Dear Reader,
I know not who, if anyone, shall find and read this letter. My only forays into your world are when I am called. Even then, I have duties to perform, dark desires to satisfy. Some theirs, and some mine. It was my particular desires that beckoned the Engineer all those many years ago. I had an insatiable appetite for the suffering of others. The beautiful song their throat's made as my blade slid in filled my soul with an unimaginable glee. The vacant stare that the Reaper left behind as I took my prize made my soul shiver.
I was a clever boy, always one step ahead. In fact, my fame remains anonymous, even after all this time.
It has been widely written and expounded that all of my victims were female. That is a falsehood. While bangtails were easily accessible, I had many more outings than were ever known. Sadly, most of my darkly artistic efforts were never recovered. The river scavengers do their job all too well.
But I jump ahead in our tale. They say every story has a beginning, but this one does not. Mine, however, does.
As a young man, I was consumed by the desire for knowledge. I wanted to swim in all the secrets of the universe. As a person of some wealth, I was able to travel quite extensively in my pursuits. It was in Paris that I was to begin my final Journey. It was to change me forever, and also, perhaps, the world. I was studying art with a painter whose name I'm sure you'd recognize were I to disclose it. It was a dreadful day, all rain and clouds. It reminded me of home. Not the ideal setting for brush and canvas in some flowery courtyard. So I decided to venture into some of the old book shops around town.
I was in the cramped and dusty shop of Msr. Michel de Monet (no relation), flipping through an ancient tome on the exploits of Gilles de Rais, when a pencil sketch fell to the floor. I stooped, meaning to grab up the page and shove it back in lest I be forced to buy the damn thing, but one look at the yellowed, crumbling paper stopped me cold. It was a technical drawing for what seemed to be some sort of a music box. The intricacy and precision of the design fascinated me. The inner workings seemed far too complicated for the simple task of creating some banal melody. The title of the work, The Coenobyte's Welcome, was even more baffling and interesting. It was signed by the inventor. Reiss Kunst. I had never heard of him. I replaced the sketch and bought the book. That night I spent the first of many sleepless nights in my rooms, staring at this mechanism. Why did it intrigue me so? I knew not.
I abandoned painting and spent the next several months learning all I could of this box. Through further research, I learned that Reiss Kunst had been inspired by the works of one Albertus Magnus, whose 13th century music boxes had been even more intricately designed and built. I could find no more information on Magnus other than wildly fantastic tales of white demons of pleasure and pain.
There was a deep need, stronger than any feeling I had ever had, to know. I had to KNOW so I returned to Msr. De Monet (no relation). From him I learned of Msr. Phillip LeMarchand, an architect and (joy!) designer of almost 250 such boxes. It seems he was also a mass murderer, driven mad by the boxes he created. As he recounted the horrid details of LeMarchand's crimes, I was surprised, but only slightly disturbed to discover that I was becoming both mentally and physically aroused. Msr. De Monet (no relation) had actually sold several LeMarchand's boxes that his grandfather had kept locked up. The physician that had bought the boxes lived less than two hours away. I collected the name and address and was off..
I stopped by my rooms to fetch my purse and engage in some rather feverish and twisted self gratification. I dug my nails into the flesh around my left nipple, drawing blood as I climaxed. I wasn't the least bit put off by the images of death that flitted past my tightly clenched eyes as I spilt my seed on the rich red carpet.
Less than two hours later I was being shown the objects of my all- consuming obsession, a row of three beautifully crafted puzzle boxes perfectly aligned behind a locked glass case. I felt them calling me. I heard their melodies of flesh, their symphonies of torture. My hands ached to touch them. The surgeon refused my offers to buy even one of these sacred treasures, no matter what I offered. I begged. I pleaded. I cried, never taking my eyes off the gold trimmed boxes. How they gleamed, how I loved them, like you'd love a woman's embrace. Still his answer was no. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turn away with a little smile on his lips, and I hated him.
I turned away from the case, and I tell you now, it physically pained me to do so. I grabbed a nibbed pen from his oak desk and calmly shoved it into his throat. It was at that moment, watching him claw feebly at the pen's blood-slick handle, his mouth moving but issuing only a faint gurgle, that I felt more alive, more vibrant than I ever had before. I felt pure joy watching him choke to death on the pen and his own blood. Joy yes, but also intense sexual arousal. I grabbed the surgeon's black bag, shattered the glass case and swept the boxes into it. I would revel in my new acquisitions later. I pulled a blade from the satchel, it seemed to glow. I had much sexual frustration to work out. I went in search of the maid.
