London
1 October
1888
From the Desk of N.A. Williams
To My Beloved Sister,
I didn't think I could bear to write this letter, but I am left with no other option. Curse the day that forced your brother to address these words to you, sister. Your eyes are best suited for finer poetry than this.
Do you recall the fantastic stories we told each other in the days of our youths? We used to laugh them off, for even at that age we knew their faults and fancy. What I am going to tell you, dear sister, is far different from that, but you still must know of it. When this dreadful thing comes to pass, you should not be left wondering how or why it happened. This burden is mine to hold, and should its weight sink me into the depths of eternal torment, it should be better that you look down on me from heaven than to your side in hell.
Surely, sister, you have heard of the murders in the Whitechapel area. You must know that for a terrible act originating from that pathetic muck to reach your gentle ears requires a degree of privilege in its horror, for a murder to the wretched living in Whitechapel is only as irritating and consequential to the general order as manure under a shoe to you or I.
I regret to say that I found myself in Whitechapel shortly after news of the second murder. Rest assured, dear sister, that I was not there to imbibe in what they fill their glasses with, or to encourage the occupations of uncouth women with a reveal of my silver, although both were available in surplus in the immoral establishment that required my presence. You ought to see these people for yourself, dear sister, for you would not believe the destitution and depravity they allow into their lives like flies through an open window.
Certainly, you know that I merely jest with this suggestion, for the thought of tainting your perfect honor in a place such as Whitechapel is appalling. You are far too delicate. Their hands are not suited to handling flowers such as you. They bear the armor in their palms and in their hearts of squeezing too many thorns. Such disgusting creatures.
So what was my purpose in Whitechapel? It was strictly a business affair, at a concern of ill reputation, related to the reporting of monies collected and monies owed. My profession, as you recall, is accounting, although explaining this trade in further detail would induce a state of dizziness in you, my beloved sister. Trust that the debt these establishments of alcohol and abomination carry on their books is immense, despite the slightly less immense revenues they collect from the depraved specimens of steerage-grade syphilis who never seem to leave. Perhaps the owners indulge in their own wares too heavily, or they lack simple mathematics, or their venereal afflictions prove too distracting. Nothing would surprise me. It is a problem of lineage and inheritance, of a built-in defect. They lack the fortitude, or perhaps intellect, to resist such temptations. It is why charitable efforts are a fruitless endeavor, merely enabling their behavior and wasting monies that could be spent on far superior purposes.
You must understand that I dressed down for the visit to Whitechapel, sister, for I did not want a chance passerby to notice my finer attire amongst the squalor and inquire about it to my employer. You see, I make these calls to Whitechapel in the evenings, when gentlemen should not journey there without a grim and terrible purpose. I find the evenings more amenable to my clientele, because this lot of people lives the complete reverse of you and I in every way, including the hours of engagement with their peers.
While I waited with absolute sobriety and chastity for the establishment's owner to meet with me as we'd agreed earlier, I happened upon a queer object in the far corner of the pub area. At first, I thought it a religious specimen, perhaps one of those silly Catholic contraptions. But upon closer inspection, I could not place it with any religion familiar to England. I would deem it a shrine of sorts.
A drunken harlot tried to pull me away from my inspection, screaming some nonsense about my presence at the shrine being inappropriate, renting my clothing in the process. The nerve of that woman! A promise to correct her with my fist sent her back to her momentary suitors. I do not feature this side of my personality often, gentle sister, and certainly not around you. But I am bound by honor and duty to our good family's name, and I'll be damned if some harlot will instruct me in my affairs.
The owner still had not revealed himself, so I returned to inspect the shrine, unmolested by any further irritants. What a grotesque display this shrine was. Were someone to happen upon it all at once instead of slowly, one might die of fright. The mind needs time to gradually process such a thing as this.
Mismatched lumber formed a narrow yet tall table, making the shape of what I'd call an altar, although one can never be sure. Atop it was a single red candle, a metallic charm depicting a symbol I could not place, a clipping of a newspaper article about the prostitutes victimized by the Whitechapel murders and a few coins. Can you imagine why I thought this so absurd? How on Earth did money survive out in the open, unclaimed, in a place such as this? And a newspaper? It is highly doubtful anyone in that establishment could so much as read tea leaves. As an aside, why would they need to divine the future anyway? Their fortunes already disappeared down their throats, in so many ways.
But I have not told you yet about the worst part, the most hideous feature of this shrine. There upon the scraps of wood, resting near the candle, lay a length of hair. On the one end of its length, a curl. On the other, a patch of mangled meat. Something about it drew my attention beyond a disgusted glance, and to my shock I found my fingers yearning to feel its rough crevices of meat. It is like the urge to run one's finger beneath a sheep tick and watch its legs shiver just before wrenching it free from skin.
It is difficult to explain, but there I was nonetheless, with this patch of meat between my fingers. It felt dry, yet still moist enough to bend, like a cracker just as it meets soup. Holding it gave me the distinct impression that its origins were human. Upon a second examination, I wondered why I did not realize this in the first, and I placed the length of hair back.
However, dear sister, this was not the end of it.
Teeth. Two human teeth. They floated in a glass jar filled with a concoction so rancid that I could not place my nose near its rim for more than a second. The liquid yielded no steam, yet the jar felt hot to the touch. Curds of white and yellow tumbled end over end in the jar as well, churning from an agitator unknown, and their identities proved more elusive than the teeth.
Apologies for my indulgence in recalling that moment, sister. I shall not belabour this vile scene any further.
What could this be? Why was it here? Dear sister, if I had only known then what I know now, I would have sprinted as fast as I could away from that unholy shrine.
Yet I am sorry to report I did not. I valued the privacy this shrine provided in an establishment crowded with filthy people, a detail more curious to me now than it was at the time. I never thought twice about it. Perhaps this was due to my growing frustration with my unaccompanied situation. The owner never showed. I take no delight, gentle sister, in these places, especially if I am in unfamiliar company. Were I to seek advisement regarding the most expedient routes to a repulsive establishment such as this, it would only be for the purposes of avoiding it in the future, I can promise you that.
Now, accountants such as myself are constantly thinking of numbers, and this is how my mind decided to occupy itself. As the owner continued to refuse to present himself, I decided to reconcile a shortage in the books with the coins from the shrine. This would not be enough to cover everything, but I felt it my duty to best represent my employers' wishes. You see, they simply do not tolerate unbalanced books. Tolerance for error is the difference between an amateur and a professional, and I am the utmost of the latter. I would not allow a single error no matter the task.
Seeing no way forward for my meeting with the owner, I decided to exit the establishment and make my way back home. How peculiar it was to not locate a taxi, for the hour wasn't so late that they would not be about. Perhaps it had something to do with the fog that seemingly came out of nowhere. Maybe it was my attire, selected to blend in with the crowd. Taxis do not favor passengers in such dress, as they cannot be trusted to pay correctly, not in Whitechapel. For this, I blame not their suspicions.
Instead, I decided to walk home. It would be a long trek but, as you know, I have always preferred to walk in solitude. There is something freeing about knowing you are the only one out there, especially with thick fog creating an envelope around you. Perhaps it dates back to the secure feeling of the womb. I've always felt that tug towards innocence, and admired the purity of those most infantile of moments. Our mother, you will recently recall, protested my mentioning a return to breast-feeding, and I relieved my desires elsewhere, but I digress. Such matters are not your concern any longer, sister, and you may sleep soundly knowing that I will not revisit that conversation with you again.
After a short while of needling through the wretched mess that occupies the bottom rung of Whitechapel, something one may find surprising given the averages these people set for themselves, I reached a point where I was forced to return to the main thoroughfare. Here, the fog's intensity magnified, and I lost my path several times. Barely could I see my hand outstretched in front me, sister. The moon and the lamps along the street provided no further guidance. It wasn't until I reached a pause in the fog that I could regain my senses, and I nearly shouted from frightful surprise.
There stood the drunken harlot.
I refer to the woman who rented my clothing earlier in the evening. But how had she caught up with me? From what I could perceive, she'd never left the gaze of those drunkards at the establishment with the evil glean in their eyes.
Perhaps I'd circled back around, having overcorrected in the fog? Sister, I promise you that was not the case. There in that gap in the fog, I recognized my location as being right where I ought to be along my route home. A few lamps nearby benefitted my judgment.
The harlot looked straight at me upon my approach, and I immediately demanded she state her intentions, for she presented a menacing demeanor. She brought to mind the witches in the silly books we read as children, dear sister, although this was no book and the situation felt far from silly.
The harlot opened her mouth to speak, but the words that drew forth recalled no language I could decipher. Hideous pronouncements, sister, formed at her lips, and I could not determine how she made those sounds. It could be compared to the sucking noises of a large fish's innards as they are removed. That is the best I can describe it.
Despite not understanding the words, I supposed that this woman wanted the coins back from that grotesque shrine. However, upon reaching into my pocket, I could not locate them.
The harlot did not seem to notice or care about the coins, though. She broke into a chant of sorts next. It started low, in the back of her throat, and then built into a roar. I felt positively transfixed by this performance, despite wanting very much to make good on my earlier promise to her. Only six syllables made up the chant, and to the day I die I will not forget them. It would be impossible to transcribe them for you, sister, and I wouldn't dare try to recite them in your presence. For what happened next is why I am writing this letter.
At the end of the chant, the harlot fell to her knees as if exhausted, her head hanging limp toward the ground. She appeared as though she'd died. A curiosity overcame my better judgment, and I leaned over to listen for a sign of her breath.
Suddenly, her head shot upright. She leaned back, parted her lips and spit the gooiest pad of mucus into in my eyes.
In the short time it took me to clear this revolting act from my face, the harlot was gone, although I never heard her leave.
From that moment on, my life changed dramatically.
I cannot explain how, but my eyes no longer were my exclusive domain. They belonged to someone else. As fantastic as it sounds, sister, my eyesight substituted itself with that of other persons. Strange persons.
These bouts gradually increased in duration and frequency. At first, I thought them a trick of the imagination or light. How else to explain the visions of walking a street instead of working in my study? This would last for some seconds, often until I realized what I was seeing should not be true. Then my normal vision restored.
But as time went on, and I became more aware of this phenomenon, the seconds turned to minutes. Now I could read street signs, see faces walking past me and recognise landmarks. As the minutes progressed, I spotted my reflection in a shop window. Imagine this, sister. I was a woman! Not only that, I was apparently a woman in Whitechapel, or so my sight suggested.
I wondered at the time, as you might be now, sister, whether these were dreams, and that I'd fallen asleep. I can report, with great regret, that that was not the case, for my employers accused me of falling into a trance while working. My eyes, they said, remained open the entire time, but I proved unresponsive to their attempts to refresh me.
Compounding this bizarre development was my total inability to control the events of my second sight. I inhabited the eyesight of a series of women in Whitechapel, and I could not so much as suggest a left turn instead of a right while they walked the street.
Which leads me to the worst of it all.
Do you understand what is happening in Whitechapel, sister? That there is a man murdering prostitutes in horrific ways? You read about murders in the newspapers, but do you truly grasp the horror? Or do you shake your head and carry on with your day? I wish I could return to the latter, when I lacked appreciation for the price of humanity lost to the abhorrent creativity of bloodlust, but nevermore.
A ghastly fiend walks among us, sister, and it feeds its carnal urges for blood in Whitechapel. It is an abomination of man, a rebellion against God, a degradation of nature itself. The bobbies investigating the crimes and the newspapermen know only a sliver of this, but I know it as intimately as the tip of the knife this fiend uses to gut his prey.
Because, sister, I see it all.
My second sight, if you will, puts me in the place of the women he selects to kill. It always starts a day or so before their deaths, terminating with their brutal departures from this Earth. It would be merciful were killing the only act he desired. And I know it is he, the Whitechapel murderer, because I've seen his face many times hovering over the women whose eyesight I temporarily occupy.
Yes, I am afraid it is so. Although only a small number of murders out of Whitechapel reached your ears, the newspapers can only report on what the bobbies discover. I assure you, this murderer's hellish portfolio stretches far beyond those confines.
The newspapers will also neglect certain details of the murders at the request of the bobbies, but I can reveal all, sister. This defiled man goes in quickly, running his blade into vital areas with no hesitation or regard. Thank God I can only see and not hear these dreadful scenes. You cannot imagine the blood. It is not like how you think of it. When it first spills forth, it is a colour that invokes a primal reaction deep within one's belly. One knows exactly what that colour means.
Did you know that he relishes licking the skin of his victims until it gives way to bone? They look like cuts from his blade, but they are not.
It is always as if he is searching for something inside their bodies, growing more agitated with each victim when he can't find it. What it is he digs for within all that terrible gore I know not and do not wish to discover.
The worst is when my sight takes in both the murderer and the victim, for then I know the eyes of that poor soul were removed.
I should mention the murderer's eyes. There is too much white above and below the brown colour in his eyes. He looks in a constant state of surprise while he executes his grim deeds. White is the same colour as his mustache, which he combs to remove the gore when he is ready to leave. But he never cleans it completely. He savors the aroma, satiating his desires until the next victim. Were the bobbies to look for a man with a mustache discoloured in this way, they may well find the murderer.
Many times, I attempted in vain to locate these women before they met their demise. However, a place like Whitechapel is nowhere for the specific. As a result, the dread that overcame me as I anticipated their tragic ends drove me to terminate my employment, my relationships and nearly all my finances. I write this letter with the last ink in my possession.
One might wonder why I did not report any of this to the bobbies. In fact, I did. They dismissed my claims as that of a lunatic. I reported, correctly, that the murderer is moving away from Whitechapel because of the intense focus on that area. He now prefers the peace and quiet of more civilized neighbourhoods in which to hunt.
But it is not lunacy, and that is why I write to you, dear sister. Because I know about your daily affairs. I know when you take tea. I know when you read in the evenings. I could recite the passages word for word. I've seen it all through your eyes just as my second sight revealed the daily activities of those murdered women shortly before their demise.
The Whitechapel murderer is coming for you next.
I have not the money to come to you, so I pray this letter reaches you in time. He will introduce himself as an estate representative of a distant relative. That is his trick. Do not believe his charm or his offers of money, sister. His smile betrays his true intentions. Do not let him near you! You must flee! I dare not describe the way he will end your life if given the chance.
You must believe me!
As for me, I do not wish to take the chance of experiencing your death vicariously. I would rather go blind than risk that. For that reason, this is the last letter I shall ever write. At the best, I will have drawn my knife into my eyes for no reason, and perhaps this second sight shall disappear forever. I fear this murderer will never be caught, and that I will be forced to watch each beastly act as it grows in intensity and fervor.
Heed my words, sister. I hope to never see you again.
Your loving brother,
Nicholas