John The Ripper

Chapter 2- Leather Apron

John is supposed to look similar to this...more scary, though.

London, 1888

It was raining heavily on the night of September 30th.

Paul was removing his tie as he was entering his large house, tossing his badge on a table and undressing out of his wet clothes in the middle of his living room, not really giving a single care.

He had came back from the station after speaking with suspects who weren't really suspects at all. They didn't have Jack The Ripper's handwriting nor have the strange, red ink that was used for the letters.

Paul asked his butlers to take his clothes away while he went into his parlor room, needing some alone time at the moment to relax.

So far, only two murders. It was agonizing not knowing when it will happen again with the whitechapel murderer --as he was now called-- running around the streets, free as a bird.

Paul sat in his maroon, leather chair, facing the window and staring at the rain pound against the window and run down.

Paul leaned forward in his seat, elbow resting on the window shell as he had his hand over his mouth, glimmering eyes blinking slowly in a tired state.

Before Paul blinked again, a figure outside caught his eyes.

There was someone standing outside, and for the love of god, Paul couldn't make out its form, except that the person was clearly wearing a black hat.

In his lucid state, Paul sat up and squinted his eyes, someone was clearly standing there, in front of his house, in the pouring rain. Very, very still...

A shiver ran down Paul's spine.

It was as if someone had put a statue outside his house only to frighten him.

Well it was working..

Paul stood up and jogged out of the room, racing down the stairs and opening the front door, poking his head out.

Thunder crackled loudly and the rain continued to pitter-patter... Nothing out of the ordinary in London..

But the figure was gone.

Paul shut the door, shaking his head politely and smiling lazily when his servants asked if anything was wrong.

Paul dragged his feet back upstairs, scratching his head at a loss.

On the one hand, maybe he was just weary and at a daze, seeing things and tricking his own mind.

On the other, exhausted or not, Paul was almost absolutely sure that there was a man standing outside his house.

I'm too tired for this shit...

He sat back down at his desk, sighing dramatically and hiding his head in his arms, he immediately drifted off to sleep.