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Jack the Ripper was an unidentified serial killer active in and around the impoverished Whitechapel district of London, England, in 1888. In both criminal case files and the contemporaneous journalistic accounts, the killer was also called the Whitechapel Murderer and Leather Apron. Attacks ascribed to Jack the Ripper typically involved women working as prostitutes who lived and worked in the slums of the East End of London.
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Seitenzahl: 46
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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It was a cold, crisp autumn night in the East End of London, the air thick with the smell of smoke and the cries of gulls wheeling overhead. The gas lamps cast eerie, flickering shadows across the cobblestone streets, their yellow glow barely penetrating the veil of darkness. In one of the narrow alleyways, a lone figure moved with a sinister grace, his footsteps muffled by the fog. He was dressed head to toe in black, his features obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his long coat, fingers curled into fists, as if he were ready to strike at any moment. This man was known only as Jack the Ripper, and the city of London trembled in fear of his name.
He paused outside a run-down tenement, its crumbling bricks stained with the grime of a thousand nights. A single candle flickered in the window, casting a weak light onto the broken shutters. With a predatory smile, Jack the Ripper reached into his coat and withdrew a long, shiny knife. The blade glinted menacingly in the candlelight as he carefully climbed up onto the sill, balancing expertly on the rotting wood. He leaned in close to the window, peering through the glass at the young woman who lay asleep within. She was dressed in a nightgown, her auburn hair spilling across the pillow. He could feel his heart race with anticipation, his breath coming faster. In this moment, he knew that he was unstoppable, invincible. And soon, she would feel the cold steel of his knife against her soft, yielding flesh.
As silently as a ghost, Jack the Ripper pushed open the window and slipped inside the room. The cold night air flowed in, making the curtains billow out like a pair of aging lungs. The woman stirred in her sleep, moaning softly, her eyelids fluttering. He moved swiftly, crossing the room in a blur of shadow and movement. Before she had a chance to react, he was upon her, pinning her to the bed with his weight. Her eyes widened in terror as she struggled futilely against his strength. He leaned down, his breath hot against her neck, and whispered, "Shhhhh..."
His free hand reached for the knife, grasping it tightly. The blade glinted in the candlelight, casting a cruel reflection onto her terrified face. With a swift and practiced motion, he raised the knife high above his head, preparing to bring it down on her vulnerable neck. Time seemed to slow down as the blade descended, as if the world itself was holding its breath. There was a muffled thud, and then a gurgling scream as blood splattered across the crumbling plaster of the wall. Jack the Ripper smiled, feeling a sense of exultation wash over him. Another victim, claimed for the night.
He stood over her for a moment longer, taking in the sight of her broken body, the lifeblood pooling around her. Then, with a shrug, he turned away, leaving her to the mercy of the fog. He knew there would be other women like her, waiting for him in the shadows. The city was teeming with them, ripe for the picking. And he would find them, one by one, until he was finally stopped. Or until the day came when he no longer felt the need to feed this insatiable hunger.
Outside, the streets were still deserted, the occasional rat scuttling across the cobblestones. Jack the Ripper made his way back toward the docks, lost in thought. He couldn't help but wonder who would be next. There were so many possibilities, each one as tempting as the last. Perhaps he would find a woman sleeping in an alley, or maybe he would venture into one of the more upscale neighborhoods, where the women wore silk and lace beneath their sheets. The thought sent a thrill down his spine.
He paused beneath a streetlamp, tilting his hat back to reveal his pale, scarred face. The light cast long shadows across his features, making him look almost sinister. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, feeling a strange sense of detachment from the world around him. It was as if he were watching a play unfold, with himself as the star actor. In a way, he supposed that was true. He was the center of attention, the one who held the power of life and death over the women of London.
He continued on, weaving his way through the darkened streets. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sewage, and the cobblestones were slick with mud. A group of drunken sailors stumbled out of a tavern, laughing boisterously. They paused when they saw him, their eyes widening in recognition. One of them stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger. "There he is, boys! Jack the Ripper himself!"
Their words sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he raised his chin defiantly. He knew that they couldn't prove anything, and even if they could, it wouldn't matter. He was untouchable. He was a force of nature, a shadow that moved through the night, leaving only death in his wake.
The sailors, emboldened by their own drunken bravado, started to close in on him. They were large men, rough and unkempt. Their breath reeked of cheap gin and sour vomit. But Jack the Ripper was not afraid. He had faced far worse in his life, and survived. He smiled grimly, waiting for them to make their move.
