by Ken Asamatsu
Yours truly,
JACK THE RIPPER.
Don’t mind me giving the trade name.
PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands, curse it No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. Ha! ha! ha! ha!
(A bloodstained scrap of cloth thought to belong to the fourth victim was found lying in the passage of the doorway leading to Flats 108 and 119, Model Dwellings, Goulston Street, Whitechapel. This was later matched to the apron worn by Catherine Eddowes. The wall above where it was found bore the following message in white chalk:)
“The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.”
From the Illustrated London News
A letter dated September 25th, with an East London Post Office postmark, has been delivered to the Central News Agency. The contents have now been made public, and offer a glimpse at the true depths of this Autumn of Terror.
Investigation of the postcard itself has revealed that the language used is very clearly American in style, going so far as to use American idioms. What’s more, the style of these murders closely matches that of a string of incidents that occurred in 1885 in Austin, Texas, USA. This leads to the inevitable conclusion that Jack the Ripper must be an American cowboy.
Composition by a Victorian-era gutter poet.
I’m not a butcher
I’m not a Yid
Nor yet a foreign skipper
But I’m your own light-hearted friend
Yours truly, Jack the Ripper
IV Around November 9th, 1888
Letter from S. L. Mathers
My Beloved Mina,
I’m planning to pay a local boy a penny to deliver this letter to you immediately.
Tonight! They shall appear tonight, between the evening of November 8th and the morning of the 9th.
And this time their victim shall not be another 40-year-old woman, as before. She shall be in her early 20s, petite, with black hair. A beautiful woman with Jewish and French heritage.
And there’s you: beautiful, 23 years old, 5 feet 4 inches tall, of Irish-Jewish parentage. Meaning there is a very good chance that you, my beloved Mina Bergson, are on Jack the Ripper’s and Nyarlathotep’s list of potential final victims!
You must surely be wondering how I came to such a conclusion.
I shall explain the events in order, and quickly (for we have no time!).
The spark for all this was the wounding of my left shoulder and right hand. Early in the morning of September 30th, the wounds that my astral body received afflicted my physical body when I returned to it in the temple at our home.
I attempted to perform some rudimentary care myself, but as I am not Bill, medical man and coroner that he is, it was a fumbling, amateurish thing.
I failed to disinfect the wounds properly, and I fear some germ remained in them, or perhaps some effluvium from the cloaked creature’s talons infected me spiritually when it struck my shoulder.
Whatever the case, over the next month both my shoulder and right hand swelled up, festered, and grew feverish. However, I hesitated to further burden Bill, as busy as he has been.
And indeed, I wished to keep it secret that I had been in spiritual contact with Jack the Ripper. (For can you imagine how worried, and indeed angry, Bill would be if he discovered such a thing, infringing as it does on his official duties?)
Hence, I visited a clinic located not so very far away and received care from the surgeon there.
It was located in Macklin Street, about two blocks to the east of the British Museum.
I shall leave out the grisly details of the care and draining of my wounds out of concern for your feminine constitution.
And so, with my shoulder and hand now a mass of stitches, the true crux of my story occurred on my walk home from the clinic.
“Pardon me. Is that Samuel Liddel Mathers?”
The low, resonant voice stopped me in my tracks.
“It is. Have we met?”
When I turned around, I found myself facing a man with rich brown hair combed back from a wide forehead and a look of powerful intellect in his eyes. He was around 40 years old.
“I am Henricus Banning, assistant head of the Egyptian and Assyrian collection at the British Museum. We met on September 1st, perhaps you remember?”
“Ah! Yes, of course, professor Banning. I do apologize for the oddness of my inquiry that day.”
“Not at all, not at all. To be perfectly honest, I’ve been waiting for you to return all this time.”
“Oh, how terribly rude of me! Sadly, there have been so many urgent matters to attend to lately—”
“No, no, we all have our own concerns, I’m sure. There’s no need to apologize. I am, however, glad to run into you. I must leave for Egypt tomorrow to investigate the tomb of Sebek.”
“Oh, indeed. . . . I do beg your pardon, but did you need something?”
When I asked this, the professor looked around suspiciously, then quickly stepped closer to whisper in my ear.
“The name you asked about, Nyarlathotep, refers to an evil deity worshiped in Egypt more than 4,000 years ago. The worship demanded terrible rites! Human sacrifice, even cannibalism. In later ages, Nyarlathotep worship was forbidden and followers of the cult were flayed alive as punishment. Indeed, there were attempts to erase from history all mention of pharaoh and Nyarlathotep worshiper Nephren-Ka.”
“I see, thank you. It’s very kind—”
“You must listen! The sign of Nyarlathotep was the reversed sauvastika, and one of the cult’s most sacred rites included the brutal sacrifice of five women. Their kidneys were offered up to Nyarlathotep, and their wombs were saved for the ‘Coming child of the fiend.’ The ritual must be performed at given times, starting at the end of the month of Thoth. That corresponds to August 29th to 31st on the modern calendar,” he whispered on.
