The newspaper headline was similar to that of a few weeks ago: "JACK THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN."
Maxwell Sloan dropped the paper on the kitchen table as he drew himself up some Earl Grey tea, which always helped soothe his nerves after the demanding labor of his work. He blew tentatively over the rim of his cup and gently touching it to his lip, permitted himself a small sip. The brew was strong and warm, relieving Maxwell of the pestering chill, which so greedily ate at him during this time of year.
He turned his attention back to the paper, considering it. A murderer who lacked any sort of conscience, brutally killing young women—it was unheard of. Any murderer always clung to some tenable motivation—whether it be lust, revenge, money, or some varied combination between them.
Even those who had killed before seemed to hold a certain degree of anxiety when concerning the unknown devil, as if he himself could be conjured by the mere invocation of his name. So, when he was addressed as the topic of discussion, people typically skirted around it, calling him "Jackie" or simply "J." The more superstitious of the lot resorted to throwing salt over their shoulder whenever their minds happened to wander towards him.
They are justified in their fear, thought Maxwell as he read over the gruesome details of his acts. The manner in which the devil conducted them bespoke a sort of wild enjoyment, as if extinguishing a soul not only delighted him, but helped satisfy a biological need, like hunger or thirst. Like a demon, he preyed on the absence of light, feeding on the victims' misery as they slowly died under his touch. Or perhaps, the likeness between man and demon was inconsequential to him, and he merely wore the skin that suited him best at the time.
A shiver crawled across Maxwell's spine, replacing the glorious warmth supplied by the tea. He glanced down at the cup, only to find it empty, save for one last sip. Greedily, he finished it off as the familiar hunger coursed through his veins, begging for release. He placed the cup on the table and made his way to the closet, picking out a black, wool coat.
"Sir, if I may, where are you off to at such a late hour?" asked a voice behind him. Maxwell smiled at his maid.
"Hunting, Martha," he replied, shouldering on the coat. He closed the closet and approached the door, unlocking it.
"But won't you require your rifle?" she queried. Maxwell Sloan turned to her, that smile still firmly in place but never quite reaching his eyes—which were currently dark and glassy with desire.
"Not for tonight," he replied, slamming the door behind, a deafening silence left in his wake.
