London

4,406 years since initial death
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It wasn't a crime scene they discovered, but a satanic awakening.

Inside the small bedroom was a pool of blood underneath the bed that held the butchered corpse of what was supposed to be a woman. Her face was missing, nothing but flesh and empty sockets remained inside her head. The body lay torn open, some organs spilled and others were missing. 

This was an act of brutality beyond anything the police had ever seen. They wondered if the woman was kept alive to experience the pain of having her innards removed, or if the killer was kind enough to kill her first. It seemed there was a reaper haunting the cold streets of London at night, though in this case, a more fitting title would be a ripper. 

Much like the previous mangled corpses left behind, the evidence wasn't enough to describe the suspect. One of the only leads they had on the case was a letter that was received several weeks prior to this incident. The letter 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. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits.'

After later examinations, they learned the woman was a prostitute. Though they had already expected it, as there was a clear pattern in victims. 

'I am down on whores and I shan't 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?'

The woman was named Mary Jane Kelly, and by now everyone knew exactly who the culprit was. But nobody knew his real identity, nor his whereabouts. All they knew was the name of an urban myth, an unidentifiable man.

'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.'

Police stumbled around in their offices, deciphered clues and checked the morgues. At the time they had first received this letter, there had only been two murders linked to this case.

'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.'

For over a month, all of London was on the hunt for the demonic entity behind these murders. But it was all to no avail. Whoever the killer was knew how to stay hidden and blend in with his surroundings. 

'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.'

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London had always been a grand, vast city.

However, the introduction of automobiles brought forth a new change in the world, as the industrial revolution started. Locomotive trains, railway systems and even automobiles were introduced to the world. Factories lay in the horizon, smoke polluted the skies and the sounds of machines plagued the city.

The city was filled with life and traffic, carriages were driven through the streets and civilians walked down the busy roads in orderly fashions. The newly invented light bulb had brightened up some parts of the city, while others remained with traditional candles and torches.

It offered a change never before seen, a new way of life. Photography had started, and the first pictures of humanity's peak in evolution and technology were taken. It opened up a new world of unlimited possibilities.

Michael Smith arrived by ship sailing from New York. He thought the prospect of discovering a 'New World', as they called it, would have been an adventure for the ages. But it was all the same. New land, same wars. 

They slaughtered natives and built a foundation over the blood of innocents, then they turned their muskets towards one another in a war for independence from each other. They called it a Revolutionary War, one that Michael was unfortunate enough to partake in. Getting shot by a rifle was far more painful than an arrow, and he lost count of how many times he died as a result.

Now back in London, he took this new evolution in machinery quite differently. He knew time always moved on, and so did the people. Nothing ever remains the same. Cultures, architecture, religions, weaponry, and technology always change.

It was saddening, and quite nostalgic for him. He held on to so many traditions throughout the ages and found it hard to move on into a world that was so different. From the Old Kingdom of Egypt to the Victorian industrial age of London, England; it was hard to take it all in even after all these years.

Rather than working his usual jobs, he became a barber. Nobody should trust him with a knife, but he had seen enough hairstyles from all over the globe. The pay wasn't great, though he had enough money accumulated over the past years. He rented a cozy apartment in the heart of Whitechapel. 

With absolutely no major conflicts in the world aside from a conflict in Hawaii and the British Empire battling in Tibet, Michael was free to live his life comfortably. He stayed away from politics and made sure not to make any enemies whatsoever. There was no reason for his life to fall apart again. 

But it never could be perfect. Romance was the only aspect he missed. He had it all but no one to share it with. Perhaps a wife wasn't even what he needed, but just another hand to hold. When he used to live in his makeshift home back in Ireland, he knew he was alone and accepted it. But within these walls so torn and thin, he was losing himself again. Surrounded by thousands of strangers, but no true friends. All he wanted was just to feel like all the others.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror back home and frowned. He paused briefly, then shaved his stubble beard once more. The last time he had allowed it to grow fully was centuries ago. But he had a different idea in mind. He kept the mustache, allowing it to grow further. 

