Beastridden

The Vulture, Taking Flight.

In the fall of 1866, a woman was found dead in an alley in the unfortunate parts of London. Her name was Janine McKinney and she had been murdered. The cause of death was strangulation, that was quite obvious. The bruises around her neck were dark and deep, and her hyoid bone was broken. Upon further inspection, she was found to have been surgically opened in the abdomen. And inside, she was missing a liver and a heart. Nothing else was missing, but it was clear that things had been meddled with in there. Moved around, perhaps. Maybe even taken out, and then put back. She'd been sewn back up, not by a skilled hand but still one obviously familiar with surgical sutures. Her body had been moved from where she was operated on, it was deduced. She had been placed in that alley on purpose. Not to dispose of her, but to make sure she would be discovered. Someone wanted her to be found. Someone wanted her to be seen.

Two months later, the body of a man was discovered. His name was Ralph Astor, and he had nothing in common with Janine McKinney. The cause of death was bloodloss due to penetrative abdominal trauma. He had been stabbed with a sharp object, twelve times. It seemed like rushed work, an impulsive decision. He was found where he had died. Behind some bushes in St. James Park, in a pool of his own blood. Upon further inspection, he did have something in common with Janine after all. He too had been opened up, and his insides had been disturbed. A kidney was absent, but everything else remained in place, however damaged it was. He had not been sewn up again, but it seemed to have been the intention. It had been a man walking his dog that had stumbled upon the horrific scene, merely by accident when the dog had made a fuss over something in the bushes. Whether Ralph was meant to be found was unclear. But his body was still warm upon discovery, so perhaps it was not the case.

In the summer of 1867, a woman went missing. Isabelle Meadrose was the daughter of Nathaniel Meadrose, a wealthy entrepeneur. She was his only daughter, and his greatest pride and joy. The Meadrose family was well-liked and popular, especially Isabelle. She was beloved by her husband as well as their two young sons, Emile and Olivier. She was a loving mother, a good friend, a faithful wife.

A week later, a womans body was found in the river. Once pulled ashore, the fear on everyones minds was confirmed. It was Isabelle. The cause of death was difficult to pinpoint at first, due to the state her body was in. But it was eventually ruled that she had been poisoned. Arsenic, it strongly seemed. Further investigation revealed as well that she, like Janine McKinney and Ralph Astor, had been dissected. Nothing was missing, however, everything had been put back where it belonged, and she had been sewn up. So nothing was missing. Not in her stomach, at least. However a square patch of skin had been removed from her left thigh. It surely hadn't been the work of a skilled butcher, and yet it seemed careful. Meticulous. On top of it that, she was missing a molar. It was noticeable, as her teeth were otherwise in fine condition and she previously was not missing any. Lastly, but perhaps most gruesome, a finger had been cut from her delicate hand. And not just any finger, but the one that her husband years prior had placed an expensive and beautiful diamond ring on, when they stood before God and made promises of love and devotion to each other. Oh, it was all so strange and so terribly tragic.

Her funeral was grand, but depressing. The attendance was impressive but that was expected, as Isabelle was deeply loved and deeply missed. The whole city was in mourning, even those that never knew her. It was such a gruesome tragedy. A girl like her, so kind and lovely, how could anyone ever think to hurt her? Rob her of her life, her future? Rob her loved ones of her presence? Her children of their mother? It was so immensely difficult to understand. A week later, a package arrived at the doorstep of the Meadrose estate. It was adressed to the widower Paul and his two little boys, Emile and Olivier. It was a small simple box, that contained a folded handkerchief, and tucked within the folds was a single human finger. A finger with an expensive diamond ring attached to it.