Do you know Jack? The Ripper? Saucy Jack? Leather Apron?
The most infamous serial killer in history has long been fodder for the imagination of authors and artists alike, but his true identity remains an enigma to this day. Take a fresh look at the...
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The London fog rolled in thick, a brush of chill fetid mist, heavy with the smell of sewage and unwashed humanity. The woman fidgeted, pulling at her gloves. She hadn't wanted to be out this late, but the flow of Johns was too steady to pass up, not when filling her belly was difficult enough most days. Still, there were rumors circling, rumors that dogged the uneven clack of her limping steps. Her nerves kept her on edge, cringing and stumbling at every noise and obscured figure that passed her in the mist. Maybe missing a few meals wasn't so bad. It beat the alternative.
She turned a corner and paused, staring into fog so thick she couldn't see more than an arm's length in front of her. In this mess, she was more likely to end up walking off the pier than make it to her room at the boarding house. It wouldn't be remiss to hunker down in an alley til morning. A stiff back and damp clothes was a pittance compared to other consequences. Mind made up, she turned and stifled a shriek as she came up against a warm solid body.
"Pardon me miss, I didn't quite see you in this ghastly fog," said a rich cultured voice. The gentleman bowed to her, putting her further at ease. "A young lady shouldn't be out this late without an escort."
"I'm no lady, sir, just a working girl," she said, straightening her skirts.
"Still, allow me to escort you home," said the gentleman, offering an arm. After a long moment of hesitation, the woman accepted. The offer made her wary but the unknown dangers waiting in the fog made her crave a measure of security, even if it came with strings attached.
"Thank sir, though I must inform you, I'm off duty," she said, trying to catch his expression but the fog and the brim of his hat hid his face.
"Oh," said the gentleman, "I am not interested in your trade. A lady shouldn't sully herself so." There was something in that silken voice that made her shiver, a promise of something dark and unpleasant that made her shiver. So distracted by her errant thoughts, she didn't notice they'd turned down a narrow alley until the gentleman stopped.
"Where-why did we stop here?" She licked her lips, her nerves suddenly taut, the foul taste of the fog bitter on her tongue.
The gentleman did not reply, stepping away from her as he raised his arm in the dark. What was that in his hand? She couldn't see–
"Ack!" The gentleman toppled over, the knife clattering over the slick cobblestones as he fell tangled in his own cape, hitting the ground face first with a crunch that made her wince.
She crouched down next to him, patting him gently as he groaned. "Damn, Rip, you okay?"
"Oh my god, cut! CUT!"
The woman pursed her lips, squinting through the fog. "Cut? Really, Jerry? This isn't a freaking movie set."
"Well, you're supposed to be more professional than those overpaid pillocks, Laura," said Jerry, flapping his hands as he tried to clear the air, only his loud Hawaiian shirt visible. "Can someone please shut off the bloody fog machine? Sounded like he broke something that time."
