by David Waine
*
Tuesday, October 2nd, 1888
In a squalid little yard called Miller’s Court, a young woman with deep green eyes and straggling, shaggy auburn hair rocked on the edge of her unmade bed, shaking convulsively and keening. Her arms were wrapped tightly round her body and her eyes streamed as she stared in horror at the grimy window only a few feet away. Her face was white and gaunt, grey shadows stark below her eyes. Her hand shaking uncontrollably, Mary Jane Kelly reached out and pulled the threadbare, ripped curtain across the glass to shut out the nameless horror that lurked beyond her sight, which prowled the streets and devoured her sort entirely, which lay in wait, readying itself for her. It counted the hours silently, patiently, gauging its moment.
Now it would come.
Now she was truly alone.