My Name is Jack

by The Eras Contest

In the late summer and fall of 1888, White Chapel London lived in fear. There was a psychopath on the loose. He was stalking and killing women in the streets. Women who had to sell their bodies for a bed to sleep in at night. This maniac taunted the media and police with letters and postcards. He went so far as to name himself Jack the Ripper...

Title: My Name is Jack

Summary: In the late summer and fall of 1888, White Chapel London lived in fear. There was a psychopath on the loose. He was stalking and killing women in the streets. Women who had to sell their bodies for a bed to sleep in at night. This maniac taunted the media and police with letters and postcards. He went so far as to name himself Jack the Ripper when he was not pleased with the names the local paper came up with.

Five women have been identified as victims of this madman; however, there may be as many as eleven killed. There were rumors he was American and possibly had some medical training based on the types of injuries he inflicted. He was never identified, and he was never caught. Jack the Ripper could have been anyone… anyone at all…

Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable characters herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

Edward Masen June 20, 1861-

"Class, may I have your attention." Dr. Carlisle Cullen's voice echoed through the cadaver lab. "Next Wednesday will be the midterm. You will identify all the muscles of the face, neck, and shoulders. Please take the next week to study. This will not be an easy exam. You must identify 80% of the muscles correctly to pass the midterm and stay in this class."

I started to gather my papers and my books. I hate the muscle system—especially the muscles of the face. I came here to study medicine. Who the fuck cares how many muscles it takes to blink? I sure as shit don't. I asked Dr. Cullen three weeks ago when we will study the heart, the liver, the kidneys, and the exciting parts. I let him know that I could not wait to cut the chest of this cadaver open and get my hands on the soft insides. He stared at me with a concerned look and then made a nervous laugh. He thought I was making a joke. He told me that it was covered in second year and I would need to be patient. I do not do patient.

Since our disappointing conversation, I have been in the library studying and learning everything I can about the theory of the human body. I have started walking the streets at night looking for drunks or ladies of the night. People that no one will miss. I will teach myself the things I want to know. I don't need Dr. Cullen. I am sure I will far surpass him with my medical knowledge. I just needed to find a body or two…

"Mr. Masen, when you finish here, please come to my office. There is something I need to discuss with you." I look up at him. What now? My first thought was he was excusing me from the mid-term. Everyone knew I was the most brilliant student in the class. Maybe Dr. Cullen will allow me to move to second year early. I quickly pack my things, and I walk down the hall to his office.

I knock on the door, "Come in." Dr. Cullen says, motioning for me to sit down. "Please, Edward, take a seat."

I fight a smile, trying my best to contain my excitement.

"Edward, there have been some very concerning things that have been brought to my attention. Does this journal look familiar to you?" He slides my notebook across the desk. I swallow hard. How could I have been so careless? This notebook contains all my notes from the library and details on the habits of the local drunks and whores that roam the streets in my neighborhood.

"Sir, I can—"

"Edward, this isn't all. Several students have said you make them uncomfortable. You ask inappropriate questions in class and have been seen doing less than ethical things with your assigned cadaver. And let's be honest. Your grades are well below par." Dr. Cullen folded his hands like a steeple, resting his fingers over his mouth. Was he waiting for me to offer to leave medical school?

"I will be more focused on my studies. I am having difficulty adjusting to life here in London, being from America, but I can buckle down. I will ace the midterm." I stand up and stretch my arm out to shake his hand.

"No, Mr. Masen, I am sorry, but I need you to hand in your books. Your time here is over."

Rage boils in my veins. I slam my books on the desk. "This is not over, Cullen. I will be the best physician my generation has ever seen. People will know my work. Mark. My. Words." I pound my fist into his desk.

I am not giving him a chance to apologize. Cross me once, and we are done. I turn on my heel and stomp out of his office and bust through the front door of London College and into the cool March evening.

Mary Ann Nichols August 26, 1845-August 31, 1888

I pull my pocket watch out and pop it open. I lean out from the dark alley to read the time. It's fifteen after one. Nothing is going to plan.

I have been following a drunk man for over an hour, but he is all wrong. Everyone on this fucking street knows him. They keep stopping him to chat and then offer him a pint. He hasn't turned one down yet. I cannot take him. He would be missed.

