October 17th 1887

In the hours between brief periods of sleep, I had time to reflect on the sins I have committed. In the past when I have doubted my morality, you were there to quieten me. You offered me the warmth of your hand and said something to make me smile, as you so often do with that honied tongue you reserve only for me. Your love for me through this arrangement has not waned, and I quite admire your strength for standing by a man like me. It cannot be easy loving any son of my father's, nor is it easy being involuntarily associated with names like Hallenbeck and Emory. But try as you might to comfort me, you also do not understand that silencing my sins has not been good for either of us.

You tell me I am not the man Hallenbeck made me... that I am not his Jack. You are the only one in Whitechapel who knows me by my real name and you remind me of it when you whisper it softly in my ear at night. I know why you do it. But being Jack is a facet of my character that I cannot pretend isn't there. Hallenbeck did not force me into watching him mutilate the dead for his experiments. I was not kept prisoner in his laboratory by ball and chain. I fear there is a dark side of me that is open to such morbid curiosity, and, though you must never tell another soul, I was somewhat relieved when Emory Jr gave me the grave news. For a moment I thought I might at last be truly free, though I was not the only one to notice there was no saddened quiver in Emory's voice when he spoke of Hallenbeck's death either.

But even now when he is dead and lies face up on Emory's table with his bowels exposed and his lips receding over his teeth, I still feel the weight of his influence over me. I fear the dreams of Hallenbeck's chimera will only continue. Is that truly why I came here to Dartmoor? Is it mourning that drives me to search for his killer, or is it mere indulgence?

My wakefulness had been for nothing, my love, except for wishing your body close to mine, for the maid did not deliver a tray to my door this morning. A few times I thought I heard a knock, only to realise after I opened the door to an empty corridor that it might have been the old structure creaking instead. I grew more annoyed with every rumble from the pit of my stomach.

Still, as I wandered the inn searching for another living soul, I couldn't help but notice that every door in the place was open. I could have sworn in the previous days they had all remained closed. Locked, even. But I had been up most of the night, dear, and I heard nothing that sounded much like the clunk of a lock or the cries of aged door hinges. I cannot even ascend the stairs at night without fearing the noise will disturb my neighbours.

But I suppose it would be folly to jump to any conclusions. As I searched the downstairs storey I considered it fair to assume that the doors were open for cleaning or airing purposes. It is not uncommon for old lodges to suffer damp, especially after the rains we have had of late. Still, I found it unsettling that I had yet to find anyone around at all.

It is against my better judgement that I once again felt I must search the hills for the answers I sought and finally return home, leaving that lonely shack of an inn for good. After learning of the incidents in the woods, I would not have advised a return journey there even to somebody I would rather see the end of. So why, I asked myself as I pulled on my boots, was I going? Was it the curiosity that my father had bred into me? Or was it some pervasive morbidity that my many hours with Hallenbeck had secured?

What was more... I wrote in brief in a previous letter of the naked corpse I had seen, hanged from a tree limb with its head oddly tilted and a noose around its neck. If I did not know better I'd have to suppose what I saw was a suicide. But so disorientated and distressed was I that I did not entertain turning back and examining it. I had washed my hands of playing master of the dead months ago and told myself instead that I had not seen it. If ever there arises a police enquiry I will hold my silence on the matter.

As I climbed Beardown Tor around noon, it occurred to me that perhaps Emory had been mistaken. How absurd it was that a mere man alone could spear his fellow on a tree limb. Even a group of conspirators could not have built a mechanism to hoist Hallenbeck that high and leave no trace of such a contraption in the moss.

For the first time I considered that Hallenbeck might have taken his own life. That is not to say he impaled himself, my dear. Heavens, no. The man was a butcher, but he would treat even the most minute of scalpel cuts in his own flesh with iodine and bandages right away. No, the man could not stand to see his own blood – I suppose it reminded him too much of his own mortality. It is not out of the question, after all, that Emory had been drunk when Haas told him what had transpired. He is not known to lie, but if his abuse of the bottle (and I speak not only of alcohol, as he is well acquainted with all manner of tinctures) is anything to go by, it is clear the man is quite easily misled. Was Hallenbeck truly impaled on the tree, or was he merely hanging?

The power of language may make a fool of us all, my love. How typical it is of Emory in his stupors to misinterpret Haas. Or perhaps it was the Dutchman's English that led to this mistake. I ask myself which is more probable: a supernatural force able to skewer a man twelve feet in the air, or a terrified man whose grasp of our native tongue is not one to brag about, explaining what he saw to another who was born with a crystal tumbler in his hand?

When at last I reached the edge of Wistman's Wood, I had already decided Hallenbeck had committed suicide. I retraced yesterday's steps as best I could – ducking under the same moss-cloaked branches, hopping across the river running through the heart of the wood, even counting the oddly carved stones as I went. I took the path I imagined Hallenbeck might have taken in his final moments; he was not one to turn his cheek to risks, even in his old age. It would be his curiosity that drove him in that last hour of his life. Perhaps he had always wished to visit the moors. After all, many noted his singular connection with nature at its most macabre, and I had never encountered a wood so ghastly. It fit. And so did the decision to take his own life.

You may be alarmed to hear it, but there has not been a week gone by since I formally acquainted with the man that I have not considered the same. The few months since we argued over my departure have not fared much kinder, but because of that, and for many other reasons, I thank you for being in my life. Hallenbeck, however, died never knowing the love of another person. How could he live with himself after all those years? I thought him to be married to his work, but perhaps I did not know him well enough, because even with all my lateral thinking I could not get used to the idea that he'd hanged himself.

And it all changed when I found the bodies.

Hundreds of them. Nooses tight around their necks, swaying in the wind, mouths agape. Limbs and entrails strewn across the moss. Entire bodies impaled high on twisted branches, bent and broken like discarded dolls. Bones that had been there so long the trees had grown around them... and the stench... God help me. I'd stumbled upon an entire grove of corpses.

My darling, I fled so fast I hardly remember the path I took, but the woods only grew worse the more I got lost. I slipped on rocks slick and stained with old blood, coming away with fresh grazes. I snagged my cloak on wooden claws reaching out to grab me, yanking my hair from its fasten. It did not matter where I turned, the corpsewood pursued me, always in the next clearing. Dead eyes followed me as I stumbled over upturned roots. Tortured moans rattled through dead leaves over the sound of my own panting.

I could have sworn from the corner of my vision that the terrain contorted more and more into the familiar shapes of the human form. Twigs stretched out into hooked fingers. Rocky hollows rounded into eye sockets. Red, bloodied water splashed up the inseam of my trousers as I dashed across the river once more.

It was already nightfall when I at last collapsed on the edge of the forest. I could not explain the accelerated passage of time either. I was all too relieved to feel the cool, dewy grass on my face as I collapsed to my knees to sob. No, I am not so ashamed of my reaction that will omit this part to you. What I saw in amongst those contorted, ancient trees will be a vision I may well take to my grave. I pity any others like me who have seen it or merely imagined it. Or perhaps that is why they wander back into the woods to join the dead ones...

I am once again alone at the Wych Elm Inn, my love, but I will not sleep tonight. My nighttime view of the forest from my window now sends a shiver crawling along my skin. I am cold to the bone and my handwriting is shaky, but for now I'm safe and sheltered, and the dead ones will remain far away so long as I do not let my eyes rest.

I am returning to Whitechapel tomorrow at dawn. If I have to walk to the nearest town, so be it. I will not stay another night on these moors. Hallenbeck be damned. Whatever killed him will remain unfound.

To Hell with that unholy place!

Yours, with love.