... Jack the ripper...
The rough December air blew near the desolate corners and benches in London, whistling by the abandoned carriages and wandering around the numerous houses of the British city, all the while spreading its little hurricanes over the deserted streets. It was a time of night where all the inhabitants of the town, even the homeless paupers, had scurried away from their work, leaving their unfinished business behind, in hope of going home before the night hour. Foreign strangers, aware of the tale, had resided in with families, taken mercy on their poor souls. Even the common sluts and prostitutes, usually seen in front of the Whorehouse were well hidden within the safety of the institute. With windows shut tight, doors locked securely and shades thoughtfully pulled down, everyone stood in suspense, breath held in anticipation, fear visible in their worried gazes. Even the city itself, London, was silently waiting. The air held thoughts, inevitable choices anyone outside would have to face.... Run... Hide ...He's coming...
It was always at midnight when they would hear his footsteps. A demonic echo in the silence, a steady pace, a dreaded sound. Behind closed doors all would bristle with fear, ice chills going up and down their backs, or sweat clinging to their brows. Every once in a while the footsteps would stop in front of a random house and all would freeze in the spot, releasing their breaths only when the steady clatter of boots on the ground would continue. He liked to play with his victims, they'd heard. He liked to scare them out of their minds, then disappeared like he had came, always leaving them a reminder of what he could do- a bloodied heap of female here and there or a trail of flesh on the pavement.
He would always remind them what they should be afraid of. And they knew...
...Jack the Ripper...
He smiled to himself. The mere mentioning of his name brought fear among them. Their voices would always tremble with a hushed kind of fear, they wouldn't dare raise their tone, for what good would it do you mentioning the Devil? None...
He loved the passionate hate they said his name with. For his name was made to be spat with disgust, to be whispered in fear, to be screamed with agony, to be gasped with one's last breath.
...Jack the Ripper...
It was to be whispered in a rush from ear to ear in the crowded pubs and the posh cafes like a dark secret and a shame for all. It was to be told to their children - a nightmare to pursue their younglings to go to bed and do their work. It was to be spread around like a gruesome frightening tale for one's amusement. It was to be worn with fright.
...Jack the Ripper...
He came out at night. Always at night. He hid his deeds in her darkness. He hid his twisted thoughts in the black veil of night-time, the abyss that she always provided him with. He could hide his hideous smile, his hungry eyes, his face- jagged, cut, bruised- a repulsive countenance no one could imagine in their worst nightmare. He could conceal his disfigured body, his misshapen hands, his broken fingers - awry, serrated, bloodied. His breaths- hectic, quickened by his openly known desire for flesh– echoed in the emptiness that was London city.
The shrill scream of a woman finally ripped the silence. They all knew, he was no longer hungry, he was satisfied. In their homes people wondered who had been the victim this time, thought they knew they wouldn't wonder much. In the morning all would be revealed. All that they were left to do is prepare for the terrible sight, for they knew he didn't have mercy.
The Satan had come out to feed. He had searched for his prey and had found, had chased, had caught, had tortured, had ripped.
