You don't know Jack

The wait is over! 

As I told you on Monday, today's post is something very near and dear to my heart. It's a short story I started working on a very long time ago, and one that's become my pet project, a work that I'm fairly certain will never be complete. 

It's called "a letter From Hell." 

But I promised you an extra surprise, didn't I? 

Don’t worry, I didn’t forget.

Below, you’ll find the first edition, the very beginning to my fascination with Jack the Ripper. It all began with a character named John Druitt, in the television series Sanctuary. The character caught my eye, and I had to know more. 

If you know much about the Ripper, you'll know right away where my title came from. The image to the left is the original "from hell" letter, supposedly written by the Ripper himself, and for what my piece was named. 

This version is the very first thing that I came up with, the beginning in a long line of letter-themed stories, stylized to be reminiscent of the original Jack the Ripper letters, but written by a character I created to answer the question, “Who was the Ripper?”

I hope that you enjoy this piece as much as I do.

The full version was originally slated for publication this year, but as I said, it’s very near and dear to my heart.

This may be the only version that ever reaches your eyes.

{RD}

a letter From Hell

Friday 9 November 1888

Some say my name is John Druitt, but others call me Jack.

I’ve killed many women in my day. More than they believe.

I kiss them on the lips. Every single one I kiss, I kill. Our tongues dance across each other for several long seconds before hers suddenly jerks away—but I always knew it was coming. After all, I made it happen. I watch their eyes slide down my arm to the knife in my hand, widening in fear seconds before I slice into their throats.

They deserve it.

I can still feel their blood on my hands, splashing onto my face and getting in my mouth. The metallic taste of blood is not one I’ll soon forget. I still love that flavor. I savor it deeply.

When I close my eyes I still see them dying by my hand, and it makes me smile. I cannot help but wish that I could go back and kill them all again. Even now as I write I feel the urge to kill again. I want to feel blood on my skin—the blood of a whore.

You want to know how I do it? I’ll tell you.

I’ll tell you about one of my favorites. She called herself Catherine Eddowes. I kissed her fully and completely before I killed her—I even thought long and hard about making love to her before I did it, but I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it would cause problems when it came time to kill her.

She was a good kisser, that one.

I could have loved her so easily.

But I digress.

After I kissed her, I killed her. I pierced her skin with the blade of my knife, rejoicing as the taste of blood spattered into my mouth, as the look of pain grew on her face. I remember the look on her face when she finally lost her life, and I hate it. She looked so angry with me. But I was only doing what I had to do.

She shouldn’t have been so angry with me.

Just for that, I took her face off. I used my knife and my bare hands to claw the flesh away from her bones, glad when her face was too far gone for anyone to recognize.

I never wanted anyone to recognize her.

She shouldn’t have hated me.

That’s why I kept a part of her—that way no one will ever love her.

It makes me laugh, you know.

Yesterday, I walked outside my home. I saw one of them on the street—one of those fools who thought they could catch me.

You can’t catch me.

You can never catch the killer. The Ripper.

I watched the detective walk along the street to the station, and I laughed because he looked me in the eye. He looked me in the eye and he didn’t even know who I was. The whole station is looking for me, and one of them looked me in the eye and didn’t even realize it was me.

It’s always been me.

I stand outside the station every day, and they never know it’s me. They never even consider me.

You want to know my secret?

Here it is: My name’s not John. It’s not Jack. It’s not Montague or Aaron or Michael.

They’re not even close to knowing my name.

Maybe you should start with something like Jill.

Jack and Jill went up the hill…

The Ripper. I like that. Call me Ripper.

P.S. Maybe if you knew my disguise it would help.

I wear a top hat on the days I kill. Will that help you find me?

P.P.S. I’m not going to stop until you kill me.

P.P.P.S. You’re not going to like what’s coming.

I can’t stand it much longer. I know I’ll take my fifth tonight.