"I am giving this ten more minutes," I whisper as I slam my watch shut and drop it back into my pants pocket.

A loud argument catches my attention from across the street. A woman is acting hysterical.

A loud male voice says, "Mary Ann, listen to me. You are welcome to stay here tonight, but you gotta pay. I let you stay here last week out of the goodness of my heart because it was pouring rain, and you were drunk off your ass. But you trashed your room, pissed in my hallway, and punched another boarder. Not tonight, Mary. You pay, or you sleep on the street."

I lean out of the alley and stare across the street. The large, muscular man is standing in the doorway of the Bucks Row Lodge House. The woman, I assume is Mary Ann, stands on the sidewalk. "I will have no trouble making the money to pay for my room. No man can resist me." She ran her hands down her ample bosom and hips.

"Uh-huh. We'll see." The man responds, rolling his eyes. When Mary Ann doesn't reply, he says, "Well, I will be here. Bring your four pence and the bed is yours. Now get off my sidewalk, Mary." The man slams the door in her face.

I stay fifty paces behind her and follow her for a few blocks, keeping to the shadows. It does not take her long to find a john. They exchange words, and before I can find a hiding spot, they turn and walk right by me. I play it cool. I tip my hat, "Lovely evening." I say to them, and I turn to cross the street. I find a bench and wait. Any woman who could sell her body for liquor and a bed deserves to die. I will enjoy working with her; undoubtedly, she is riddled with diseases.

Finally, the two come out of the alley. He hands her some money, and she gives him a big smile and wink. My stomach turns.

No sooner does that man turn the corner than another walks up to her. The pair whisper back and forth, and I hear her giggle. Back to the alley they go. Soon, another man joins them.

I roll my eyes. This is becoming a massive waste of time. I am about to give up when she emerges. She tucks money into her brassiere and walks half a block to the Dog and Snout Pub.

I follow her and wait.

Around 2:30 a.m., she stumbles out of the pub. She can't even take a few steps before leaning against the wall to steady herself. Despicable.

"Mary Ann?"

"Em-i-ly!" She squeals and lunges at Emily.

'Whoa! Mary." Emily replies, catching her. "Honey, you are drunk! Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Well…"

"Why don't you come with me? I have a room, and you can sleep it off and—"

"No!" Mary Ann said, stomping her foot. "I earned enough tonight for a room, but I spent it. I will earn it again, don't worry."

"Alright, Mary. Alright. Please be safe. I will call on you in the morning." Emily hugs her friend and heads back in the direction she came from. Mary Ann slowly starts walking again.

I keep pace with her from across the street. A few men walk by her, eyeing her up and down, but when they see how drunk she is, they exchange a knowing glance. They would not get their money's wet worth.

We walk for about ten minutes when she leans over and vomits in the gutter. That was my cue.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Ma'am?" I call to her as I run across the street. "May I be of some help?" I extend my arm for her to steady herself.

"I am sorry, sir, I am not working anymore tonight. As you can see, I am quite ill."

"I am not looking for companionship, ma'am. I would like to see you safely home if I may. My name is Ed- uh- Jack. My name is Jack." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Whores are revolting.

She smiles at me and says, "I have a room at Bucks Row Lodge House."

I let her keep my arm as we walk back across the street. We walk a block when I see a dark gateway that calls to me. Before she even knows what's happening, I have her on the ground with my hand over her mouth and my knees, holding her arms down. I check to my right and left. The street was deserted.

"If you scream, you will die. Do you understand me.?" She bites my hand. "You fucking whore!" I growl through clenched teeth.

I pull a scalpel out of my jacket pocket. I appreciate the weight in my hand. Mary Ann's screeching takes my attention. "You will get us caught if you do not stop it." I look her dead in the eye, "Don't worry, Mary Ann. You will not be forgotten." I say as I put the scalpel to her throat.

I begin to press down. It takes a moment for the line to turn red. Another moment and blood begins to bubble from the slit. Every beat of her heart pushes more blood out until a puddle forms around us.

I remove my hand from her mouth and whisper, "It won't be long now whore." I hear a gurgle in her throat. She is dead.

I quickly climb off her and crouch next to her body, careful not to get any blood on me.

