Demon’s Curse – The Rippers

By M. Richard Helton

Set in late Victorian era London, a series of grisly murders has the city reeling in fear as the villain suddenly finds himself a victim when an ancient Rogue Demon attacks him. Jack, as he calls himself, has now lost his morality and humanity to the thief, this demon named Lilith who wishes to take over the world, heaven, hell, and destroy all human life. Her goal threatens everything Jack knows and wakens his humanity that he thought he lost. But to fight evil, he will need evil. Can Jack find allies and save everything he holds dear?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781647501457

M. Richard Helton

M. Richard Helton was the child always waiting to get scared by the next horror film coming out. This passion led him to be featured in his college paper which was a nonfiction about a child affected by his smoker father dying. He also wrote several short stories in a theme not too dissimilar from the series Night Gallery. When he is not writing, he is hiking with his arctic wolf, Shinoko. M. Richard Helton’s novel will bring you through time and show you that horror came with monsters and sometimes with the most frightening villains: real people.

Book preview

About the Author

M. Richard Helton was the child always waiting to get scared by the next horror film coming out. This passion led him to be featured in his college paper which was a nonfiction about a child affected by his smoker father dying. He also wrote several short stories in a theme not too dissimilar from the series Night Gallery. When he is not writing, he is hiking with his arctic wolf, Shinoko.

M. Richard Helton’s novel will bring you through time and show you that horror came with monsters and sometimes with the most frightening villains: real people.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my daughter, Christina, for never giving up on my writing, and for pushing me to never give up on myself. I would also like to thank the writers who have inspired me to become a writer. Authors like V. C. Andrews, Stephen King, Richard Matheson, Edgar Allan Poe, and Rod Serling. They gave me the thirst for writing. Blessings to all.

Copyright Information ©

M. Richard Helton 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Helton, M. Richard

Demon’s Curse – The Rippers

ISBN 9781647501440 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647501433 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647501457 (ePub-e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020926033

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Chapter I

It is a murder! Just like before in the White Chapel District, sir, said the Bobbie as he stood there with his eyes wide open and trembling. The Bobbie stopped to remember the whole gruesome murder and how the body laid in a pool of blood hidden from the public. Still very shaken, the Bobbie report poured, all at once, out of his mouth in a jumbled rush. As though holding onto the news was too much for his hysterical mind to handle and too frightened out of his wits to control himself, he stopped and took a few deep breaths slowly. The Bobbie was pale as a ghost, his face dampened with cold sweat, and his brown eyes wide and dilated as they shifted, side to side, trapped inside his own head as the murder site replayed over and over. He took off his hat and wiped at his brow, mussing his blonde, greased-down hair, and put his hat back on, not caring how his hair looked at the moment, his own thought weighting more heavily on his mind than his own appearance. A man that was standing there was looking at him in concern, not sure what happened at the time but fully intent on finding out the truth and stopping the killings before they took another life.

Sergeant, Sergeant! Come quickly! It’s just horrible, just horrible; blood everywhere! the Bobbie said in a quick jumble of words.

Benson stood as an average-height man but with the classic Scotland Yard discipline drilled into him like a soldier of war. He stood rigid with his hands behind his back resting on his overcoat that was brown in color and open. A brown, wool, three-piece suit with his high collar was under his overcoat and plain, black shoes. His hands were worn and calloused with signs of disregard for his own person. A man that lives for his job and his life is a bore.

The young Blue Bottle heard him, but the shock of the butchered body made it hard to register or even reply. He was acting like a ‘Rookie’ on the job and had hit the post of being there to see the body. Benson had a feeling what his answer would be but waited to hear it just the same. Benson looked at the young Bobbie with anger and said to him in a firm order, Now, get a hold of yourself! You are talking like you are all sixes and sevens. Now, give me your report like a proper Bobbie of London would give his superior. Start again, and try to calm down!

The body…of the woman…again…there again, in the street; my God in heaven, just over there, down the street, in the alleyway; OH…my…God…it’s horrible, stuttered the young Bobbie with his face frozen in panic as he failed to get a hold of reality. The Blue Bottle was so pale, like a soldier who had a nervous breakdown. His hands were shaking, and he kept wiping hidden sweat from his brow. Benson knew then that he was dealing with a new Bobbie and who had never seen a killing like this one ever before in his young career. The poor bastard would never be the same again, thought Benson. The young Bobbie has his whole career before him, and he will be put behind a desk, and most likely, after this case. He will more than likely be on a forced vacation, maybe to the doctor or something like that, said Benson as he shook his head side to side. He only hoped the poor young man would pull out of it and become a good Bobbie or a future high-ranking Constable he knew he would become. But, The Bobbie will be haunted by the event, but he is bound by his duty. And, he will have to give his report to the superior officer regardless of his inner turmoil.

Benson and The Bobbie walked down the dark cold streets of London, heavy in thought, making the trip silently as they headed for the scene of the bloody violation of human nature. The world that was London for these men was blanketed in a haze not caused by The London Particular but from their own sense of blind detachment to the world. It was just the job, and nothing else around them was important, even the cold that threatened to chill them. The London Particular blanketed the tops of the flats and stopped just above the streetlamps, and from the streetlamps to the ground was a light fog that fought against the heat of the lamps and movement of the bodies on the street just to maintain a light fog.