“And, in the age of Nephren-Ka, as follows:
“At the end of the month of Hor-em-akhet, meaning September 7th to the 9th.
Then the Festival of Khepera Ra, or September 30th through October 2nd.
Then the Day of Bes in the month of Nut Syene, that’s the evening of November 8th through the morning of the 9th.
“Mr. Mathers, you must see why I’ve been so anxious to see you, yes? Of course you do. For I have found the true motive behind this monster who has thrown London into a pit of fear, this Jack the Ripper. Jack is an Egyptian, make no mistake, and one who worships the dread god Nyarlathotep. We must go to the Yard and insist that they begin rounding up any suspicious Egyptians they can find!”
I endeavored to distract the professor and somehow managed to escape from him.
As I ran, the intense agony I began to feel in my wounded shoulder and hand with every heartbeat was likely worsened by the knowledge of this dark god I had been given.
O Isis, o Ra-Hoor-Khuit, o benevolent deities of Egypt, defend us now!
I found myself praying thus unwittingly as I ran, ceremonial magician that I am, and soon stood before the London Masonic hall.
It was almost 6 in the evening.
I am sure that I had an unconscious desire to speak with Bill.
Or rather, I had a desire to consult with the Royal Coroner for Scotland Yard.
With a Magus of the Societas Rosicruciana in Anglia, and highly placed member of the English Masonic Lodge.
And with a 5=6 (Adeptus Minor) in the magical society Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn33, as ordained by the Secret Chiefs of the German head temple on March 1st, 1888.
W. W. Westcott.
I simply had to discuss the day’s events with Bill.
I ran into the Masonic hall and wandered through the halls in a daze until I arrived at a small meeting room being used as the offices of the SRIA.
Inside it was dark and empty, with no
trace of Bill or any other members. I remember how my feeling of urgency seemed to melt away.
Just when I had turned around to go home, I saw a single note card slide through a gap in the door and fall to the floor. The card seemed to glitter mysteriously, as if sprinkled with gold—as if bathed in rainbow light. In other words, it was filled with a magnetic power visible only to the eyes of an adept like myself.
I bent to pick up the card as a man hypnotized and turned it over to read the following:
To Brother Quod Sis Nesis
I have left you to perform this great work you are doing to awaken the fading Germanic blood, with help from the power of Thor, as you see fit. However, today (October 10th) I received a spiritual message from Secret Chief34 Anna Sprengel that you intend to offer up to Nyarlathotep the blood, organs, and soul of a beautiful woman in her early 20s, petite, with black hair, and of Jewish and French heritage on the Day of Bes in the month of Nut Syene. This cannot possibly be true, can it? I await your immediate answer. I am preparing judgment in this matter from the international arm of the Society of the Rosy Cross.
Pitamaha Gautama Rahûgana
—Gustav Meyrink,
Berlin
Yes! This card was written by the great German visionary writer and occultist Gustav Meyrink35 to give warning to Jack the Ripper himself!
And of course, according to the card—just as I had been told by professor Banning—today, from the evening of the 8th until the morning of the 9th, a beautiful woman in her early 20s, petite, with black hair, and of Jewish and French heritage, will become Jack the Ripper’s final victim!
My beloved Mina, if you do read this letter, arm yourself with knife or pistol. Lock your room door fast, and if anyone should come knocking you must not let them in, for anything!
Stay there until 7 in the morning on November 9th, when the city starts to come alive, until I can get this all cleared away. Don’t open the door for anyone but me, not even if they look just like Bill. Don’t trust anyone!
Your Samuel.
Note from Mina Bergson
Afraid. I’m afraid—so afraid!
I’m so afraid I can’t sleep.
As soon as I read Samuel’s letter, I closed every door and window I could find and locked and bolted them.
And I sit here with a small Remington pistol in my hand, trembling.
Tonight, now, at this very moment—
Somewhere, under the same London sky, the beast walks free. Oh, to think of it!
And to think he might be drawing near to me, to these very quarters!
It frightens me so, I can barely close my eyes at all, much less sleep.
The clock strikes!
It’s already three in the morning on the 9th of November.
The Magical Diary of “J” (Encrypted)
Dorset Street is a scummy little alley all full of pubs just west off Commercial Street. Apartments Rooms and offices all around it.
And full of pubs it might be, it is quiet tonight, late as it is. The night of November 8th, or rather the morning of the 9th. 3 of the clock, I reckon. And not only is it a Sunday night, but tomorrow is the inauguration of the Lord Mayor of the City of London.
The folks have all gone nighty-night early, ’cause tomorrow they’ll be raising a glass to the royal carriage, and another to the twenty-one-gun salute, and they’ll need their sleep!
Ha! ha! ha! ha! Sadly, I got to work the late shift, or should I say early shift? No time to rest for me. I’m off to find a sweet little Jewish girl to scream in French, knife in pocket—
“There ‘tis, J. Beyond that curve of the alley, at Miller’s Court shall ye find a lodging house. The girl we hunger for awaits us there, in number thirteen.” Nyarlathotep appeared at some point to tell me the way. He was solemn as the grave.