He didn't like the look of it, but perhaps someone else could find it attractive. Therefore, he didn't shave it. 

When nightfall approached, he spent it outdoors at the pub. Alcohol was the best companion he had. Ever since Somerset, he always had a habit of attempting to drown out his problems by forgetting about them. He often drank too much, sometimes falling victim to alcohol poisoning because of it. 

Chugging down glasses, one by one, he certainly did forget about his depression. It reached a point where a few people paid to see him chug several cups down. After earning some pocket money, he left the pub still completely drunk out of his mind as he stumbled down the dark alleyway.

It was around 2:45 in the morning. A few street lights dimmed the dark atmosphere. Michael's shadow loomed over the road, his black coat rippled in the crisp air, and he straightened his top hat. 

Two women were walking by, one of which was a prostitute. She too was stumbling. A few thoughts rushed through his mind.

Suddenly, the two women separated. The prostitute continued walking towards him while the other woman left the scene, seeming annoyed. 

He walked over and leaned against a wall near the prostitute. "It's nearly the Devil's hour."

"Aye, it is. If I wasn't kicked from my lodge, I'd be under a soft blanket right about now." She replied casually.

Michael could tell she was intoxicated without her needing to say it. For a second, he tried to think of a response, but he only found himself staring back at her without even blinking.

"Fancy what you see?" She replied and raised an eyebrow. 

"Apologies, miss." Michael tipped his top hat, he wanted to leave but a violent headache prevented him from moving. He shouldn't have drunk so much. "It is not my intention to stare. I'm having trouble standing on my own two feet as they are, ha ha." 

The woman smirked. She undid the top portion of her dress and revealed her breasts. It was a common gesture in her line of profession and she was comfortable in doing so. "Consider this your preview then."

Michael continued to stare, although he was having trouble focusing on her. Despite wanting to look away out of respect, he noticed that his eyes were examining her from head to toe. It was clear he was far too intoxicated for his own good, he had to leave before he embarrasses himself further. "A fine figure, I must admit. However, I must take my leave. It's been a jolly fun night of booze, but I need rest, as do you. Good day."

"Suit yourself."

He started to walk off. This time, he was stumbling worse than before. Only a few dim lights lit up the area, the rest of the alley was entirely pitch black. Then, the alcohol got to him. His vision faded into darkness, and his mind shut down. He had blacked out completely.

It took him a while to wake up.

At first it was silent, his surroundings were still dark as the moon lightly shined directly over him as he laid on the ground. By the time he came to his senses again, he noticed an odd smell. There was even a terrible taste inside his mouth, but his thoughts were immediately cut short when he heard a call for help. Suddenly, his eyes snapped, his mind returned. The call came from down the alleyway, just by Buck's Road.

Instantly, he stood up, feeling pain resonating from his nose. He placed a hand over it and found blood. Clearly, he had collapsed right over it. He disregarded it, focusing his attention back at the cry for help.

He rushed towards it as fast as he could, exiting the alley and reaching the road. There, he noticed what all the commotion was about.

Lying on the pavement outside of a gate was the body of the very same woman he had spoken to.

She had been mercilessly butchered, as her own blood formed a stream down the alleyway.

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Historical Notes:

Hundreds of letters were sent to the police department claiming to be from the killer himself. A rough estimate states that over a thousand letters were received. Only four of them were ever believed to have been written by Jack the Ripper.

One of which, the 'From Hell' letter, was sent with half of a preserved kidney taken from one of the victims. In the letter, the 'killer' stated he had eaten the other half. However, many believe this was only a prank from a medical student.

2,000 people were interviewed, 300 people were investigated, and 80 people were detained in response to the murders.

Around 1,200 women worked as prostitutes in the district of Whitechapel.

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