I poise my scalpel over her abdomen. I need to feel her insides. I need to see how she is put together. I stab her with all my strength to get through her dress. I break the skin, but it takes several more cuts to get into her abdomen. I am starting to pull out her intestines when I hear a noise. Laughter is coming from around the corner.

"Fuck!" I grab her by the feet and pull her into the shadows. I will come back for her. I need to finish my work.

Annie Chapman September 25, 1940-September 9, 1888

I cannot have another botched job. It's been over a fucking week. I have to find her tonight. I simply cannot wait any longer. These thoughts swirl through my mind as I pace up and down Harbury Street. It's almost five p.m. Soon, the streets will be filled with drunk men and loose women. Tonight will be my night. It has to be.

"Annie? Honey, is that you?"

I have always liked the name Annie. I round the corner, and I see two women standing in front of a dress shop. One looks a little worse for wear. Annie is pale, and her face glistens with a sheen of sweat. She has a basket over her arm. She must be peddling flowers and candle wax. The other woman looks healthier, but her clothes are shabby, and her shoes are worn like Annie's. I cannot be seen, but I cannot let them out of my sight. I press myself into the brick building, hidden by the small shadow the street light is casting.

"Hello, Amelia. How are you?" Annie asks.

"Better than you, darling. Are you ill?" Amelia has a look of concern on her face

"Oh, I have been better, but I need to earn a room for the night,"

"Well, I could use some flowers for my room this evening," Amelia says as she reaches into her small coin purse.

"No, please, Amelia. Keep your money, or we will both be on the street."

A tall man walks over to the girls. He runs his hand around Amelia's waist. Then, she looks beyond her shoulder. We make eye contact, I am sure of it, but if I move now, it will be obvious I have been spying on the girls. He turns his attention back to Amelia, and she smiles at him and takes his hand. He whispers something in her ear, and she grins up at him. It is positively vile.

I take a few steps back. My heart is thundering in my chest. I wait for the man to invite me to his private party or tell me to get lost. Thankfully, neither happens, and he and Amelia walk off into the night. It's too early for me to make my move, but this woman, Annie, seems like an exciting patient.

My mind reels with what sort of illness befalls her. Could she have the influenza? Cholera? Something more exciting? Would I find rot or tumors inside her body? I must cut her open. She will be my patient.

Bravely, I move out of the shadows to speak with Annie. Shit. She's gone. I search up and down the street. How could I have lost a sick whore?

"You simply cannot stay here tonight. I have been nice enough to let you have some supper and a place to get warm and kick your feet up, but the bedrooms are for paying customers, and how would it look if word got around that I would feed any stray kitten that wanders on my doorstep?" A man stands in front of a boarding house door. His voice is loud enough that the entire street has his attention. "I am sorry, Annie, but I need you to pay up or find somewhere else for the night." Annie. Could this be my Annie?

I need to know if it is her, but I must be off the streets. So far tonight, I have been propositioned by no fewer than six heathen women. All of them dirty and reeking of booze and sex. I must get off the street if I am to see this patient tonight.

I dart out from the alley where I have been sitting and make my way to the pub two doors down from where she is standing. There is a mostly empty pub—a perfect place to keep an eye on her.

I am reaching for the door when I hear a familiar voice. "I will have the money, Patrick. Please, please, I beg you. Don't let my room." Before the man can respond, her body is wracked with a deep phlegmy cough. She gasps for breath, and he has to reach out to keep her from collapsing on the sidewalk.

His face softens, "Hurry back, Annie."

Once settled at a table next to the window, I pull out my pocket watch. Fifteen until two.

This poor, poor woman. She is a street peddler. She is not drinking and selling her body. She is doing her best to make an honest living. As much as I want to know what ails her, opening her up would be a crime. No, I must help this poor woman.

I watch her for some time from the pub window. She offers matches and flowers to the inebriated men stumbling out of the bar. Every time the pub door opens, I hear her. "Matches for your cigarettes? Flowers for your wife?" Between her calls, she has long bouts of coughing and has to grip the wall to stay upright.

"Last Call Gents!" The barmaid yells. Fuck, how long have I been here? I pull out my watch. It's four a.m. This poor woman has been out selling for two hours. No, this won't do. I will get her a hot meal and a room. That bastard at the boarding house will meet my wrath. No respectful man would turn an ill woman away.

