The meagre light cast by the moon threw shadows over the smoggy graveyard. A lone, knarled tree stood to one side; long finger-like branches hanging over the wrought iron gates. A flurry of wings. A crow landed on one of the crippled extremities of the ancient tree. The crow, he held something in his claw. A shiny black beetle. It squirmed free, running along the branch, only to be imprisoned by the crow's scaly claw. The crow tossed the beetle into the air, swallowed it in a gulp. Then, a steady CLOPPing rhythm. The crow fluttered away.

Horace sat in the cart, being almost ejected from his seat every time it hit a cobble. The man opposite him was reading yesterday's paper, dated 31st august, 1888 and titled 'Jack the Ripper Strikes Again!'

"Some ghastly photographs, eh?"

No answer. So he tried again.

"This 'ripper' character has the entire east end living in fear. I'm surprized the authorities haven't had him hung yet!"

The other man finally looked up from his paper and cocked his head quizzically at Horace. "What if they haven't caught him yet?"

The coach slowed down and stopped at the end of a dark, secluded alleyway. It was deserted save for two lone figures, one about to board the cart and one waiting at the end of the lane.

The man with the paper squeezed out past the man entering the cart.

"In a hurry?" the man entering said. The other man's answer was a cold glare.

The door shut, and the cart was on the move again. The two men now riding in the cart were an odd pair. One, Horace, looked reasonably wealthy, with rings on his fingers, sugar-stained teeth, and a mildly rotund body type. The other man, who had now introduced himself as John, looked like his wallet may have been a touch lighter. His waistcoat and shirt were simpler, not adorned like Horace's. Also, he only wore one ring on his right hand, a wedding ring. His trousers were a bland grey-black colour and his face was wrinkled with stress. Even though he was middle aged, streaks of white were running through his hair. As they travelled through Whitechapel the windows became more clouded with vapour, the moisture from the smog condensing onto the glass.

"So... where are you headed?" John asked.

"Home. Been doing business in Whitechapel." Horace answered. "Just had to collect some rent" he added hastily, upon seeing John's expression. Suddenly the cart stopped and began to rock from side to side. After a while the rocking subsided.

"You there!" Shouted Horace, banging on the roof of the cart with his cane. "What in god's name has happened to this cart? I'm going to be late home."

No answer.

"Should we go and investigate?" John suggested.

"You first" Said Horace, as he lit a cigar. "My doctor said it would calm my nerves." He added in response to John's disapproving glance.

"Your cowardice supersedes even your wealth."

The two men exited the cart only to find that the smog was so thick they could barely see their own hands, let alone anything else. They fumbled around for a while, trying to reach the driver's seat. When they finally got up, the driver's seat was empty; the driver must have left without them.

"But why? We were paying customers, and I reckon he could have drawn a little extra from you as well."

Just then, as Horace was preparing a witty remark, he stepped in something that made a sickly squelching noise.

"What in the name of...?"

He bent down, hoping to see what it was he had stumbled upon. He stooped further, dreading what might come looming out of the smog at him.

With good reason.

Because what he did see was the horses, insides strewn everywhere. Horace had accidentally stepped into one of the corpses. He lurched backwards, screaming, as John ran to him.

"What in hell was that!?"

They both ran, ran like the Cerberus itself was nipping at their heels. Maybe it was. Soon Horace's body failed him and he was left lagging behind, John running off without Horace, his body super fuelled by adrenaline. Horace shouted after him, but to no avail. He gave up, his body wanting just to crumple into a heap on the ground, his mind willing himself to run on. Then he heard a rustling noise issuing from the woods behind him; it circled around him until it was to his left side, and whatever was stalking him was in the open, exposed. He turned, but even here the smog was thick enough to conceal the thing hunting him. He was sure of that now, that the thing had intentions of killing him. John had finally come down off his adrenaline high, and was making his way back to Horace. The thing was getting closer to them, and only Horace was aware of it.

"Something's following us. I can hear it."

Then it barrelled into his side with such force there was an audible SNAP as one of Horace's ribs broke. His cane flew out of his hand, rolling away towards John. The beast began biting him, specially adapted jaws crushing into him. Blood oozed, and Horace screamed. It tossed him aside with a flick of its head, and at the first given opportunity he yelled to John:

"MY CANE! GIVE ME MY CANE!"

