Whitechapel

4,406 years since initial death
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A bloody murder.

Two men stood over the body examining the body, they were the ones who called for help. Michael couldn't believe it, there was nobody else in plain sight that could have done this. The corpse was still considered fresh, meaning the killer must still be nearby, but there was absolutely no one to accuse. The two men 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 after thousands of years worth of warfare, he would have thrown up. While wearing his darkened gloves, he placed a hand over her chest, causing his gloves to immediately become bloody. Oddly enough, some of the blood on his gloves seemed dry. Then he remembered his nose. A part of him felt worried the others might notice it, but they didn't.

"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. No one was around, not even a rat. 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. Everyone was left baffled. Every witness including Michael was interrogated, all of their alibis checked out. Nothing further could be added to the case, and nobody was suspected of the crime.

Michael returned home and immediately washed himself. The smell was terrible, and he felt like the blood wouldn't come off his hands. It was a kill savage enough to blame on a wild beast. As expected, he could barely sleep that night. The visions of the woman's corpse haunted him. Seeing her with the slit throat, her inners slipping out of her torn abdomen, the river of blood oozing; not even he could handle it.

But it gave him a purpose. He has no fear of being murdered himself, therefore nothing is stopping him from joining the investigation. It'll help take his mind off the loneliness. For years he's caused countless deaths in war, it's about time he helps prevent more from occurring. Even if this case is next to impossible at the moment, he feels determined to solve it. The killer will most likely strike again, and he needs to be able to catch him.

The next morning, he marched into the police headquarters, asking to be put on the case. Obviously, his assistance was declined as he wasn't an officer nor detective. But his persistence and bravery was undeniable. Despite refusing to let him join the case, they figured they could use his help elsewhere.

Women were being killed off the streets, that was apparent. The murdered body Michael had seen belonged to Mary Ann Nichols, a prostitute that was unfortunate enough to be caught alone in the middle of the night. 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. For a week he had been on guard, spying on anyone that may be suspicious. 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 wants 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. Because women were walking away from him, preferably going home, he was practically saving their lives. It was far too dangerous for them to stay outside anyways.

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. Besides, 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. At first, Michael was utterly confused by her expressions. 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 can'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 was digging 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 began to scream 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. A sadistic smile ravaged on his face, kneeling down with his knife still in his grasp. She was finally quiet. 

Nothing stopped him from beginning to tear her apart. It was absolutely delightful. The gushing blood and spilled organs; oh how very fun this was. She did deserve it after all. 

"Hey!" His head darted to the side, glaring at a police officer that entered the scene.

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

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

"Hey!"

Michael screamed.

He jolted awake and reached for his pockets, where he kept his own personal knife in case he was attacked. Before he could grab it, he noticed he was awoken by police officers. Everything that had just happened was nothing but a nightmare. In reality, he was still seated atop the bench.

It was approximately 6:30 in the morning. He's 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. 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.

Michael became outraged, if he had stayed awake just a little bit longer, he could have been able to stop this. The murder took place just across the street, he was so close. Yet his blood still raged, a part of him felt responsible for the death, but he knew he shouldn't blame himself. His mind was distracting, he hadn't been able to think straight for over a year.

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. 1831 is the year. 19th of April."

"Goodness, mister Smith. You look very youthful for a man of your age." They shared a slight laugh together.

"Miracles of the East. Folks there have some of the wildest elixirs you could imagine. Keeping your appearance is merely child's play in comparison to their other creations." Michael was always prepared to answer these sort of questions. For a thousand years, he's had backup plans and alibis for his identity. Fortunately, there was no sure way to confirm if it was the truth or not as of yet, but he had ideas on what to do in the event of that happening.

Meanwhile at the station, shortly after his peaceful interrogation, Michael heard some of the officers joke about the case. They were mockingly naming the murderer, and they chose the 'Leather Apron'. It was an ignorant joke to say the least, but upon hearing it, he couldn't help but laugh at it.

However, near the end of the month on September 27th, the police department would be met with a new and unique name for the killer. They received a letter titled 'Dear Boss', and it was signed by a man named 'Jack the Ripper'.

Jack had confessed to the crimes, admitting he was behind them all. Michael was asleep when the letter arrived. Upon his knowledge of the letter, the case became unusually stranger. But he felt that he needed a break, after almost a month of attempting to keep watch over the city. One thing he couldn't help but notice was that the letter described how the next murder would appear, with the lady's ear being clipped off.