I pay my tab and walk out to Annie. Someone beats me to her, however. A long, scraggly-looking gentleman who was singing loudly and buying everyone rounds just a few moments ago. I'm not too fond of the look in his eye.

"Hello there, woman." The man slurs. "I do not smoke, and I do not have a wife, but I do have some money in my pockets." He jingles the coins.

Her pale cheeks flush. "Six pence."

"Sounds like a fair price to me." He takes her basket and sits it on the sidewalk before pulling her through an open gate.

FUCK! Not my sweet, wholesome Annie. She cannot be a harlot. I feel anger pooling in my guts. That one decision has sealed her fate.

I pace the street, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Finally, they emerge. The man reaches into his pocket and throws coins at her. She falls to the ground to gather them like a chicken at feeding time. She coughs and sputters as she pulls herself onto a nearby bench, too weak to stand.

"No." She says, looking at her palm. Tears stream down her cheeks.

"Excuse me, I could not help but notice what happened with that man. Are you alright?" I ask her smoothly.

She jumps at the sound of my voice coming from the dark shadow to her left. "I am not, I mean, I cannot, I-" Her voice trails off as a coughing fit takes over.

I step closer to her. "What is that in your hand?" She holds her hand out to me: a one-cent coin and four mismatched buttons. I take a deep sigh. I sit beside her and close her hand over the money and buttons. "Ma'am, I am a physician." I look her in the eyes, trying to gain her trust. "I cannot let you spend the night ill on the street. I took an oath to help the sick. Let me buy you a hot breakfast and pay for your room for the next few nights. That should give you time to get well and find a more appropriate line of work."

She shakes her head yes. I take her by the hand and help her up. Keeping her hand, we walk a few blocks to the cafe. The giant town clock boomed, counting the time. "Five thirty in the morning!" I say cheerily. She gives me a weak smile. If I do not find a place to take care of her soon, exhaustion and illness will do the work for me.

We pass a well-dressed woman on the street—my pulse quickens. I tip my hat to her, and she smiles. "So nice to see a happy couple up and around at this early hour. Have a wonderful morning." She says as she passes us.

"Yes, you as well," I respond.

Once the woman is far enough behind us, I turn to Annie, "I know you must be starving, but I think you could use a short rest?" She shakes her head yes. "Let's have a seat here." I gesture to a set of concrete steps.

"Those lead into someone's house." She murmurs.

"It will be fine. I know the family." I lie.

Instead of helping her down, I push her to the ground, shoving her fragile body between the steps and a fence that lines the backyard of this unfortunate family. Their backyard is about to become a crime scene.

Her dark eyes go wide. "Doctor!" She screeches. I grab her face and jerk it back to expose her neck. With one angry slash, she is quieted—blood spills from the deep gash in her neck. I put the surgical scalpel away and pulled out a large knife. I learned my lesson from last time. Too much time was wasted cutting through her dress. The blade makes quick work of the fabric layers that cover her abdomen.

Once her skin was exposed, I grabbed the scalpel again, cutting her hip to hip. I come back for a second pass, slicing through the muscle and exposing the tender organs beneath.

"Honey, did you leave wash on the line?" A man's voice calls from inside the house. "It looks like a dress is laying out in the garden?"

I look up to see a man standing in the back door window. I grab my knife and shove it with my scalpel into my pocket.

I hear the door creak open just feet from my head. "Martha?" The man calls again to his wife.

My heart is pumping wildly in my chest. I swiftly crawl on my hands and knees around the steps and tuck myself into the shadows so I am out of his eyeline but can keep an eye on her—my Annie.

"Oh, good God in Heaven!" The man shouts as the light from the kitchen spills on her.

For the first time, I can genuinely see my work on display. Blood is pooling onto the ground beneath her, and her exposed abdomen glistens in the light.

"Do not come out here, Martha! Run to the Constable's office! Quickly, Martha, there is a dead woman in our garden!" He is shouting loud enough other lights have started to come in the homes across the alley. I hear the door slam shut. Terrified he is coming down to inspect further, I take my chance and jump the fence. Another patient was wasted.