Room thirteen! Now that’s a little on the nose, ain’t it! Ha! ha!
I put on my fancy white gloves and walk real quiet-like down the alley he showed me.
Sure enough, there’s a right pretty lodging house there.
I went round and found number thirteen on the corner.
Sumbitch. The windows, such as they are, were shuttered. And the door was locked and bolted. This is a bother. She’s the only one on the list.
So I guess I have to go to the door.
I throw off my “J” mask and, just for a moment, close the Gate on him. And then I mimic the voice of a younger man and call out to the young woman in French, “Je suis un ami!”
“What was that?” she says, and even though she sounded suspicious I can hear her unlocking the door. I reach for my knife.
Statement from Inspector Beck,
Commercial Street Station
Well, first I took down the shutters from the window, smashed the glass, and looked inside. The two who found her first were so upset by the state of the body that they couldn’t stop shaking. I can’t say I blame them.
The Lord Mayor’s Show was going on behind us, and with the noise of the parade and the guns going off, looking inside that room made me feel I was looking at another world.
Let me have a sip of whisky. Sorry. What was that? What’d I see?
She was naked on the bed there. She must have been in her early twenties. She was face up, her hands on her belly, and both legs spread. Her hair, all of it, was black.
Her throat was slit from ear to ear. It was like she was torn apart. Her neck was only held on by a single flap of skin.
Her ears and nose were cut off. Later I heard tell she had been a lovely girl, really. Poor thing. You know, her face was well and truly mangled.
He cut open her belly, and they say he carried off her liver and womb. All the rest was piled up on a table there.
And. . . her breasts were off. They were hanging from picture nails.
One of the witnesses kept saying “The devil! It’s the work of the devil!” to himself.
When we looked in the hearth, we found what was left of her burnt hat and bloomers.
Oh, right, there’s one more thing! There was a scrap of paper, with a queer mark like a bent cross turning to the left. It also had the word “Vanish!” and something like “Nyar—” but the rest was burnt away. But I reckon they didn’t have anything to do with the murder.
Diary of S. L. Mathers
I spent the entire night of the 8th searching for Bill. It feels like I searched every back alley and street in London, but I never found him.
I’m certain that Bill is Jack the Ripper. For what else could that letter from Gustav Meyrink mean? It was addressed to Quod Sis Nesis, was it not? And I know that to be Bill’s Magical Motto!
There is more evidence besides the letter.
The detectives at Scotland Yard have said they believe Jack the Ripper has some degree of anatomical or pathological knowledge, haven’t they? And who would possess more of that than the Royal Coroner of Scotland Yard?! Jack himself wrote, “They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha” in response to the Yard’s announcement. Technically, a coroner is not truly a doctor!
And aside from his anatomical knowledge, Jack clearly has magical knowledge and skill!
The first murder was in Buck’s Row. The second was in Hanbury Street, and the third in Berner Street.
Connecting these three points makes a perfect downward pointing triangle—the sign of water. This can only mean that with his first three sacrifices, Jack was trying to invoke
Then, with his fourth victim Jack changed the shape of the triangle. The altered shape represents ore or currency, symbolizing stability.
From this, I can surmise that Jack’s desire is to use magic to summon forth a new, unknown life from the chaos, and once that life-form is born, it shall impose “an iron order” on the world.
And the
fifth victim shall serve as the mother to that life, her womb removed by magical means, and she shall be the most terribly tormented of all Jack’s victims.
I ran half crazed all night.
Yet not once did I see Bill or Nyarlathotep, and when I came to my senses, it was 10 o’clock in the morning on the ninth.
“Murder! Terror! Another murder! Extra! Extra! Jack the Ripper’s fifth victim found! Torn to bits in her own room! Extra! Extra! Read all about it!”
When I entered Fleet Street, the cries of the newsboy stopped my heart.
I felt a terror that stole my breath for a moment and my feet stopped. I turned quickly.
I tossed the boy a coin and grabbed the extra edition.
London Times Extra Edition
Mary Kelley (25), born in Limerick, Ireland married a collier at 16 years old. Later, her husband was killed in a mine explosion, and the widowed Mary left for London. She spent a brief time in Paris, which might account for her sometimes speaking French when the worse for drink.
Possessing beauty and youth that made her stand apart from other “unfortunates,” she was quite popular with the other ladies of her trade, and the worldly gentlemen in Commercial Street.
And last night, Jack the Ripper came into her room via the front door, as if he was expected.
Then, from 3 in the morning, he took his time enjoying dissecting her in her own bed.
Mary was found in her bed near the entrance nearly nude, clad only in the shredded remains of her chemise. It took nearly six hours for an expert coroner to return her body to something resembling human shape.
The inquest also revealed that she was 3 months pregnant.
Letter found in W. W. Westcott’s Study
Please read this letter along with your Mina. Or was it Moina?
I imagine that when you are reading this letter, I shall be away to Woolwich for work. I won’t be back for two or three days, so I assume you two will still be wondering what to do about all this.