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My Name Is Jack.

Short story By: M J Owen

Over 100 years after the original events, Jack the Rippers journal reveals an even dark truth about the murders of Whitechapel

Submitted:Apr 27, 2012    Reads: 54    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   

This story has been temporarily placed on hold.

Jack Hinton's Journal

24. Aug.- I have met the most charming women. Her name is Margaret and as soon as our eyes met, I felt a connection as my heart skipped a beat. She is wonderously beautiful, an angel in human form. It was the night just past, at Carl Jones' fundraiser. Carl Jones is father's American friend from the club. I forget what the fundraiser was for, there being so many of the ghastly boring things. I may have mentioned it in my past entry? Any way, this one was living up to dull expectations as one would expect with such company when I was finally introduced to dear Margaret. She was not the first women I had spoken to that night, but she was certainly the only one who didn't make me want to pull my hat over my eyes and simply fall asleep in the corner of the room. Had father not insisted I join him I would simply have stayed at home. That reminds me, I really must thank him for forcing my hand.

Margaret and I talked for some time as the night seemed to run away from us. We chatted over the most basic of things, from music to politics and had the most delightfully sporatic conversation regarding the fashion styles of eastern european men. I offered to walk her home, hoping to claim her address in order to stay in contact. Unfortunately, she came with her mother and father and left with them. However, as if sensing my intentions, she did slip me a note with her address on and, with a blush from both of us I admit, insist I write.

Im trying not to seem to eager, but don't feel I can last much longer, with three letters already been drafted and then scrapped. I shall give it another day, then I shall write her and propose we meet again. Yes, one more day. That is not too eager, is it?

27. Aug.- Tonight surpassed all expectations. I was worried that, after building her up so much in my mind, I had created a woman that poor Margaret could not possibly live up to. I need not have worried, for she was more wonderful and more beautiful than I remebered. Whilst filtering through the mail the morning before last, I found a letter, the address written in the most delicate of handwritings. I knew instantly it was from Margaret and after reading it discovered she enjoyed our time together and wanted to see me again. I didn't bother writing back as I simply couldn't wait on a response. Instead I decided to go see her myself that night. I realised on the way that it was a little unorthodox but seems I was half way there I thought 'in for a penny, in for a pound'. I knew her father most likely would not approve so was relieved when I heard he was absent.

We decided on a simple walk down Brick Lane, across Whitechapel and back to my house where we drank watered wine and discussed, among other things, our likes and dislikes with regards to Shakespeare. She insist that his work shall live through eternity whereas I pointed out that his fanciful tales would struggle to find a place in modern culture. Regardless of whether I agreed with her views or not I could listen to the music that is her voice all night, and I would have, had she not needed to return home. We have decided to meet again in four days time. Oh how the minutes feel like years.

1. Sep.- The night just past was a most peculiar night indeed. After spending another wonderful night with sweet, innocent Margaret I strolled home late, only to find a crime investigation underway, not a stones throw away from my own door. I don't know for certain what had taken place but from the police activity it must have been something serious. I was going to query it with one of the offices but recieved a curious look from a gentlemen in a shabby coat whom I assumed to be a detective so I hurried on home. Frightening to think that there could be something as terrible as a murder so close to my home.

Had that only been the worst of it. My dreams where haunted by murder. I have hardly slept a moment all night.

My only salvation is the thought of seeing Margaret again. She has arranged for us to meet friends of hers from Essex. Hopefully I will feel better by then. I simply must be, for I could not bare to disappoint Margaret.

4. Sep.- My dreams continue to be troubled, only now they become more distinctive. They feel so real. Each night I awaken, bathed in sweat, breathless, tears streaming down my face. I am frightened.

In my dreams I watch from a distance as a man commits terrible, gruesome murders. Strangely the man commiting the murders is the very same man I saw at the crime scene several days ago. The man wearing the shabby coat who gave me such a curious look.

I have written Margaret to inform I'm ill. I feel terrible, forcing her to go see her friends alone when I know she was looking forward to introducing me to them. However, where I to attend like this I would only embarris her. I have slept only a handful of hours since the incident on the corner of Buck's Row. I just hope sweet Margaret will forgive me.


Margaret Carroll's Diary

5. Sep.- I recieved a letter from Jack today claiming he was unwell. I must admit I am a little disappointed as I was truly looking forward to seeing him again. Annebel and Steven arrive in two days time, and, despite them being such wonderful friends, I must admit the two of them can be slightly annoying when dining with them alone. Perhaps I will ask them to postpone their visit, just for a little while, until My Jack is feeling better.

I know it may seem that it is a little soon to be refering to him as My Jack, but already I feel there is something there. A connection that I have never felt before meeting him. He truly is a wonderful man, handsome and sophisticated. I hope he feels better soon, and that he feels the same way for me as I do for him.

more contents will follow very soon.


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