Elizabeth Stride November 27, 1843-September 30, 1888

Catherine Eddowes April 14, 1842-September 30, 1888

I have spent the last two weeks stalking the graveyards looking for patients to work on, but alas, those bodies do not have the same appeal. They are cold, dry, and withered. How am I supposed to be a world-renowned physician when these are the kinds of patients I have to work with? No, I need alive, moist anatomy. Tonight is the night. I can feel it. Tonight, the perfect woman will come across my path.

I leave my flat a little before eight p.m. The streets are crowded despite the smell of rain in the air. I am only a few blocks from my flat when I notice her. Her long, wavy, auburn hair feels like a Siren's call. My chest tightens with anticipation. My heart begins to pound. "It's her," I say to myself.

I watch her stumble through the crowds, men pawing at her and trying to get her attention.

"Catherine, buy you a pint?"

"Cat, are you working tonight?"

"An hour of your time, Ms. Catherine, I have sixpence." They call.

"No, not tonight, gents." She slurs. "Tonight, I am celebrating. My sister had a baby!" She yells out to everyone on the street."

Then they start offering her pints in celebration. Fuck. I need to get her alone and away from these degenerates.

"Catherine!" A loud authoritarian voice calls from the crowd that is beginning to form. A police officer pushes his way through the throng of men to get to her. "Catherine!" He calls again to get her attention. She wobbles on her feet. He grabs her by the shoulders and says, "How much have you had to drink tonight, woman?"

"None of your fucking business." She spits.

"You're coming with me. Move out of the way, gents." He puts her in cuffs as the men start to protest. They promise to be waiting when she gets out and promising to buy her pints and dinner. He parts the men with his club and marches her the three blocks to the jail. I follow behind. This cop is not going to take her from me. She is mine.

I pace the block for over an hour. Indeed, that would be enough time for them to get her into a cell. I pull open the door and am greeted by an office standing guard at the door.

"Good evening, Officer Dobbs," I say, eyeing his nameplate. "I am here for a woman that was picked up about an hour ago. She is my sister-in-law. My wife had a baby today and is poorly. She is so upset that Catherine is not there. I understand she was a little, shall we say, out of hand in the streets tonight and has been detained. It would do my poor wife's heart good to see her sister. Maybe for the last time. It was hard labor, sir." I say. I try my hardest to work up a tear or two for my poor dying wife.

"Get out of here. She will be released when she sobers up. Not a minute before." The man snarls.

"I am willing to pay, sir. Please." I reach for my pocket.

"Get out of here before you find yourself in a cell beside her. Bribing an officer of the law is a crime!" He yells and jerks the door open.

I do not need this cop to have more reason to remember my face. I turn on my heel and leave. Damn it to hell.

Since my night has been ruined by my perfect patient getting locked up, I look for comfort. The door opens to the King's Crown pub. I hear laughing and singing. A woman singing.

I walk in, and there is a woman up on the bar. She is dancing and showing her legs to the rowdy men below. They are tossing coins and pounds on the bar. She is obviously the best entertainment around.

When she finishes her rousing rendition of Camptown Races, she is helped down off the bar. I approach her quickly before some other scoundrel can claim her.

"May I buy you a drink, madam?" I ask, offering my hanky to wipe the sweat from her brow.

"That would be lovely."

I take her hand and slap money on the bar. "Keep the booze flowing, sir," I say to the bartender. He nods, and much to my relief, he keeps his word.

I had almost forgotten about my imprisoned Catherine when the lady I had entertained all night offered to pay back the favor.

"I don't even know your name," I say, helping her off her stool.

"Elizabeth." She slurs. "What's yours?"

"My name is Jack."

We leave the pub and walk out into the cool night. We are mere blocks from Dutfield's Yard when she suddenly tries to run from me.

"Elizabeth, where are you going?" I ask indignantly.

"I do not want to go home with you anymore." She huffs.

"I have more than paid for your company," I whisper as I jerk her arm, pulling her close to me.

I glance over her shoulder. Several people have stopped on the street, looking on concerned. I changed my tactic.

"You are my wife, and I will not tolerate such behavior," I shout, then slap her face for good measure. "You are drunk and acting most inappropriate for a married woman." I shriek more at the crowd than her.

"Your wife? Married woman?" She questions.

