The London Tribune

9th November, 1888

Whitechapel Resident, Mary Kelly, Found Mutilated at 13 Miller Court: Victim of Jack the Ripper, Metropolitan Confirms. Who is He?

After a month and ten days since the double murder of Miss Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, Whitechapel has experienced another Ripper attack. The victim, Miss Mary Kelly, was discovered by the Metropolitan Police in her apartment at 13 Miller Court. Her body, skinned and mutilated more intensely than prior victims, was identified by Kelly’s lover, Joseph Barnett, with her eyes and ears as the only distinguishable features (Jones, n.d.) The Ripper’s signature throat slitting, as well as a missing heart, was inflicted upon Kelly. Beneath her head rested her dislocated uterus and kidney, while a pile of entrails lay beside the bloodstained bed. Like other victims, the Ripper sliced Kelly’s neck while she was laid down, as the bloodstains were pooled under her (Schachner, 2013).

Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror has gradually escalated in brutality with each victim, yet the police continue to struggle to discover sufficient evidence. Recently, a string of false letters claiming to be Jack has muddled the case into hysteria, with Constable George Lusk having received half of Eddowes’ supposed kidney, infected with Bright’s disease, by a fanatical medical student (Schachner, 2013). The only tangible, verified evidence has been the scrawled message on Goulston St, “The Juwes are the men that will not be blame for nothing,” which, given the similarity of juives, has influenced theories of the Ripper being French (Jones, n.d.)

Yet the theory with the most support is one of the shochet, a Jewish slaughter man, whose ritual of examining the internal organs of animals, as to ensure kosher meat, correlates with Jack’s dexterity in the removal of organs, despite the disadvantage of nighttime darkness (Knight, 2017). The city of Whitechapel itself is home to numerous slaughterhouses, each of which require a sense of direction to navigate throughout London, and irregular hours that keep workers up until the early hours of dawn. When taking into consideration the lack of East End’s industrialization, hundreds of unemployed citizens are prone to alcoholism and prostitution, giving the Ripper ideal conditions to attack (Rubenstein, 2000).

While the notion of the Ripper being a man of medicine has intrigued the Metropolitan Police, with Coroner Wynne Baxter’s revelation of an American doctor offering $20 per human womb, this theory has less merit due to the impoverished state of Whitechapel, and the Ripper’s grammatical errors implying a lack of formal education (Jones, n.d.).

Amidst this convoluted web of theories remains the central question since the emergence of Jack the Ripper: who are they, and why have they inflicted such terror upon Whitechapel? Although it may potentially be never addressed, Jack has left an indelible mark in this modernized, 19th century.

September 29, 1888

Dearest Diary,

During the evening of tomorrow, I shall strike upon Whitechapel’s vile creatures of the night, the harlots, and cleanse this impoverished city of filth once more. The Metropolitan and London Police have failed to gain sufficient leads, aside from the Leather Apron found beside Miss Chapman’s mutilated body, courtesy of yours truly. Clueless fools! Had they any semblance of intelligence, they would not share every case development with the media. Granted, I rather enjoy the endearing nicknames I have received; Jack the Ripper has made me infamous. Oh, how they flatter me with their impersonating letters! Perhaps tomorrow, there will be a gift of gratitude for my lackeys. Another womb, maybe, for Dr. Philips, who has such faith in me, he believes me to be a man of medicine! After all, I am getting predictable with all this throat slitting...

With tomorrow lies the prospect of bloodshed,

Jack the Ripper

September 30, 1888

Dearest Diary,

I have returned from tonight’s slaughters a national sensation. Vengeance has been executed, in the form of Miss Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, all within the hour. Unfortunately, Miss Stride did not receive proper attention, as an...interruption, left only her throat slit. Yet Miss Eddowes, the lucky vixen, was tenderly mutilated, an abstract painting I created; of course, her uterus and kidney were consolation prizes. Feeling emboldened, I have left a few clues for the police to fret over: a bloodstained apron, and words of warning, The Juwes are the men that will not be blame for nothing. Let Whitechapel quarrel over their Anti-Semitic foolery, all these theories have merely solidified my anonymity. Previously, I was a nobody; now, I am a slaughter man, medical man, nobility, Jewish, French, and cannibal. I am everything and nothing, I am the destroyer of inferior creatures. My reign of terror will be forever ingrained in the spirit of Whitechapel.

Many thanks to my endearing followers,

Jack the Ripper

A Burial of Bricks

A Short, Gothic Literature Story

Footsteps echo against the cobblestone streets of Whitechapel. Men’s shoes, his shoes. It was pitch black when Jack the Ripper brutally slaughtered me, Mary Kelly, to the point of mutilation, but I could recall his footsteps anywhere. There is something about fear, the realization of one’s final breaths, that sharpens the body’s senses, as if watchful of predatory threats. The hazy fog encompasses the Ripper in a protective shield, making him free to lurk amongst the city, unnoticed.

