The rain fell in relentless sheets upon the cobblestones, washing filth into the gutters and soaking through the threadbare fabric of the East End. Lamplight flickered in uneven patches along Whitechapel’s streets, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like specters over doorways and alleys. The local’s called it the district of shadow. A place where the unwanted and forgotten sought refuge from the gaze of society, who preferred to pretend that they didn’t exist.

I was standing beneath the sagging awning of a derelict tobacconist, shivering in the cold London weather. The bone-chilling cold gnawed at my bones, but deep within me, a fire burned. It was a fire of purpose and expectation. My eyes fixed on the door of the bustling tavern situated directly across the street from me.

One of many such establishments in the district in which the poor spent their time drinking what little money they had. As the door opened again and again, a cacophony of laughter escaped, along with a strong, acrid smell of low-quality gin that wafted over to me. How could these people be content with what they had? Or rather, didn’t have.

The door opened yet again, revealing my target who stumbled into the night, her gait unsteady and her legs wobbling precariously with each step. Her black velvet bonnet tilted askew on her head. Taking a moment to steady herself, blinking her eyes against the downpour of rain, she was blissfully unaware of the eyes that tracked her every move.

“Ah, Mary. Hello,” a smile crossed my lips as I spoke. The rain drowning out my voice.

I watched her hesitate, as though unsure which direction to go. The slight feeling of nausea swam in my stomach as I considered her plight. No doubt she had just finished spending the money she needed for her lodging that night, and she would have to find someone to prostitute herself too in order to pay for her bed. It would be that or find a doorway or stoop to huddle up in until a constable found her and stirred her on her way.

“Poor Creature,” I laughed. That’s what society might say, but I knew better. Saw her for what she truly was - the embodiment of decay. A blight on the already rotting carcass of that once great city.

I had had the fortune to come across Mary Ann Nichols — Polly to her ilk — a couple of weeks earlier and set my mind to her being the one.

With the rain pouring relentlessly, I lowered my hood to shield my eyes from the downpour. Determined to keep a safe distance, I cautiously trailed behind her, my footsteps seamlessly blending into the symphony of raindrops hitting the ground.

From behind, the melodic sound of her singing was all but muffled by the sound of the rain. Occasionally, a burst of her laughter echoed around the deserted street, as she weaved a path towards Whitechapel Road.

Once or twice I watched as she cast a glance over her shoulder, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and curiosity. It was as if she could sense a lurking presence, a dark force trailing behind her every step. To her, I was merely an observer, a silhouette blending into the tapestry of shadows that haunted these desolate streets.

As I followed, the rain intensified, drumming down upon my hood and soaking through my coat. Still, I persisted, driven by something far greater than discomfort or fear. Each footstep brought me closer to my purpose.

Her legs shaky and unsteady, she veered off-course and into the narrow, confined passageway called Buck’s Row. A smile crossed my face as I realised that this might be the opportunity I needed.

A weak, flickering glow was all that remained from the gaslight in the passage, insufficient to light the narrow passage between the brick structures forming the slum’s towering buildings. It was perfect.

I quickened my pace, closing the distance between us until I was but a breath behind her. A repulsive odor—a fetid mix of dirt and the harsh alcohol of cheap gin surrounded her.

As she stumbled, she swore under her breath, the already potent smell of gin suddenly becoming even more overpowering and sickening in the surrounding air. As my hand gently rested upon her shoulder, she spun towards me, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and palpable fear.

“What’s this?” she slurred, attempting to twist free of my grip on her shoulder. “I’ve no coin for you, none at all —”

The blade was swift, a glint of steel in the weak light against the darkness, as it moved left to right across her throat. Her words died in a gurgle of shock and pain against my palm over her mouth. As blood bloomed across the drab fabric of her dress, her legs, lifeless, gave way beneath her, sending her sprawling onto the ground. A macabre flower of her blood unfurled on the rain soaked cobbles.

Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat reverberating in my ears like the tolling of some distant bell. The world receded until only we remained—predator and prey, bound together by fate’s unyielding hand.

I worked with precision, every motion deliberate and measured. Five more incisions to her throat. I felt the blade scratching at her vertebral column for some of them. Raising her skirt, I carefully puncture her abdomen. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, making sweeping motions across her abdomen, I cut so deep that her bowels were displayed for all to see.

Flesh parts easily beneath my cork-cutters blade, and I marvel at the artistry of it, the sheer beauty hidden within human fragility.

The rain washed away much of the blood, but not before it stained my gloves, seeping into the crevices like ink into parchment.

When I was done, I stood over her lifeless form, breath coming in ragged gasps. The rain continued its ceaseless dirge, masking the sounds of distant footsteps and the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestone. The night held its breath, as if the very city bore witness to my work and dared not speak of it.

Satisfied, I melted back into the shadows with a sense of triumph. The knife, which had been my trusted companion throughout the operation, was carefully concealed once more beneath the folds of my coat. As I blended seamlessly into the darkness, a surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins, causing my pulse to thrum with exhilaration. The weight of accomplishment settled upon me like a comforting mantle, bringing a deep sense of satisfaction. With each step, I felt the invisible cloak of secrecy and skill enveloping me, allowing me to disappear into the night, leaving behind no trace of my presence.

By morning, they would find her lifeless body. The papers would scream of the brutal handiwork of some deranged and sadistic madman, leaving the entire community in a state of shock and fear. The police would tirelessly fumble about in their fruitless search for the elusive monster responsible for the heinous crime.

---

The following morning found me comfortably seated in my dining room, a world away from the grim and shadowy alleys of Whitechapel. From where I’m sitting, I’m able to make out the headline of the newspaper my husband is reading.

HORRIFIC MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL

Playing the part of the obedient wife, I forgo asking for the newspaper, yet fate steps in when the butler presents my husband with an urgent telegram. With a furious movement, he flung the paper toward the table, rising immediately to his feet and exiting the room.

With the room now empty, I collect the paper and read the article. The account was breathless, lurid in its description of Mary Ann Nichols’s fate. They speculated wildly, conjuring images of a savage beast with no regard for human life. I smiled faintly behind the paper. How little they understood.

This was no act of mindless savagery—this was art.

As I sipped my tea, the words blurred together, the details irrelevant now that they had served their purpose. The world would remember Mary Ann Nichols, if only for a while. And soon, they would remember me.

I folded the paper neatly, setting it aside. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold that lingered in my veins. The night belonged to me now, and the shadows whispered promises of things yet to come.

The stage was set.

The performance had only just begun.