"Yes, Elizabeth. You are so drunk you don't even recognize your own husband or your own house, apparently!" I motion to the house we are standing in front of. "Sixty-three Dutfield Yard Elizabeth." I over-enunciate her name. "Come now, let's not make a scene." I glance around as the onlookers disperse—nothing to see here, just another unruly wife.

When I am sure we are alone, I push her to the ground. She hits her head with a sick thud. Her eyes are unfocused, and she groans loudly.

"Shut up." I kick her in the side.

I pull out my knife and set it on the ground to my left. I take my scalpel out and make a deep slit in her throat. Relief washes over me. I turn to reach for my knife when I feel resistance. Something is on my coat tail. A wheel is pinning my coat to the ground. I look up to see a cart and horse pull up next to the alley where I am barely hidden. How did I miss this? I will get caught because of a stupid horse-drawn veggie cart. Anger burns in me. I try not to make eye contact with the walking glue bottle as I pull on my coat. When it gives way, I fall back with an involuntary grunt. The horse startles and rears up, causing vegetables to fall into the street.

"You dumb horse, what now?" The man driving the cart says.

I press myself against the wall. I am still in shadow, but Elizabeth's feet are showing.

"Ruthie? Honey?" The man calls, squinting into the alley. "Ruth?" He sounds panicked. I should run, but I am rooted to the spot.

He steps away for a moment. I hear a door open. He must be the actual resident of sixty-three Dutfield Yard. There is a loud commotion in the house behind me.

"Ruth, If you are in here, then who is out there?" I hear the man say with panic.

RUN! I think to myself. Get out of here, Edward! I internally shout, but my feet refuse to listen. He might not come back, I reason stupidly. He found Ruth safe and sound. I can finish with my patient.

As I lean down to continue my work, I hear footsteps and see the glow of a candle reflecting in the puddles on the sidewalk. He has come to investigate.

Finally, my feet seem to listen to my screaming brain, and I run down the alley as he turns the corner. I am still close enough to hear his scream at the sight of Elizabeth.

Half an hour later, I am stomping down the street, chastising myself. I should have taken my coat off. Had I been thinking clearly, I would not be covered in whore blood. Had I been smarter, that fucking horse would not have interrupted my work. All horses should be turned into glue. I seethe.

"You are free to leave Catherine. It is not my job to walk you home. You had no problem being out and about earlier. What is so different now?" I stop dead in my tracks. I realize where I have wandered. I am half a block from the jail. And Catherine is arguing with that dull-witted cop Dobbs I dealt with earlier. They have let her out! I jerk my bloody coat off and toss it into an alley behind empty crates. I look back into the alley. It feels like kismet. She is here, I am here, this dark alley is here. She really was meant to be mine. I knew it.

"But, sir, there is a murderer on the loose!" She cries.

"Shut up, Catherine, get out of here before I arrest you again." He is trying to push the door shut on her.

She holds out her wrists, ready for his cuffs. "Please, arrest me. At least I know I will live to see daylight."

"Get lost, Catherine. I mean it." With that, he slams the door in her face, and I hear the heavy lock click.

She starts bawling. I make my move. "Ma'am? Are you alright? I couldn't help overhearing that you need an escort home."

"Stay away from me." She glared at me.

I take one step closer to her.

"I mean it, mister. I will scream so loud everyone on the street will hear me. You will go to jail." Her voice shakes with fear. It makes my heart race. She eyes me again, "you look familiar."

"I can assure you I am not going to harm you." I wait for her to react; when she doesn't, I continue, "I am a minister, ma'am. While I cannot condone whatever behavior that got you locked up this evening, I am here on this earth to do the work of the Lord. Please, let me escort you safely home."

"You can't lie if you are a preacher, so I will ask you one more time. Are you the man that has been killing all the women?"

I put my hand over my heart, "You have my word. I am not that madman. You will be returned safely to your home."

She nods and takes my arm. She is mine. I don't even ask her the direction we need to go. She heads off toward the dark alley. I glance up and down the street. I see three men standing under a street lamp. I cannot let her scream. I tip my hat and wrap my hand around Catherine's waist.

"Mr. Preacher?"

"Shut up." I shove her into the alley and drag her behind the stack of crates. She falls right on top of my coat. Damn. More whore blood.

