Ripper

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Mary Jane Kelly stood silent and still as the man watched her from a rickety chair in the darkened corner of her shabby two-bed flat. The oil lamp had been dimmed on that side of the small room so the only thing Mary could clearly discern were the shiny white spats that covered the tops of the man’s expensive shoes. The ornate cane the invisible visitor used was propped between those shoes and would move only when the man spoke in his accented English.

Mary tried her best to control her breathing as she felt the man’s eyes roll over her in that infernal darkness. But it was the well-dressed man’s voice that unnerved her like no other she had ever heard — it was as though she were hearing the voice of the Big Bad Wolf from the nursery rhymes she heard when she was but a child. She could feel the rage boiling just beneath the surface of her visitor as the hate emanated from the dark recesses of the room.

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