7 September 1888, 3:35 p.m. Exploring Whitechapel in the daytime is quite colorful. The worst of the poverty stricken live and work in this area. The filth and over crowding of humans turns my stomach. I've lost count of the men, butchers, walking the streets with fresh blood splattered on their aprons. The foul stench of urine and shite waft in the alleys. In some terms, all of Whitechapel could be thought of as alleys; a strange maze filled with deprivation, hunger, loose morals, and squalor covered by a grey fog choking what life is left.
I search the faces, hoping I'll see his. Maybe he wouldn't stand out in this neighborhood... surely the face of evil would glow with the demonic presence hidden within. His true face is behind a mask of solemn indifference, showing little affectation. No, he has chosen wisely on his hiding place and can roam freely without fear of identification.
As I continue my fruitless search, I feel a growing anxiety and trepidation... he is on the hunt again and very soon another woman will succumb to his bloody passion. All I can do is wait. Bloody hell!
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