I use my knees to hold her arms down. She reaches up and tries to scratch my face and neck. I slit her throat before she has a chance to inflict any damage. To teach this harlot a lesson, I carve deep v's into her eyes for glaring at me. To pay for the sin of questioning me, I tear deep gashes into her cheeks with my scalpel. I have no time to admire the work, however. I know how close we are to the police station and that the cops patrol the area regularly. Most are looking for a lady of the night themselves. They are as filthy and vile as the women they lock up.

I shove her dress and under things up over her head. With my scalpel poised, I am ready to cut, but I stop short. I hear steady footfalls, keys, and whistling. "Who the fuck is that?" I snarl. I crouch lower, my face so close to hers I can smell the alcohol on her lips.

"Good evening, Officer Dobbs." I hear a woman say. The footsteps stop.

"Lovely evening, Edith. I hope you are going home and not out looking for work tonight."

"Oh yes, sir. Going home now, sir." She responds. I hear her skitter away, and whistling begins again, growing fainter with each step. Of course, this is his patrol. I should have paid better attention. I should have been watching him closely, paying attention to his route and habits. He will recognize me if he sees me. I put my knife and scalpel to work. I take what I need from Catherine and leave the rest. Dobbs will be back soon.

Mary Kelly 1863-November 9, 1888

"It has been too long. It has been too long!" I shout at my reflection in the mirror. Forty days and nights. That is how long I have been in my own personal hell. Forty long days and nights, I have been without relief, without any satisfaction. I stare down at my own reflection once more. "Tonight, Edward. You will get her tonight."

"George!" A beautiful blonde says to a large red-faced man. I have been keeping an eye on her for a while. She has been in and out of alleyways and even took a man to her room earlier.

"My darling Mary, what are you doing out here at nearly two in the morning?" He asks, hugging her.

"Trying to earn dinner and a bed. You don't have sixpence for an old friend, more like a daughter, really." She bats her eyelashes at him, a daughter, my ass.

"I would love nothing more than to help you, my dear, you know that, but I am broke. Flat broke." He turns to look over both shoulders. "We could make a small arrangement, however…" His voice trails off.

"George!" She says playfully, but the look in her eyes shows disgust. At least she has some moral fiber.

"Well, you be safe, Mary." He says awkwardly. "I must be getting home to the missus." He hugs her again and continues on his way.

Hmm. I reach into my pocket and pull out the coins. I smile to myself—plenty of money here, my dear Mary.

I take my opportunity and cross the street to where she is standing.

"Good evening, madam." I flash her my most charming smile and shake the coins in my pocket.

"Good evening, sir." She smiles back. "Splendid evening."

"Yes, indeed."

She smiles again, a little broader this time. She meets my eyes and then slowly looks away. She is trying to be coy, but I see the hunger in her eyes.

"What is a lovely girl like yourself doing out on this splendid evening?" I asked, toying with her blonde hair.

She giggles and lightly slaps my arm, but she does not say anything. As I am about to ask her to her room, she turns her head. Something has caught her eye. I look in the same direction, and there is George.

"Do you know him?" I ask innocently.

"No, well, he's my uncle. He worries about me."

"Should we take a walk away from dear old Uncle?" I ask.

She laughs again. "I have a room not far from here. Care for a nightcap?"

"Absolutely," I growl, and she takes my arm and leads us to her boarding house.

It is incredible how good you feel after a good night's sleep. A little time with Mary, followed by a night of rest, and I am a new man. I feel so good, in fact, that I think I will go have supper at the pub on the corner. I heard there was a murder last night. I smile, thinking about sweet, shy Mary. I should find out the gossip. See if the police have caught the madman.

I am still laughing at my own private joke as I walk into the pub. I find an empty seat at the bar and order a pint.

"So my boss tells me, 'Andrew, make yourself useful and go to room five. Mary Kelly. She owes rent from last night. So I go to her room. I knock loudly. There were several noise complaints from the neighbors last night. People were shouting all night long. Ol' Ms. Cooper in room four swore she heard someone scream murder, but when I went to check it out, everything was quiet." The young boy drops his voice to a whisper. "I thought she was hearing things last night, now I know. She was right." The boy shuttered.

"Alright, alright, finish the story. You were knocking loudly," a man to the boy's left prompts.

