dark and away from the streetlights, she continued to think about the Ripper. She interrupted him during one of his killings. It may come with consequences if his thirst for blood hadn't been quenched. 

After only twenty minutes of walking, she reached Mitre Square. A group of people were gathered by the road at this hour. She couldn't believe her eyes.

A second body was discovered, also belonging to a female streetwalker. It was mutilated beyond any form of recognition. The horrific sight was worse than all three previous murders. It seemed she was right. Jack the Ripper was left unsatisfied. He needed more blood and he got exactly what he wanted. 

Two murders, both within an hour of each other. She stumbled out of the area with a haunting feeling of anxiety. By the time she turned around the corner, she spotted a menacing figure slowly walk away from the scene.

His black cloak draped along with the wind. His darkened top hat was straightened. Everything about him looked identical to what she had seen before.

That's when her eyes widened. She found him again.

Nothing stopped her from running forward. She gave him no time to turn his head. She rammed herself into him, toppling him to the ground. His hat fell and rolled away, too far away for him to reach. Valerie punched his face, fist after fist in pure aggression.

She reached for her dagger and lifted it high up in the air before violently plunging it down. But she never stabbed him. The Ripper swiped his hand and stopped her attack, gripping her weapon in place and staring right back at her. That was when she locked eye contact with him. She let out a minor gasp.

It was Michael Smith.

She tried to find the right words, but he yelled back at her first. "Get off of me!"

Before she could even move or utter a word, she was wrestled back. Michael gripped her hand as he stood up. During the process, he snatched her dagger and held it defensively.

Valerie caught her breath and pointed at him. "It was you all along."

"Me?" He asked.

"The Ripper!" She screamed, hoping someone could hear her. "The way you spoke about him at the bar, and the fact this all started right after you had left. You can't hide from this you cold hearted son of a bitch!"

As she yelled, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. She studied his appearance. He did look similar, but there were discrepancies. When she focused on his face, she couldn't see the scar. She had slashed her dagger across half his face. But no matter how hard she looked at Michael, she simply couldn't see it. He was unharmed.

Michael looked pristine, and his clothes were clean. If he had killed those women, he'd be covered in blood. At least his clothes should have rips and cuts, but they were perfectly well-kept.

"I don't understand." She spoke, still trying to decipher her mind.

"Neither do I." Michael glared back. There was nothing wrong with him, no blood, bruises or any other signs of a previous struggle. 

Valerie inspected him again. "Take off your gloves."

He snarled and obeyed her, just to reveal his clean hands. The cut in his palm was gone. She refused to believe it and instead focused on another aspect. "What happened to the gash on the side of your face?"

The moment she said it, Michael placed a hand over his right cheek. Then he switched to his left side. That confirmed everything.

His first instinct was to check the right. She slashed the Ripper's left cheek. Unless he was that much of a genius to hide his tracks well and play dumb, there was no way Michael was the killer all along.

"You're lucky I don't impale you with this for laying your hands on me." His tone turned hostile. "Don't you ever come near me again. Take your weapon and leave."

He looked at the double-bladed dagger in his hand and squinted. While he studied it, Valerie snatched it away from him. She quickly pressed its button and both blades retracted back inside the handle. "By the way, did you see a herd of goats around?"

A look of confusion covered him, and he waved a hand. "Get out of my face."

He turned away, but not without glancing again at her weapon. His behavior creeped her out, even back at the bar. Something wasn't right with him, and she didn't intend to find out what it was.

But she could have sworn he was the killer. Something about his face seemed familiar. However, with Michael appearing unharmed and clueless about the attack, she couldn't take any form of action against him. 

Though she hoped she'd never see him again, she had a feeling this was far from over.

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Historical Notes:

Elizabeth Stride was seen as a quiet lady who occasionally performed cleaning duties for the local Jewish community. She was paid for cleaning rooms at her lodging-house, in which her income was just enough to pay for more nights and allow her to stroll around at night.

A day before her murder, she was seen accompanied by several different men throughout the night. One of which shared an intense kiss with her, saying "You would say anything but your prayers."

The next day, minutes before her murder, she was seen with another man wearing a long black coat. Her final words spoken were, "No. Not tonight. Some other night."

Not even ten minutes after this occurred, she was found dead. A civilian witnessed the murder and claimed the killer to have dark hair and a mustache. Stride was 44 years old at the time of her death.

Elizabeth Stride and the location of her death

Catherine Eddowes was attempting to travel to Bermondsey in hopes of borrowing money from her daughter. However, she was found lying drunk on the pavement outside when she was taken into police custody. Worried for her safety, the police kept her at the station until she was sober enough to handle herself.

When asked for her name, she replied with 'Nothing'. Once she became sober, she was asked the question again. Instead of giving her real name, she said her name was Mary Ann Kelly.

Fifteen minutes before her death, she was last seen alive standing with a man that appeared to be in his early thirties. Along with his dark-colored clothing, he had a 'reddish' neckerchief.

Catherine Eddowes was 46 years old at the time of her death.

Illustrated portrait of Catherine Eddowes

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