I remained in Paris for 3 years, honing and refining my new art, the reconfiguration of flesh. I killed indiscriminately. I dispatched men, women, and children, whoever who was accessible to me when I needed it. My thirst grew. My hunger could not be satisfied. I spent hours staring at my puzzle boxes, dreaming, fantasizing. I hadn't touched the boxes with my bare skin in a long time. I had only done it once, but that had been enough to know I wasn't ready yet. The feelings had been far too intense, too painful. My nose bled for two days and my hearing has never really been the same. When the disappearances started being noticed I felt it was time to return home, to London.
London in the winter is a miserable place. The freezing wet air penetrates your mind, your heart. I began killing again, slowly at first, choosing random targets on the outskirts of the city. I took great care in hiding the increasingly more mutilated remains of my attempts of re-order of the flesh. I still could not bear to think of handling the boxes. Even looking at them brought the intense awareness that I was not ready. My glee in death was peaking, but no one took notice. I knew what had to be done.
It was the autumn of the year of your lord, 1888, when I dispatched my first prostitute. I did it on the street, people coming and going, but no one heard the rattle as death took her. I went about my work with an excitement that had thus far eluded me. The orgasm was such that it put me on God's doorstep. I went home and waited for the press and the police to notice. It was not a long wait. I felt such fantastic satisfaction in my work, such pride. It was ordered beauty and my heart was black ice.
The second was much easier, as was the third, and by then I had begun sending letters. I taunted, I teased. I even sent pieces of the prizes I took. I had begun carrying the surgeon's satchel with the boxes inside. I needed them with me. I needed to feel their draw as I sliced away the humanity from these women. I made them ready for hell, ready to stand before Leviathan. Ever piece of flesh I removed from their filthy bodies brought me closer to the dark gateway and my new life. The melody grew louder in my ears, a cacophony of silence. I heard bells, droning for the souls of these pitiable whores.
When I murdered the fourth, I heard the voice for the first time. The voice of my maker, my Engineer seemed to come from the bag itself, from the boxes. He said to me "My sweet child, you have glorified our lord, Leviathan, with your art. You have proven yourself worthy of the Order of the Gash. You shall be remade, a small god in the work to bring order to chaos. You shall be a bringer of wicked desires, a dark lover promising pleasure and pain and everything between. You will be called Cenobite."
I scarcely slept. My heart reeled. My soul sang praises of exquisite murder. I was called. My blood boiled in my head. I chose carefully for the final kill, a beautiful young woman, a body worthy of my skills with the blade. She followed me to the empty flat like a lamb following Mary to the slaughterhouse. She chatted excitedly and constantly, barely noting my strained monosyllabic answers. My guts squirmed with anticipation. I set my case on the scarred oak desk, pushed her down to her knees in front of me. I shoved my penis roughly into her mouth and began arranging the boxes. I felt a surge much more powerful than ever before. It traveled from the tips of my fingers down to my loins, forcing wave upon wave of ejaculate down her throat. I began to cry.
I told her to lay on the bed and I wrapped her scarf around her eyes. A smile played at her lips. She was enjoying this, but not as much as I. I heard the bell begin to toll as I reached into the bag and brought out my scalpel. It gleamed with the promise of a thousand screams. I raised my arm, the weight of the moment forcing my hand down. The blade slid into her heart. She never made a sound. This had been what she wanted. I worked feverishly, cutting huge chunks, arranging pieces, spreading the blood. I wanted to impress my master. I touched the first box, my finger tip bloody and slick, around and around. My heartbeat doubled and the boxed began to move. The room went black, black as coal. I saw my breath, a thin trail of escaped heat as I touched the next box. It sprang open and I heard chains, hundreds of thousands of chains. I heard them split the air, shooting past my face, all around me. My pulse quickened even more. I reached out to grab the last box and it leapt into my hand, wrapping itself around my fingers in a mechanical, yet fluid manner. I felt the icy fire of hell run through my bloodstream. My heart stopped. I heard the torment of every lost soul. I heard the cries of those asking for condemnation, the cries I would be answering. I felt to the floor, feeling myself change. I looked up and I saw him. The Engineer. His white-blue skin flayed, wired, hooked. He was beautiful and I was his. He spoke again, his words lost to the sound of the ripping of my flesh, the cracking of my bones. I was aware for the first time ever of my entire body. The pain was orgasmic. My body shook as I was scarred for my lord.