John did not react immediately, but upon seeing Horace lying winded on the floor bleeding he complied. He didn't know why, but Horace seemed to know what he was doing. The cane slapped into his bloodied palm, and the beast lunged. Horace rolled aside, as the beast skidded back round at him. He scrambled away, twisting the handle of his cane as he did so. He pulled sharply, and a concealed blade erupted from the lower half of the cane. The beast lunged again, but this time Horace was, to some degree, ready. Partially out of instinct he stabbed at the thing as it landed on him. The sword punctured the thick hide easily, and the beast howled. It was an unearthly sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard and a hundred hounds howling all at once. A sound ripped from hell itself. Horace pulled the sword out and began slashing wildly, the howling getting louder. The thing reared back, attempting to shield itself from the source of its pain. Horace didn't stop, the adrenaline pumping hard and fast through his body. This thing had very nearly killed him, and he didn't want that risk. He had worked so hard, he couldn't die now! These thoughts fuelled him even more, he began attacking more ferociously. The beast no longer stood a chance. Though the blow had been rushed and wild, it had punctured a lung, and that lunge would cost the beast its life. Its skin was now hanging in tatters, greyish blood leaking everywhere. The beast whimpered as Horace rammed the sharpened spike of metal through its head. And it was all over. Horace stood over the corpse, clutching his side, hunched over. The sword slipped from his grasp. John stood, astonished by the whole affair. Horace smiled weakly at him, an expression that said I did it! I won! Then Horace fell to his knees, coughed up some of his precious and dwindling supply of blood, and fell forwards. Black clouded his vision, until everything went black. John stood, watching as red mingled with grey.

Horace woke up in the hospital, dazed and confused. He was surrounded by doctors, and when he sat up he noticed that almost his entire torso was wrapped in bandages. Not much, if any blood had seeped through.

"We think you were attacked by a wolf or dog of some kind." One of the doctors informed him.

"Why's that?" Horace asked.

"Wounds that have had their saliva in seem to heal quicker. Obviously, since you were bitten, whatever bit you will have passed its saliva into your body. The wound has healed remarkably fast, so we surmised that it was dog or wolf. So, you are free to leave when you feel ready."

"But... The thing, its teeth almost met! I could feel it!"

"I told you the wound had healed extremely fast. Too fast. But, as long as you feel fine, you can leave."

As Horace left the hospital, he looked at the paper. It was dated 30th September. He must have been under for over a month! He bought the paper and got on a cart, making his way home.

He looked out of the window as he travelled, occasionally glancing down at his paper. The Ripper had claimed 3 more victims over the past month, two on the same date. Horace had his suspicions that he was planning another.

He passed another cart, and saw something that chilled his blood. The man who had been reading the paper on his first trip out of Whitechapel was sat, twirling a knife fondly. It was getting dark, but Horace had a strange urge to follow. He banged on the roof.

"Turn back! I need to get to that cart!"

The driver obliged, and soon they were back in Whitechapel. Horace departed, following the man who he highly suspected was Jack the Ripper. The moon was full, so it was easy to see him. Horace followed him all the way to a dark house, entered after him. The urge overpowered Horace, he entered the room with the Ripper. Then Horace's body began a terrible metamorphosis. His nose and mouth extended into a snout, he dropped to his hands and feet. Or what had been his hands and feet, but were now his paws. The Ripper and the girl were both screaming as Horace reared up onto his hind legs and went in for the kill. The girl was dead in seconds, despite her cries of "MURDER!" The Ripper, however had slipped out of a window while Horace had fed on the girl, and was now climbing down a nearby pole. Horace leapt at him, grasped his puny head between powerful jaws, and gave a sharp twist. The Ripper was dead.

But Horace was not finished with him. He carried the corpse to the woods and fed. His hunger sate, he looked at the moon, a hint of humanity still there. Soon Horace would wake up, human again, surrounded by bones. Maybe he would remember this night, maybe he would be horrified. Or maybe, he would feel no guilt at what he had done.

Such is the human race.

                                            The End