Only a few days later, on September 30th, Michael was out once more but not to investigate. Rather, he was out to get drunk again. It was far too exhausting for him to track down an impossibly difficult killer. Heading to a different bar near Dutfield's Yard, he ordered a beer and chugged it down. He noticed a woman sitting next to him, she was concentrating on her drink. She was wearing a dress, more fashionable than the other ladies around.

Turning over to her, Michael spoke first. "Tell me madam, are you like the other prostitutes?" It was an odd question for sure, but he wanted to make sure.

She looked at him in confusion before becoming angry. Michael's face was covered in the shadow of his own top hat, concealing it enough so nobody could properly identify him at first glance. "Heavens no! What gives you the right to assume I'd sell my body like them? Is this how you treat all the women you meet? You pure scum!"

"Christ miss, my apologies, but please settle down." He noticed she was about to leave after feeling uncomfortable. "It's simply my way of identifying those who may be in danger. There's a killer out there, Jack the Ripper, you may have heard of him."

The woman was still visibly maddened, but she was quick to respond. "He doesn't scare the likes of me. As if I'd let anyone lay a hand over me. You want to know how they'd turn out? Dead. That's how." Something about this lady's voice seemed oddly familiar.

Michael chuckled, he liked her confidence. "You sure are a delight, I admire your honesty. Say, what's your name miss, mine's Smith. Michael Smith." He extended his hand to shake hers, she hesitated before finally agreeing to it. She didn't like it, but she had nowhere else to go.

"Valerie."

It was an intriguing name, one that seemed special and unique. "Just Valerie?"

"My full name is none of your business, now is it?" She was getting annoyed. Turning back to her drink, she tried her best to ignore him.

He could tell he had started off on the wrong foot. "You're right, it's not. Although you seem to be perfectly capable of handling yourself. I was going to offer my protection from the dangers of the night, but it appears you're jolly fine on your own."

She nodded in response. Together, they continued their drinks without any further communication. It was clear they were both becoming very intoxicated. By the time they finished, it was already pitch black outdoors.

Walking out, it was almost one in the morning. They were both headed in the same direction and it was becoming hard to keep their balance, as Michael kept stumbling heavily. Valerie was slightly sober and could tell he needed help, but she also had a bit of trouble walking herself. Eventually they stopped by a Men's club. Valerie sat on the ground, unable to walk anymore. She noticed that he was still going, his eyes were closed as he walked, completely blacked out.

She wanted to help but a part of her felt unsafe around him. Instead she remained seated by the curb, trying to get rid of a throbbing headache that had started. The moment she tried to close her eyes, she heard a struggle nearby. It was coming from just around the corner of the Men's Club. Her headache prevented her from getting up immediately, but she was careful not to make a sound.

As she turned the corner, she noticed a pair of female legs sticking out just below a suspended cartwheel. The remainder of the body was covered behind a building. There was blood beginning to spill from her hidden torso, leaking towards the road. Valerie wanted to scream but placed a hand over her mouth instead. Just as she was about to yell or possibly even run into the scene, she saw a shadow move in front of the body.

The murderer was there, right behind the wall.

She could just see his hand clench the knife, he was brutally slicing away at his victim's waist. Slowly, she tiptoed her way towards the corpse while the ripper was still performing his work. She had nothing to defend herself or attack him with. But that was when she heard some noise come from behind her.

A horse had neighed. Just behind the corner of the Men's Club, a carriage was approaching them. Suddenly, Valerie could hear footsteps rapidly escape the scene. The ripper heard the carriage, he was running away. By the time Valerie realized it, she was met with a choice.

If she stays, she'll have some explaining to do and the ripper will escape. But if she runs after him, she could single handedly put an end to London's most infamous serial killer.

She couldn't let him get away, not this time. How many innocent lives has he already claimed? If the city's police force failed to apprehend the ripper, then she might as well do it herself. Even if she's unarmed herself and has nothing to protect herself with, she's willing to risk her life to put an end to the very insolence that plagued this city.

Before giving it another thought, she started to run. Running faster than she's ever ran before in her life, she ignored the butchered corpse below her and turned the corner. There he was, she could see the ripper in the far distance.

He's not getting away, the chase was finally on.

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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 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

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