The slightest howl of the wind brings the bitterest chill to my bones. Or it would, had I been alive. As my phantom hovers over Jack, I cannot cease the influx of memories plaguing my thoughts, of my last moments alive. The sharp, searing pain of his butcher knife, slicing me open like one of his hogs down at the slaughterhouse, skinning me like a feral creature. The stinging of a thousand nerves exposed to bacteria ridden air is one I still occasionally experience as an apparition. Mutilating my appearance so I would be remembered as disfigured, stripped of any semblance of femininity. Although I suppose that’s what a harlot like me deserved for selling my morality and purity to the “gentlemen” of impoverished Whitechapel...

...Yet nobody listens to a harlot. We are immoral, impure by society’s critical lens, to the point where Jack’s acquired his own fanatical club of demented admirers. Letters from hell, letters with kidneys, letters of false accusations, letters that have confounded the Metropolitan Police so much, that it seems futile to continue the investigation. After all, his taste in victims is of the lowest quality, what good will it do to pity a deceased whore? Nearly all of us in Whitechapel are plagued by the epidemic of poverty. Its forceful grasp shows no mercy, not towards the shoeless children who endure 12 hour workdays at the textile factory, nor the widow selling her body for a morsel of bread. It does not matter that I sold my soul to prostitution after the death of my husband, or that I was once beautiful; the Ripper’s sinister charming of the media has demeaned my case of any sympathy. Mine, Catherine, Elizabeth, Annie, Mary Nichols...all cast aside for the Ripper’s allure.

However, Jack has not realized the gift he has granted me. I am free from the shackles of social judgment. It appears that spirits, contrary to Victorian Protestant ideology, remain grounded to Earth until they have accepted the fate of death. Only then, if judged worthy, may they enter the afterlife, or be sent to purgatory.

As Jack meanders around the city, I cannot stifle the hatred I possess. His walk is ever so confident, ever so relaxed, as if blissfully aware of the Met’s incompetency. While Abberline runs around like one of Jack’s decapitated chickens, analyzing every clue as if it will reveal his identity, the Ripper stops to admire a display of gilded pocket watches. I scoff, unafraid of him hearing me, for I am dead. His audacity stirs a sense of vengeance within me, one not entirely of selfish revenge. No, the Ripper will not have the comfort of peace, he will remain in a prison of paranoia for the remainder of his pathetic existence. I will be the vessel of his victims’ terror, their pain, their justice.

Following the Ripper, I am free to glide through dilapidated buildings with ease. Occasionally, I’ll sweep through people, just to experience the comfort of a warm, living body. Something I will never experience again. The wind continues its ruthless pursuit, causing Jack to flip his trench coat collar. Like a sinister Sherlock Holmes. A few more yards, surely, and he will reach his destination, where I can enact my plan.

I have followed the Ripper for nearly two hours, and while I am not yet fatigued, the slightest occurrences remind me of my death. We pass a butcher shop, and I am reminded of the knife he used to slice my throat. A mortician, where my body was further prodded. The pub where I had drunk away my sorrows over not making rent that night. Everything is a torment.

Finally, we cross a bridge with decaying wood-this entire city is in shambles-when the Ripper enters a vine covered house. Willow trees surround the estate, and cast an eerie aura over the home. Yet it still seems too tranquil for the Ripper.

As he fumbles for his key, I decide to examine my surroundings, looking for potential escapes in the house, as well as any weapons. Alas, all I discover are some bricks from what used to be a neighboring property, yet appears demolished. Quietly, I gather the bricks in an old wheelbarrow, yet not until the Ripper finally stumbles into his house. Nothing like a spontaneously moving wheelbarrow spilling with bricks to scare him into running.

Awaiting an opportune moment, I grow impatient as I gaze through a broken window, observing the Ripper prepare some tea like any other English gentleman. Oh, how us British hide behind stereotypes to mimic normalcy, when in reality, we’ll abandon screaming newborns in the pouring rain without a second thought, as they are merely another mouth to feed. Or alternatively, idolize notorious serial killers.

Finally, the Ripper descends down a flight of stairs, leading to a basement. How ideal of him, assisting in his own demise without a single complaint. Wasting no time, I scurry to the entrance, which the fool left unlocked. As I roll the wheelbarrow past the family room, I cannot help but feel a surge of envy towards its welcoming, warm nature, with pale green walls, decorative framed photos, and various knickknacks evoking a friendliness unseen in my previous flat, which has since become a bloodbath crime scene. However, the beginning to peel wallpaper reveals that it is all a façade, one of normalcy, for Jack.

Abruptly, I am drawn out of my thoughts by a thump, thump, thump of footsteps, the Ripper’s footsteps. I frantically gather the bricks, and just as the basement door creaks open, I am met with the mortified face of the Ripper as levitating bricks cascade down the stairs, colliding with his body and surging him backwards. Each brick piles upon him, each one a source of justice for every victim. Flashbacks appear as rapidly as each brick crushes Jack’s body, memories of fear as he sliced me open, invading my body with his malicious hands, slashing my face and neck to the bone. By the time I run out of bricks, the doorframe to the basement is effectively sealed, with no possibility of the Ripper having the strength or escape to crawl out.

For a fleeting moment, I consider knocking over a candle, to watch him burn like my exposed nerves. Yet I am suddenly uplifted, tingling with peace. Breathing, ironically, a sigh of relief, having achieved justice, I am content to let the afterlife take me away...