When it comes to my personal lifestyle, many things come to mind when I walk. All of the different people I have seen, met… and killed. If you are a Vampire such as I, you will find yourself remembering the faces of so many people you have "encountered." But the most identifying factor you will remember about a person… is their blood. In the realm of Vampires, blood is a currency. All of a person's actions, looks, their way of movement, memories, and soul are bound in blood. When a Vampire drinks the blood of a human or another demonic being, (Vampires included) their essence is absorbed into the consciousness of the Vampire. From then on the Vampire has the ability to call upon whomever he wishes from his own consciousness, and use them as however he pleases. This "familiar" however has no conscious mind to speak of, and so can only act upon instinct. This is one of the worst torments a soul can be brought to bear. An eternal stay in the deepest circle of hell would be less of a torture for these men, women, and… I don't even know what to call some anymore. The only reason any of these beings have been made to suffer as they do, was because of a single Vampire's handiwork on my poor human soul. That was when I still had what someone could actually consider a soul. The beginning of my insatiable bloodlust began in the year of 1888, London, England.
London, England. Whitechapel District
October 10th, 1888.
Just as it was any other day, Walter's eyes opened to his window. The sunlight perfectly lit his room, with no blinding effect. The reason for this was the great clock, "Big Ben". The morning sun hid three-fourths of itself behind the old clock, just giving him enough light to see the room. Quickly Walter gets out of bed, and without hesitation made his bed. "Mo-her' would have my blewdy` head kno-ed` in the hangman's noose if she saw my bed in this shape." Walter said to himself in a grim, heavy English accent. He turned to his brown, diamond-pattered, bathroom door and turned the knob. Walter entered his bathroom to take a quick shower before his day could begin. Clothing flopped onto the toilet next to neatly folded clothes on the sink cabinet. Walter goes into the shower and turns the heat to about one-hundred-five degrees. Walter begins to think excitedly about working with his father at the detective precinct. His father is head detective there. Apparently his father needs his son's help in discovering the identity of a criminal. Although, he has no idea why his father would want him to come and help, Walter's career choice was one of literature, poetry specifically. Whatever a poet could do to assist a police case, Walter hadn't the foggiest. Walter released his tense muscles and finished in the shower. He dressed himself with a wool hat upon his head that his mother had made with care. A simple white undershirt, with a hooded green sweater overtop, and a pair of black slacks over his legs. Walter put on his black loafers, threw on a coat, and walked out the door.
The streets of London were filled with people, particularly this street. Walter had the misfortune to be living in the one house that is next to the exercise gym. The encouraging sounds of the gym coach motivating his students, surprisingly took priority in Walter's ears over the chatter of people he walked by. It was a cold day, so he put his hands in his coat pockets to keep them warm. "Should have worn mittens…" Walter mumbled to himself. The way to the detective precinct was not that far away, so that Walter taking his car was not required. The loud noise of a horn caused Walter's ears to ring. He had not turned his head, but all he could hear was "you blewdy f-kin idiot!" From an impatient middle-aged man who valued his extra two seconds of getting to his destination. Walter chuckled to himself, and began to walk at a faster pace. Walter then heard the quarter-ring of Big Ben, signaling that he would still be fifteen minutes early arriving at the precinct. His father had almost demanded that Walter be at the precinct before 9:00 A.M. It must be a pretty important case to have his father be so demanding of him, almost out of character. Walter looked up to see the detective precinct's unmistakable, blood red sign. He climbed the many stone steps, opened the door, and walked in. A thought passed through Walter's mind if he should have knocked first. Walter walked into the main room, and seen a mature woman, looking to be about Walter's age with long blonde hair, freckles, blue eyes, and a devilish looking girl on her cap. She noticed Walter's presence, "Hello, my name is Sarah Jackalson. Do you have business here, Sir?" She said in a very professional manner. She spoke in an accent that Walter was unfamiliar with. "Oh!" Walter blurted out, with a red face. "I... I'm ere` to see my father." Walter said nervously. "Your father… you're going to have to be a bit more specific than that hun." She retorted kindly. Only Walter's mother had ever called him "hun or "honey." Hearing this woman saying it was a little unnerving for the young poet. Just as Walter was about to say something, Sarah leaned her head towards his and squinted her eyes. She then relaxed her expression as if she had a question answered. "You look like your Stephenson's son. Am I wrong?" she said perceptively. This woman's perception is very keen, Walter thought to himself. "Yes, quite right, Miss. Jackalson. Would you take me to where he is? Walter responded more maturely this time. "Well of course! Just let me organize a little bit around here." Sarah said while picking up a paper bag and water bottle off the floor, and placing them in their respective bins. Sarah waved her hand, urging Walter to follow. Walter blinked but then understood her gesture, and quickly followed behind.