I was reborn that day, over a hundred years ago. I am Cenobite, a demon- angel of need, a night terror of want. I became the bogeyman to millions. I break very strict rules in sending this to your world, but I still retain a taste for fame. I wait in the cold Labyrinth of hell. I wait for your call. I will come. I always come when I am needed. wanted. On that day, whenever it may be, I will share with you my name and more. Oh so much more. There are such sights to show, so many dark delights to give. Until that day, I remain:
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper
I know not who, if anyone, shall find and read this letter. My only forays into your world are when I am called. Even then, I have duties to perform, dark desires to satisfy. Some theirs, and some mine. It was my particular desires that beckoned the Engineer all those many years ago. I had an insatiable appetite for the suffering of others. The beautiful song their throat's made as my blade slid in filled my soul with an unimaginable glee. The vacant stare that the Reaper left behind as I took my prize made my soul shiver.
I was a clever boy, always one step ahead. In fact, my fame remains anonymous, even after all this time.
It has been widely written and expounded that all of my victims were female. That is a falsehood. While bangtails were easily accessible, I had many more outings than were ever known. Sadly, most of my darkly artistic efforts were never recovered. The river scavengers do their job all too well.
But I jump ahead in our tale. They say every story has a beginning, but this one does not. Mine, however, does.
As a young man, I was consumed by the desire for knowledge. I wanted to swim in all the secrets of the universe. As a person of some wealth, I was able to travel quite extensively in my pursuits. It was in Paris that I was to begin my final Journey. It was to change me forever, and also, perhaps, the world. I was studying art with a painter whose name I'm sure you'd recognize were I to disclose it. It was a dreadful day, all rain and clouds. It reminded me of home. Not the ideal setting for brush and canvas in some flowery courtyard. So I decided to venture into some of the old book shops around town.
I was in the cramped and dusty shop of Msr. Michel de Monet (no relation), flipping through an ancient tome on the exploits of Gilles de Rais, when a pencil sketch fell to the floor. I stooped, meaning to grab up the page and shove it back in lest I be forced to buy the damn thing, but one look at the yellowed, crumbling paper stopped me cold. It was a technical drawing for what seemed to be some sort of a music box. The intricacy and precision of the design fascinated me. The inner workings seemed far too complicated for the simple task of creating some banal melody. The title of the work, The Coenobyte's Welcome, was even more baffling and interesting. It was signed by the inventor. Reiss Kunst. I had never heard of him. I replaced the sketch and bought the book. That night I spent the first of many sleepless nights in my rooms, staring at this mechanism. Why did it intrigue me so? I knew not.
I abandoned painting and spent the next several months learning all I could of this box. Through further research, I learned that Reiss Kunst had been inspired by the works of one Albertus Magnus, whose 13th century music boxes had been even more intricately designed and built. I could find no more information on Magnus other than wildly fantastic tales of white demons of pleasure and pain.
There was a deep need, stronger than any feeling I had ever had, to know. I had to KNOW so I returned to Msr. De Monet (no relation). From him I learned of Msr. Phillip LeMarchand, an architect and (joy!) designer of almost 250 such boxes. It seems he was also a mass murderer, driven mad by the boxes he created. As he recounted the horrid details of LeMarchand's crimes, I was surprised, but only slightly disturbed to discover that I was becoming both mentally and physically aroused. Msr. De Monet (no relation) had actually sold several LeMarchand's boxes that his grandfather had kept locked up. The physician that had bought the boxes lived less than two hours away. I collected the name and address and was off..
I stopped by my rooms to fetch my purse and engage in some rather feverish and twisted self gratification. I dug my nails into the flesh around my left nipple, drawing blood as I climaxed. I wasn't the least bit put off by the images of death that flitted past my tightly clenched eyes as I spilt my seed on the rich red carpet.
Less than two hours later I was being shown the objects of my all- consuming obsession, a row of three beautifully crafted puzzle boxes perfectly aligned behind a locked glass case. I felt them calling me. I heard their melodies of flesh, their symphonies of torture. My hands ached to touch them. The surgeon refused my offers to buy even one of these sacred treasures, no matter what I offered. I begged. I pleaded. I cried, never taking my eyes off the gold trimmed boxes. How they gleamed, how I loved them, like you'd love a woman's embrace. Still his answer was no. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turn away with a little smile on his lips, and I hated him.
I turned away from the case, and I tell you now, it physically pained me to do so. I grabbed a nibbed pen from his oak desk and calmly shoved it into his throat. It was at that moment, watching him claw feebly at the pen's blood-slick handle, his mouth moving but issuing only a faint gurgle, that I felt more alive, more vibrant than I ever had before. I felt pure joy watching him choke to death on the pen and his own blood. Joy yes, but also intense sexual arousal. I grabbed the surgeon's black bag, shattered the glass case and swept the boxes into it. I would revel in my new acquisitions later. I pulled a blade from the satchel, it seemed to glow. I had much sexual frustration to work out. I went in search of the maid.