"So I am knocking loudly. After several minutes, I called her name and threatened to call the police. Nothing. Not a peep. So I go back to the boss and tell him Mary has skipped out. She isn't in her room. He tells me to check the window. If I can't get her to pay up, her rent is comin' out of my earnings.

So I go out to the street and grab a crate to try and see into her window. The curtains were shut, but the window was open. I thought it was odd; it was chilly last night, but it's sweaty work being a w—"

"Watch your mouth, son." The man next to the boy warns. "Do not speak ill of the dead, or you will be haunted forever."

"I am already haunted." He says, taking a big swig off his pint. He swallows hard and continues. "So the window was open, but the curtains were closed. I call out to her again. I didn't want to see her indecent or anything." He eyes the growing crowd of men, leaning in close to hear what happened next. I, too, find myself hanging on every word.

"I pulled the curtain back, and there she was. She was lying in her bed. Blood splattered all over the walls. The boss says her bed will have to be burned, blood-soaked all the way through. There were bits and pieces of her all over the floor and in the sheets. Blood was everywhere.

The men groan. Poor Mary, indeed. I did not get to see her clearly before I left. I should have cleaned up a bit more, perhaps.

Dr. Carlisle Cullen March 19, 1832-November 15, 1888

I am pacing around my flat. A telegram has come from my dear old mentor, Dr. Cullen. He wants to meet tonight for dinner and drinks. He says he wants to talk to me about coming back to school. Is he serious? Why would I come back to that institution of so-called learning? I have learned more in the few months on my own than I ever learned under the tutelage of that man, but I replied I would meet him.

Walking up the street a little before seven, I see Dr. Cullen waiting outside the pub.

"Good evening, sir. How are you?"

"I'm well, Mr. Masen, and yourself?"

"As good as can be expected, sir." I open the door and motion for him to go ahead of me.

We are seated, and he orders an ale. "Nothing for me, thank you." I reply to the waitress. Cullen seems nervous. I keep my expression blank, waiting for him to tell me about this. After several more pints, he gets enough courage to spill it.

"Mr. Masen, I came here tonight to tell you to turn yourself in. I know you are the one butchering these defenseless women."

"How dare you slander—" He cuts me off.

"If you refuse, you must know I have already sent letters to the newspaper and the Constable's office. No matter what happens to me, you will be found out."

With that, he stands up, throws money down on the table, and leaves me sitting there with my jaw open. He turns back to look at me, "I do hope you make the right choice, Edward." Then he is gone.

It only takes me a moment to get my wits about me. I follow him out of the pub and down the street.

"I will ruin you, Cullen. You think you know me. You are simply jealous that your student knows more about medicine than you! That I was so far beyond your teaching, you removed me from your class. You are nothing but a liar. Jealous of my future achievements!" I am screeching at him, drawing way more attention than I am comfortable with.

He darts down an abandoned road. I catch up to him and jump on his back, taking us both to the ground. I roll him over and pin him down like I have done with the harlots. He is a lot stronger, though, and is fighting me hard. I take the butt of my knife and hit him squarely in the temple. He does not lose consciousness, but it takes the fight out of him. I rip his shirt open and carve the word LIAR deep into his chest. He grunts with pain; thick sweat appears on his brow. He tries to get up. I throw my knife to the ground, and I hit him again, this time with my closed fist. Over and over, I hit him until, at last, he was quiet and still. I hear someone yelling for me to stop. They are calling for the police. They tell me to stay right where I am.

I stand up, bloodied and out of breath. Turning around, I see the yelling man is only yards away. I take off running, and the man follows me. I dart through alleys and backyards and eventually lose him. He may not be on my tail, but he saw my face. It won't be long now.

November 17, 1888

"Hello, sir! Heading for America, I see!" The cheery man at the boat dock checks over my papers.

"Yes, sir, going home to see my mother."

"Well, that is lovely. I hope you have a safe trip, Mr…. OH, excuse me, Dr. Edward Cullen!"

"Thank you, sir. It will be good to be home." I say with a grin. "Good to be home indeed."

A/N: I wanted to keep the story as factual as possible but still be a work of fiction. I researched times, dates, and how these women were murdered. I used the website for resource material. In trying to honor the victims, however, I wanted to keep the facts of their deaths as accurate as possible without being graphic.