"So what did you say your name was?" Sarah asked Walter. "Well, I di-n't give you my name Miss." Walter replied matter of factually. Sarah sighed heavily; "You don't get out much do you hun?" Sarah said blatantly. They walked through a door, which led to another hallway. "No, to be honest with you I don't. By trade I am a poet, and so I spend long hours of the day in my own mind." Walter explained to her. "Oh, I see. Well then let me just ask." Sarah stops suddenly, Walter looks over his shoulder at her. "What is your name hun?" Sarah asked with a face of pained tension. Walter turns to face her. "My name is Walter Bullock, son of Stephenson Bullock." Walter introduced himself. Sarah only looked at him in pure astonishment. "Your parents really brought you up to be chivalrous didn't they? Sarah asks followed by a quick chuckle. They both continue walking down the hallway. "Both, my mother and my father always taught me to be chivalrous to a lady. This is one of the many practices I use." Walter said proudly. Sarah starts to giggle at Walter's proclamation. "You're certainly an interesting guy, I'll give you that." Sarah admittedly said as she stopped just before the door. It read "H.D Office" in black bold letters. "What does H.D stand for?" Walter asked curiously. Sarah turned to him. "It means Head Detective, that's who your daddy is. Sarah replied strangely to Walter's ears. "Well I'd better get going hun. Good luck on that case." Sarah said as she began to walk away.
"Wait!" Walter exclaimed. Sarah turned her head and tilted it to the side questionably. "I wanted to ask you, if it's not impolite." Walter stumbled with his words. "Well? Out with it man." Sarah demanded. Walter bent his arms in front of him, pressed against his chest were his fisted hands. "What is with your accent?" Walter asked timidly. Sarah smiled brightly. "Well you see Walter. I am not really from around here, you see." She explained. "Where are you from then?" Walter inquired. "You'll have to find out next time you see me. It will give us something else to talk about." She replied and then walked hurriedly down the hallway, closing the door with force behind her. Walter stood there completely dumfounded. He turned to his father's office door. Walter knocked twice on the door and walked in. The room was quite clean and organized, conflicting with his father's "cleanliness" at his own home. In the middle of the room sat a desk with Stephenson, and another man looking through what appeared to be case files, and newspaper articles. Both men look up at Walter, the unnamed man's eyes brightening at seeing a new face. Stephen stood up and walked over to his son, and putting his hand on Walter's back. "This is my son Walter, Jack." Stephen introduced his son to his co-worker. "Oy` Stephen, ye know tis` proper etiquette for a man to introduce himself to a new face." The man said jokingly to Walter's father. Walter was slightly intimidated by Jack's tall and bulky structure. Walter wagered that he was at least six feet of seven inches, judging by how close Jack's head was to the ceiling. Jack walks over to Walter, ducking his head under an air duct that ran across the ceiling. Jack extended his hand to Walter from what appeared to be the ceiling. "Te` name is Jack Jefferson. An easy name to remember, I assure ye!" Jack said exuberantly with a smiling expression painted on his face. Walter was at least a height of six feet of three inches, but even he felt small in comparison to this "giant." Walter's father was at least 3 inches shorter than he was, but the height of Jack didn't seem to faze him. "Good day Jack. My name is Walter Bullock, esteemed poet if I do say so myself. Walter introduced himself proudly. Jack smiled at Walter's proud response. "Tis' good t' sees a young man so full of proud arrogance." Jack says, followed by a deep booming laugh. Walter could have sworn an earthquake had shaken his bones. Walter put his hand on Jack's and they shared in a strong gripped handshake.
"Now that our introductions are in order, Son, I would like you to look at the case you will be `elping us with." Stephenson said, and then looked at Jack. Jack turned and picked up a file dossier with newspaper clippings. He handed it over to Walter, and he looked at the title of the first heading.
WOMAN FOUND MUTILATED IN ALLEY OF WHITECHAPEL DISTRICT