I remained in Paris for 3 years, honing and refining my new art, the reconfiguration of flesh. I killed indiscriminately. I dispatched men, women, and children, whoever who was accessible to me when I needed it. My thirst grew. My hunger could not be satisfied. I spent hours staring at my puzzle boxes, dreaming, fantasizing. I hadn't touched the boxes with my bare skin in a long time. I had only done it once, but that had been enough to know I wasn't ready yet. The feelings had been far too intense, too painful. My nose bled for two days and my hearing has never really been the same. When the disappearances started being noticed I felt it was time to return home, to London.
London in the winter is a miserable place. The freezing wet air penetrates your mind, your heart. I began killing again, slowly at first, choosing random targets on the outskirts of the city. I took great care in hiding the increasingly more mutilated remains of my attempts of re-order of the flesh. I still could not bear to think of handling the boxes. Even looking at them brought the intense awareness that I was not ready. My glee in death was peaking, but no one took notice. I knew what had to be done.
It was the autumn of the year of your lord, 1888, when I dispatched my first prostitute. I did it on the street, people coming and going, but no one heard the rattle as death took her. I went about my work with an excitement that had thus far eluded me. The orgasm was such that it put me on God's doorstep. I went home and waited for the press and the police to notice. It was not a long wait. I felt such fantastic satisfaction in my work, such pride. It was ordered beauty and my heart was black ice.
The second was much easier, as was the third, and by then I had begun sending letters. I taunted, I teased. I even sent pieces of the prizes I took. I had begun carrying the surgeon's satchel with the boxes inside. I needed them with me. I needed to feel their draw as I sliced away the humanity from these women. I made them ready for hell, ready to stand before Leviathan. Ever piece of flesh I removed from their filthy bodies brought me closer to the dark gateway and my new life. The melody grew louder in my ears, a cacophony of silence. I heard bells, droning for the souls of these pitiable whores.
When I murdered the fourth, I heard the voice for the first time. The voice of my maker, my Engineer seemed to come from the bag itself, from the boxes. He said to me "My sweet child, you have glorified our lord, Leviathan, with your art. You have proven yourself worthy of the Order of the Gash. You shall be remade, a small god in the work to bring order to chaos. You shall be a bringer of wicked desires, a dark lover promising pleasure and pain and everything between. You will be called Cenobite."
I scarcely slept. My heart reeled. My soul sang praises of exquisite murder. I was called. My blood boiled in my head. I chose carefully for the final kill, a beautiful young woman, a body worthy of my skills with the blade. She followed me to the empty flat like a lamb following Mary to the slaughterhouse. She chatted excitedly and constantly, barely noting my strained monosyllabic answers. My guts squirmed with anticipation. I set my case on the scarred oak desk, pushed her down to her knees in front of me. I shoved my penis roughly into her mouth and began arranging the boxes. I felt a surge much more powerful than ever before. It traveled from the tips of my fingers down to my loins, forcing wave upon wave of ejaculate down her throat. I began to cry.
I told her to lay on the bed and I wrapped her scarf around her eyes. A smile played at her lips. She was enjoying this, but not as much as I. I heard the bell begin to toll as I reached into the bag and brought out my scalpel. It gleamed with the promise of a thousand screams. I raised my arm, the weight of the moment forcing my hand down. The blade slid into her heart. She never made a sound. This had been what she wanted. I worked feverishly, cutting huge chunks, arranging pieces, spreading the blood. I wanted to impress my master. I touched the first box, my finger tip bloody and slick, around and around. My heartbeat doubled and the boxed began to move. The room went black, black as coal. I saw my breath, a thin trail of escaped heat as I touched the next box. It sprang open and I heard chains, hundreds of thousands of chains. I heard them split the air, shooting past my face, all around me. My pulse quickened even more. I reached out to grab the last box and it leapt into my hand, wrapping itself around my fingers in a mechanical, yet fluid manner. I felt the icy fire of hell run through my bloodstream. My heart stopped. I heard the torment of every lost soul. I heard the cries of those asking for condemnation, the cries I would be answering. I felt to the floor, feeling myself change. I looked up and I saw him. The Engineer. His white-blue skin flayed, wired, hooked. He was beautiful and I was his. He spoke again, his words lost to the sound of the ripping of my flesh, the cracking of my bones. I was aware for the first time ever of my entire body. The pain was orgasmic. My body shook as I was scarred for my lord.
I was reborn that day, over a hundred years ago. I am Cenobite, a demon- angel of need, a night terror of want. I became the bogeyman to millions. I break very strict rules in sending this to your world, but I still retain a taste for fame. I wait in the cold Labyrinth of hell. I wait for your call. I will come. I always come when I am needed. wanted. On that day, whenever it may be, I will share with you my name and more. Oh so much more. There are such sights to show, so many dark delights to give. Until that day, I remain:
Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper