I couldn't sleep, I was sick. Endless days, eternal nights. What to do, what to do? Must go out, must kill. But no, I could not. It was wrong. Or was it? I needed to kill. It was not my fault. I was always surrounded by death. My job was consisting of death. I smelled of death. Always cutting them open, those cold bodies. Those intestines made my body shiver. I saw them everywhere. I didn't looked at people normally. All I could see were intestines, walking intestines. But what if they catch me? No, they could not, they could never catch me. Not if I kill the poor and sick. No one cared about them. The streets of Whitechapel were full of those people. Scum of the earth. Who could care for them. They were not worth a penny. But was I able to do it? Of course I was.
So I went out for the first time at the streets of Whitechapel at night. It was a hot and damp night on that august, 31, 1888. There was just a few people on the streets that night. They were minding their own business. Streets were filthy and the smell of death was traveling through the air. People were dying every day on that streets. Madness, diseases, murders, all played their part in everyday life of those poor people. That night was going to throw them into desperation even further because death was now carrying a new face. My face, face of a normal and intellectual man, but inside darkness grew day by day. I went in the darkness and waited. There it was. Prostitute was walking alone on the street. Prostitution was dirty and I despised women who did it.
My mother was some sort of a prostitute. When my father was out somewhere she would call her friends and they would engage in orgies that would last for the entire night. She was the reason I couldn't sleep. I could hear their moans and the dirty words they were saying. For the most of that time I was out somewhere wandering.
I decided to call her. She immediately came in the dark and that's when I tasted for the first time how it feels to take a life. I grabbed her and start to choke her. I must have held her for a minute. She fell on the ground. She was dead. Then I sliced her throat twice. I almost decapitated her. I sliced her with pleasure. Such adrenaline was running through my body. It was incredible. But just killing her didn't satisfied me. I needed to do more. I cut her on the abdomen and cut her several times. I wanted to see her intestines. That moment was the only moment in my life when I felt truly alive. I mean, I cut people before, but that was different. That was my job and it wasn't against the law, but this was. This was brutality, it was against the law of a common man, but it wasn't against the law of a common beast. I was so close to cut her open when I heard some people coming. Damned them. They had to be coming now. I was so close. It didn't matter. I knew I was going to do that again. This was just the beginning.
I went on home and slept like a baby. When I woke up in the afternoon, I couldn't believe it. I never slept good like this. Maybe this was the cure. I needed to kill if I wanted to sleep. And I wanted to kill again, but not for now. I wondered if they had found her body. They probably had. I decided to go for a walk later to hear some rumors. My hands were trembling as I went to make myself some tea. Such adrenaline was running through my body. Inside my head there was so many things going on. Things like fear, things like joy and things like power. I was afraid that someone saw me, but the feelings that I also felt like power and joy suppressed that fear. I could feel an itch in the back of my head, a pleasant itch. Was this the thing that every killer felt or was this just me? People wanted to judge me for this, probably hang me. That was, if they catch me. I was too smart for them. Nobody could suspect a man of my social status to be a killer. And how could they? They didn't know how it felt to be in my skin. They judge killers like they some animals, but they do not understand the force that drives us to do things like that. We kill because we must kill. It's not something you can just keep inside you and hope that it will go away. It will never go away. Not until you kill and even then it will go away only for a couple of months and then it will return. That urge, that primal urge was driving me.
Since I was a little kid, I always killed and dissected animals. I could never sleep, so I would sneak out from my parents house at night and go look for animals. Cats, dogs, frogs, birds, it didn't matter, they all became my victims. I enjoyed slicing them open and watching their intestines. It was fun for me. Then I became a doctor and yet again I was slicing, but not animals. This time it was people. The irony was that I wasn't killing them, instead I was saving their lives. That kept me going for the time because I could see at their wounds and sometimes people were dying around me so I could see that to. I loved cutting them and hearing them scream, but I took care of them and saved many lives. Ungrateful bastards. Never said thanks to me. My job was an ungrateful job and I hated it. Then again I did it with pride. The thing that I loved the most was doing post mortem examinations. That was more of my caliber. No screams, no crying just a pretty sound of a knife cutting through flesh. Yeah, that was my true love. I became tired of hearing their screams and cries and wasn't allowed to end their suffering. I worked on a couple of police investigations involving murders. Never dreamed that I would later investigate my own murders. Cases I worked on were brutal and victims were often stabbed many times or decapitated. There was victims that were beaten to death or shot many times, but all these murders were done because of some obvious motive. Burglary, jealousy, women cheating husbands or husbands cheating women, debts, or even because of alcohol or opium. Every murder had an obvious motive. Once a homeless man was drowned because he didn't want to give any alcohol to another guy. A woman was stabbed ten times because she didn't had money to pay debt which she took to feed her children. There was many motives to kill. But what was my motive? They couldn't figure it out. Only I know why I killed. The woman I killed wasn't robbed and she wasn't raped. Her murder was of a sadistic nature. It was to pleasure my needs. At that time, no one thought about killing just for fun. Not that I know of, at least not in London. It was hard for police to figure out the dark nature behind the murders.
So it came september, 2, 1888. I went out on the streets to hear some rumors. I went in a pub in Whitechapel. I was right. People were shocked by this murder. They couldn't believe that someone was to use such brutal methods on this poor girl, but they were even more shocked because there wasn't any obvious motive. She wasn't raped or had anything stolen from her. Police was confused. There wasn't any witnesses. They could not link the murder to anyone. Doctors were also shocked by the way she was killed. I enjoyed listening them talk about my work. But the next murder shocked them even more. It was much worse than this. I threw this streets into fear. They never found out what hit them. As I stood outside, there was police walking and investigating, but they didn't found out anything. Nobody saw me and nobody heard me. They even connected one murder that happened before to be my work. It wasn't. For the next few days I slept so good I wore a smile on my face all the time. My friends couldn't believe it. They rarely saw me smiling. I was happy at work, I was happy at home, I was always happy. But that smile lasted for a short time.
It was september, 7, 1888 when I felt the need to do it again. It was late at night and I couldn't sleep. I turned around my bed, but nothing. I needed to do it. I dressed up and took my black Gladstone bag. So, once again I found myself on the streets of Whitechapel. I walked around and kept mostly to the shadows. After a one hour search I found my next victim. Another prostitute. I went on to talk to her. We talked for a while and at some point a woman passed by us, but she couldn't see my face because I was turned away from her. She went away and I persuaded my next victim into going somewhere more private. We walked and daylight was coming slowly. We found ourselves at a place where I figured it would be safe to kill her even if it was during a little daylight. I needed to kill her now. I knew I was risking that somebody could see me, but I couldn't miss this opportunity. I told her to stay while I get behind her back. I began to touch her by the neck. Then I pulled out my knife, grabbed her on the lower jaw and covered her mouth so she couldn't scream. Then, I sliced her neck so deep, I thought I was going to decapitate her. Blood sprouted from her neck like a waterfall. A beautiful sight for my sore eyes. She struggled for a moment, but it was soon over for her.I threw her on the ground. I found some leather apron a few yards away and used it so my clothes don't get stained with blood. I opened my black Gladstone bag and took out my surgical instruments. I had to do this quickly. Luckily for me, I knew everything about human anatomy. I pulled up her skirt and began to cut her on the abdomen. After a moment, there it was. An empire of intestines still warm. It was beautiful touching them with my bare hands. Such an incredible feeling. I took them out and placed them by her right shoulder. I positioned her head also to the right side so she could look at them. A magnificent work of Mother Nature. She should be happy. That itch on the back of my head was back. I felt the power of a hundred men. I checked her body and found a couple of things. I placed them in some kind of order next to her body. Didn't meant much for me, but I did it in respect toward her. After all, she died to satisfy the pleasures of a demented man. It was time to go. I moved like a shadow through the backstreets. I was always a sneaky guy so it wasn't a problem for me to move undetected. I reached my home safely. I undressed my clothes and went to wash myself. Then I went to sleep and dreamed of a world made of intestines. I flew through them, touched them, and eat them. What a wonderful dream. This murder satisfied me for a while.
When I woke up, I did my daily routines without bothering myself if anybody saw me. If they knew what I did, they would call me a psycho, a lunatic, a beast, but I was just different.
We all are beasts inside ourselves. When somebody yells at us or beats us, in our thoughts we only imagine how we would stab that person. It is the law of the men that stops us from doing that. Law of the nature commands you to fight back, to kill or be killed, but of course we don't because nobody wants to be put behind bars or hanged just because of some fool. We just swallow our tongue and continue living our lives. If I would to kill people that have caused me problems in my life that list would be a long list. Imagine if there was no law, just how many people would you want to kill? Or how many people would want to kill you?
Well, that didn't matter. I did what I needed to do and they needed to do what they had to do. Hang me, put me in the asylum, I didn't care. I wanted to kill, at least for now. I doubted that I could ever stop. This last murder had shown me a beautiful world, a world I wanted to live in. I was sleeping without feeling any guilt. I was sleeping peacefully.
Days went by and I could hear rumors that the streets of Whitechapel, for the first time in history, were empty at night. I really did put fear in their bones. My fellow doctors who were examining the body explained to me that this was the work of someone with a medical skill. They were horrified by the way the girl was killed. They claimed that the killer was a doctor because of the way he knew the position of the intestines. I disagreed with them because I didn't wanted for them to start accusing one of us. Eventually, that could lead them to me. Police was working all day and night to find the killer. I heard that there was several witnesses. They couldn't describe the killer. Luck was on my side. The police were desperate and they tried their best to catch the perpetrator, but there was nothing they could do.
A week had passed and the streets of Whitechapel were once again crowded with people at night. They depended too much on the prostitution and other nightly activities. I was glad that they returned to the streets. More prey for my ritual. Yes, you could call it a ritual. It was a ritual to satisfy my needs, my demented health. If I didn't kill I didn't feel good, but for now I was alright. That last kill was enough for now. I went a few times on the streets of Whitechapel during the day and during the night so I could scout places where it would be safe to kill. The police was constantly patrolling the streets. I avoided them and they never saw me. It was fun playing games with them. I was enjoying myself until the need came back again.
It was september, 30, 1888. I felt it, but this time it was stronger than ever. I must kill again. I went out on a hunt for my next victim. I wandered the streets which were filled with police. I avoided them. Some time later, I heard a woman screaming. When I looked at a source of the scream, I saw three men and a woman who was lying on the floor. One of them began to walk away and the second one who was on the other side of the street followed him. Man who was standing near the woman said something to her and walked away. I understood from the words he said that she was a prostitute. She owed them some money. The good thing for me was that she was an easy prey. I emerged from the dark and went on to help her. I asked her if she was okay and she said that she was, that it was nothing. I offered myself to escort her home and she agreed. We walked for some time and I slowed down a little to get behind her back. I grabbed her by her scarf and slashed her throat. She fell on the ground and I slashed it once more. It was good. I wanted to cut her open, but someone was coming. I quickly ran away. I was mad that I couldn't finish my work. I wanted to kill again. This murder couldn't calm down my need. I walked around and there it was.
In Mitre Square, a woman was standing alone. I didn't care if she was a prostitute or not, I just wanted to kill her, but I also wanted something else from her. Not an item or a piece of clothing, but something that belongs to her, something inside her. I went to her and grabbed her immediately. I covered her mouth and slashed her throat. She fell on the ground and out of rage, I mutilated her face. Then I ripped up her stomach and carefully removed her kidney, wrapped it in paper, and put it in my bag. I walked away from her. The need was gone. I threw the bloody apron on the stairs and saw some writing on it. It didn't concerned me much as all I wanted was to get home and sleep. And I did. In the morning, I went to work and heard of the bloody murders. Everyone was shocked. People were afraid, very afraid. A day later, I heard of letters that were sent by the killer who named himself Jack the Ripper. Who could have sent those letters. It was not me. Yet, they named me Jack the Ripper. An interesting name. I seemed okay during those days and worked my work and all other chores calmly. I was happy, but one night when I went to sleep, something struck me. I felt the need, but not to kill, but to eat the kidney which I took from that woman.
I went down to the basement and took it out of the jar filled with spirits to preserve it. I looked at it. It was magnificent. Such a beauty, a perfect work of Mother Nature. I took out the plate, knife and a fork. I cut it in half, put one half on the plate and the other back into the jar. I sat on the chair and began to slowly eat the kidney. It was gorgeous, that soft meat melting in my mouth. I enjoyed in it to the last piece. When I was done I returned to bed and had fallen asleep immediately. Several days later I heard of some kind of vigilance committee. Their sole purpose was to catch Jack the Ripper. I decided to send their chief a letter in which I placed half of the kidney I had with me.
On october, 16, 1888, I was called in to examine some lunatic who was rambling of some murders. I inspected him and his signature was the same as of those letters sent by fake Jack the Ripper. So, it was him. He wanted to claim glory out of this. Maybe I could frame him with this. I gave his signature to the chief of the police. The man also claimed that he studied medicine, but he gave up. Perfect man to throw the blame off of me. The chief of the police took him in. I was fine for the next few days. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. People noticed on me that I was feeling better. And I was until one night everything went wrong. I went to sleep and all seemed alright. Then the nightmare began. I was drowning myself in blood and intestines of my victims. My victims were flying around me and shouting things like murderer or bastard. They were asking me why I killed them. Then they began to cut me and pull my intestines out and I couldn't do anything, but watch and suffer. These nightmares continued for the next days and I was afraid to go to sleep. Why was this happening to me? I went out to find my next victim. Maybe that was supposed to calm me down? Streets of Whitechapel were empty. I went out night after night, but there was no one on the streets except for the police. I was getting really mad. At work, people were getting a little afraid of me. I wanted to kill. I didn't care if anyone sees me. I wanted to kill everyone.
Then came november, 9, 1888. The Lord Mayor's Show was held tonight. I was sure that I would find my victim tonight. There could be plenty of people out there tonight. I needed to kill tonight. If not, I'm done. I went out after midnight. There was a lot of people on the street. I was searching and I found my victim. She was a beautiful young girl. She spoke with some man and then she approached me. She asked me money and I told her that if she wants it she has to give something to me. She invited me to go to her place. We passed by that man and I kept my head down. I was getting nervous and mad. I wanted to kill her right here, but I couldn't. I had to endure. We reached her home. We went in and she told me to undress. I placed my Gladstone bag on the table, took out my knife and while she was undressing her dress, I grabbed her from behind and slashed her throat. I threw her on the bed. I enjoyed in the sight. She was lying there and it was a beautiful sight for me. Then, she raised her hand, pointed her finger at me and started shouting murderer. It couldn't be. I killed her. She couldn't be alive. I began to mutilate her body. I didn't know what I was doing. I just stabbed, slashed, ripped and cut her. And she was still shouting murderer, murdered, murderer. In the end, I was tired and she just looked at me. I took out her heart. Without her heart, she couldn't be alive. I ran out and went back home. It was all in my head. I imagined it. She wasn't alive. It seemed that killing didn't helped me anymore.
In the morning, they called me to examine a body. I was surprised when I saw that it was her. I inspected the body and I was shocked by the damage that I did to her. I tried to lead the investigators of my back, so I gave them a few wrong clues.
For the next years the investigation was at a cold spot and they closed the case. I was treating my pain with narcotics. I rarely slept, not just because I couldn't, but because I was afraid of nightmares. In the end, I couldn't take it anymore.
Now I'm writing you this letter. I am about to kill myself. I did wrong things in my life, but I couldn't help it. I am sorry now. Goodbye forever.
I am,Dear sir,