I am restless; I can't sleep. I dress and start walking the streets; it is dark, so dark. A few street lamps dot this area of London. Gazing up, at the one next to me, I see a moth dancing feverishly next to the flickering glow. It seems frantic and bangs into the glass, stunned, it tries again; a relentless act of self destruction. My thoughts on the moth are broken by a rustle and her words, 'hall'o dearie'; as I turn in the direction of the sound I feel an object in my hand and I grip it so tightly my fingers ache. I look at the creature standing closer to me now, she repulses me. Dirty and torn skirts, hair matted around a worn and sunburned face of wrinkles with black holes for eyes; her mouth gapes open to show a few teeth that are brown and withered. Her hands reach out towards me and a cackle begins in her throat that only seems to grow louder the closer she gets to me. I must shut her up! The witch must be stopped. As I lunge towards this hideous creature I realize what is in my hand, an eight inch blade that glimmers in the glow of the street lamp. I stab her over and over, but she keeps laughing... I am the moth to the flame.
Reeling back from my kneeling position, I stare at the body, which is now motionless and quiet. As if a fog had obscured, distorted my original vision, I now realized the woman lying there was familiar to me. In fact, it wasn't any ugly, old hag... she was beautiful with golden curls framing her delicate face and ruby lips; her body covered by a well tailored dress of pink and grey taffeta, now laying like a fan on the street...suddenly fear and panic filled me and I realized...Oh my god! I've just killed Grace!!
NO!! My own screams woke me and I found myself still in my room, tangled up in my beds sheets from the struggle against the horror I just experienced. In the name of heaven... why did I dream that?
Damn it to Hell! None of this is making sense. When I examined Nichol's body, rigor mortis was already present in the head, hands, and arms; traveling down the body. Nysten's Law, from 1812, says rigor mortis follows a downward pattern or progression which begins in the upper region of the body, around the face and head, and down through the rest of the body and extremities. How could she be killed in a few minutes, to the extent of her wounds, and rigor set in already? (One man couldn't accomplish that.) It was cool at 3:20 a.m. (a record cold summer in London), which would have slowed down the process.
The tissue samples I took show that autolysis was present; the self-digestion of the bodies cells, leading to the eventual decomposition of the corpse. Even though a wine glass was in the gutter and the victim was a known alcoholic... she didn't have any in her blood. If the attack was violent, which the multiple knife wounds suggest, why didn't she suffer from cadaveric spasm? Yet, she was laid out as if sleeping on a comfortable bed. I lay on my bed like a corpse on an autopsy table with my mind in it's own spasm with all this data swirling around like a drunken man stumbling in the dark. I must sleep... sleep... ha-ha... I'll sleep when I'm dead, dead like Mary Ann Nichols and Martha Tabram, courtesy of "The Butcher."
Whoever this person is, has a technology more advanced than my own. Due to the rip they create, a hole in the timeline when traveling, I am able to navigate into their ripping stream, dropping into the hole, by hunting for the signature or ping trail created when they jump; unfortunately, I end up later in time, a drift occurs, and I cannot control where I "land." (This hole never closes completely and continues to drift farther into the timeline.)This is why I experienced, after the fact, the second murder and not the first. It also means I have less time to pinpoint the location of the device before they jump or stream to another time and place. If only I could prevent more murders by finding this fiend and soon... especially one murder I fear may happen. Is she with him or them? God help me!
Mary Ann Nichols... "Polly", born August 26, 1845, murdered August 31, 1888. Lightening and thunder preceded her brutal and cruel slaying. A force to rival the rain took control and performed an unnatural act. Somewhere between 3:15 and 3:45 a.m. the body appears in Buck's Row and this is precisely when I was there.
The police still have no clues to this killer who has struck for a second time; even the residents of the area heard nothing... nothing out of the ordinary and that I find very interesting indeed. Even if "The Butcher" was not in fear of being observed and could take his time dissecting his victim---why isn't there more blood?
Polly's throat was cut in a manner that suggests her blood was drained. A circular incision that completely severed all the tissues down the vertebrae. Both large vessels, on either side of the neck, were also severed by an eight inch knife. With these cuts alone, of course he didn't stop there, she should have been covered in blood like a shawl, but she was clean all around her neck and chest area, to include her clothing. This upset me the most; it also meant I was on the right trail.
My proximity alarm starts to flash on my cuff alert module... time to leave!
1888. London is in a grip of fear and I, Jack, have arrived to stop it. I must be insane and all my caution taken by a gale. My insides feel like shredded newspaper, filled with the graphic horrors this mad killer has been committing, I am sick to my stomach.
As I stand, in a narrow lane, the famous fog swirls around me like ghosts, there is another blackness in the night not far off. As I tweak the dials on my wrist cuff, sensors begin to register an object in the alley to my right. If I am to ID and catch this killer, I must move with whatever caution I still posses. At least I had the sense to wear rubber soled shoes, allowing me to move silently towards my quarry. As I come to the end of the alley, I see it. Not my mad killer, but the result of the insanity that very recently occurred. Approaching the body, I have a sense of being watched; I quickly scan the area around me, but only dark windows and silent bricks are seen. The feeling is gone now and I have work to do. Checking the dials once more, they register DEAD... I didn't need technology to tell me that. I start my gruesome task, an autopsy of sorts on the crime scene... I don't have much time... what an evil devil come from hell.
Oblivion. That would be a welcome change to the hell that is my current exsistance.
Time is irrelevant, if you have too much of it. If time was no object, what would you do? Travel? Experience all the pleasures life has to offer? Be a villain, a savior, or a victim? Do you think your morality would suffer? Would you still care if innocent people suffered and died? Maybe you would end up like me, a time ripper, bent on stopping the evil that plagues this world.
In the end, I only wanted to save one person.
Welcome in to this journey I like to call hell....
