Operation Nightfall
1899. England.
Night had fallen. The air itself seemed to be holding its breath. Shadows clustered just out of range of the streetlights. Not even the drunks were out at night, in that part of town. It has been whispered, behind secure doors, that a demon haunts Whitechapel. Officials and citizens alike swear to have seen a pale figure, all in black, come creeping through upper story windows, and crawling out later, where in the morning the hearse wagon pays a call, and comes out loaded to capacity. Others have looked out their windows in the night, to see a sudden lack of officers at their posts, or for the unlucky viewer, a limp body being drug off into the shadows by a dark figure. Fear reigned freely. The police were terrified to work their shifts, alone in the dark. The name of this entity of horror was well known to all, even in Western London: Jack the Ripper.
Whitechapel, England. Osborn Street. 3:00 AM
All along the street, all was still. Wanted posters hanging from the walls rustled in the wind. A low fog hung over the streets, twirling in the dim light of the streetlamps. The bells of St. Anne's rang mournfully through the night. Suddenly, seemingly straight out of the wall, a tall figure, features obscured behind a grey bandanna, in a leather hat and duster, strode out and down the street, shotgun slung across his back. He stopped, and looked at one certain wanted poster, featuring him. below the sketch of his face, also obscured by a bandanna and the hat, above the list of his numerous crimes, his name stood out in bold: Abraham Grant. "They didn't even get the face right," Grant rumbled grimly, under his breath. "At least they didn't mention the Paris incident among your misadventures" a voice muttered behind him, in a thick spanish accent. Grant started to form a retort, when a loud, piercing, soul-rendering scream ran up the street. Grant dropped the poster, and stared in the direction that the scream came from. In the distance, on the front steps of St. Anne's, he could see a limp figure slip to the ground, a dark figure standing over it. "You've heard the music, lads," Grant said over his shoulder. "Time to dance. Druitt's at work again." with that, Grant dashed down the street, followed closely by the rest of his team, similarly dressed and armed. Omega squad was on the hunt.
St. Anne's Church. 3:05 AM
The body of a blood-stained police officer lay on the front steps, grant examining him. "Guess Druitt's been busy, eh Grant?" queried a young Hispanic gentleman in a leather jacket. "You guessed right," muttered Grant. "This would be just any other murder, except for these marks here," as Grant turned the corpse's head, revealing two small pinpricks directly above an artery. On impulse, Grant looked up at the church, just in time to see the dark, shadowy figure climb in through the broken stained-glass window. "Look! Up there," he yelled, pointing at the rapidly receding figure. The rest of the squad looked up as one, and saw him. "John Druitt," Grant whispered. "Emily, at long last your death can be avenged."
St. Anne's Church. Belfry. 3:30 AM
Nearly half an hour later, after an unsuccessful search of the rest of the church,Grant finally led his team to the grim, dimly-lit attic of the church. "Form up, and spread out," Grant whispered hoarsely over his shoulder. "He has to be up here somewhere, so be on guard. And keep your torches lit." As the squad readied their equipment, spreading into Diamond formation, Grant peered into the darkness: old church bells and statues of saints long forgotten littered the path ahead. Far too many places for a desperate man to hide. Suddenly, without warning, a dark figure fell from the rafters, and landed directly in front of grant. While the rest of the squad stood their ground, bristling with firearms like a steel porcupine of death, Grant simply smiled, ordered them to stand down, beckoned for a torch behind him, and helped up the figure. "John Druitt, I assume? Alias Carlisle Cullen?" "you assume correctly," said the figure, as a torch was brought forward. the figure was tall, lanky in build, long bushy sideburns, tangled messy blonde hair, aquiline nose, stoical grey eyes, and a black velvet jacket with matching pants, hanging loosely from his frame. He would have passed as any ordinary person, except for two small details; his piercing, almost hypnotic gaze, and his deathly paleness.
"Now, down to business. Mr. Druitt, I hereby arrest you for the murders of 14 women, nine children-" "A dozen men, and a few dogs," drawled druitt, leaning against a support beam, almost bored. "Yes, I know. And it was 15 women, not 14, as you well know," as he winked knowingly at Grant. "Nonetheless, you will come quietly, or we will have to bring you to court by force," Grant said quietly, barely holding himself together. Druitt was silent for a moment, apparently thinking it over, and loped over to one of the statues, when suddenly, he picked up the statue and threw it at Omega squad. They managed to dodge it in time, but as it smashed into the ground between them, it exploded into a cloud of dust and powder. By the time the cloud disappeared, Druitt had already disappeared into the shadows of the attic.
St. Anne's Church. Sanctuary. 4:00 AM
Half an hour later, after finding no traces of Druitt, Grant began to search the sanctuary below. The cross at the pulpit cast an ominous shadow upon the rows of pews. As Grant led his team down the aisle, they could hear a faint leathery flapping above. "Spread out. He could be anywhere down here," Grant muttered. The other three spread out, leaving Grant alone in the darkness. Suddenly, a scream shattered the silence, followed by another. then another. Then complete dead silence, aside from the continuation of the flapping, louder than before.
"Anderson, you out there," Grant called. No response. Suddenly, the rustling above stopped. On impulse, Grant raised his torch, and looked up. "Oh... dear..."
Druitt was perched on the support beam running across the aisle, leering down upon him. And he wasn't alone. There were dozens, no, hundreds of beady eyes glowing in the dark around Druitt, staring directly at him. Crouching next to Druitt, in a long black silk skirt, pale blonde hair draping across her front, was- "Emily?" Druitt smiled broadly, malevolently, and Grant saw for the first time Druitt's lengthened canines. As Grant reached for his revolvers tucked in his holsters, Druitt, Emily, and the eyes dropped silently, gracefully to the ground. Emily, bright icy blue eyes blazing through the darkness, turned to him. "sorry darling, but I'm just hungry..." As Grant opened fire upon the quickly advancing Druitt and Emily, Grant experienced fear for the first time. When Grant's mauled body was found the next morning by the parishioners, his face was frozen in a silent scream.
Telegram to Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, MD, PhD, etc.
My Dear doctor,
It is happening again. This time in Whitechapel. The police blame this on an ordinary killer, but we know differently. We need your help. The clan is on standby for your response.
Yours,
Jonathan Harker