Benson tried to calm down The Bobbie once more. Benson still walked with a quiet anger on his face and in his steps. This made Benson seem like a cold and dark individual. And with his emotionless eyes that look like he can look right through you and anyone else is his way. His pace was fast, but he was still deadly silent. As they rounded the corner of the building, Benson noticed, just past the onlookers, some other Bobbies standing around the body with lanterns lit in their hands. Other Bobbies were holding back a few nosy reporters trying to draw the horrid scene at the end of the alleyway. As Benson entered the alley, he noticed most of the flat’s windows were opened, with people looking out onto the scene. Benson walked closer to the end of the alley to a high-ranked Bobbie and demanded, Has anyone secured the scene of the crime? The higher-ranked Bobbie said with confidence, Yes! Why, sir! Benson pointed to all the opened windows with people looking out of them. All the onlookers in the windows stepped back out of view. Benson looked back at the Bobbies and said with great anger, Do your job and secure the crime site. Now!

The woman’s body laid behind a little fence. The ground was made of cobblestone, and some rubbish cans were in the backyard too, up against the flats. She just laid in the corner of this yard near the fence. She looked small now, not a full-grown woman between 20 and 30 years old. She was cut open just below her bellybutton from side to side. The state of the woman’s body had a perfect, frighteningly precise cutting in the torso of the body. This was clearly not the work of a butcher or an amateur. This monster was not wild, nor reckless, but a cold, psychotic killer, the likes of which our beautiful London had never seen before. But the look on her face alone made one understand the cruelty of this monster of a man. Her eyes wide open in fear, and a cold, frightful look on her face as if she saw the grim reaper standing in front of her. The people that were on the street were still trying to look over the other Bobbies to see the blood and the body. Some doctors were looking over the body and while another was taking notes for them. They worked as if death never fazed them, nor the smell that now permeated the air. The foul stench would have made any lesser men gag and vomit. This was not a sight for someone who was weak of the stomach to witness. A ghastly fate for any woman. She should not die this way. This woman, though lower in class, is still a woman all the same, as most of Scotland Yard police force thought. And, she should have died with her children at her bedside and with them telling her that they love her. Not her sliced up in some ally, completely forgotten by the world and left to rot alone.

They looked over the area before the young Bobbie reached for the fence gate and tried to open it. Jerking the gate and failing to open it and, then cursing under his breath as he pulled harder. Benson walked up to the young Bobbie and placed his hand on his shoulder, then said softly in his ear, Calm down. Go take a break, smoke a fag, said Benson as he reached over the fence, unlatched the door, and stepped through the small gateway. His eyes slowly panned over the bloody female body, now a bloody, carved torso with her hands gripped in a tight fist. In his mind, it was hard to imagine this was once a young woman he saw alive just hours ago. She was sitting at a table and having some drinks in the pub with other ladybirds, and some gents too, earlier that evening. And, the last time he saw her, she was standing with her friends outside the pub, smoking a fag. And, now, she was dead.

You there, you are the Senior Bobbie here, right! Give me all the details, as Sergeant Benson evaded his eyes from the torn, bloody cadaver. There was blood all over the cobblestone courtyard, rubbish can, and the wooden, white fence. They both stood there at the side of the woman’s body, and Benson took a slow, deep breath and placed his hands behind his back once again. Benson said, Well! I’m waiting, as he stood there at the side of the corpse’s head, listening to all the details given to him from the senior Bobbie. The Bobbie looked in his mind’s eye as if he was trying to recall all the knowledge what his mind’s eyes received. The details were given to Benson with all the horrible insight of The Bobbie’s knowledge. Benson then said, My God! What kind of animal does this to a human? Ripping a living, breathing human with a soul into pieces like an old ragdoll. She may be a ladybird, but she still’s a human, like you and I. Benson turned around in a fury, and then his facial expression change to a serious countenance as he looked down at the ground, shaking his head slowly from side to side. As he tried to calculate the gruesome murder using the details and his years of knowledge, trying to understand where and when this animal will strike next without fear of the Bobbies. The only thing in his mind he kept repeating was, Why? He continued to look down upon the ground and took a slow deep breath and said, Bloody hell, when will this cold, senseless bloodbath ever stops?

Sergeant Benson and the senior Bobbie walked out of the alley into the main street. The sergeant started writing on his pocket notebook that he pulled out of his inside pocket with a pencil. Benson tried to keep his anger under control as he wrote, but he had problems controlling his buildup rage. His upper lip started to tremble as he once again tried to understand this animal. At that moment, his fury demanded him to speak out loud to himself, What kind of arsehole kills for no bloody blooming reason, just for fun; why, why, my God in heaven, why?

Benson walked up to the young Bobbie finishing his smoke on his pipe. The Bobbie jumped at the touch of Benson upon his shoulder. He turned to Benson with a surprised look on his face and said, Sir, you bloody blooming almost give me a bloody heart attack! The Bobbie quickly cleared his throat and said, I mean yes, sir!

Benson turned to The Bobbie and said, Sorry, I am in deep thought, and I am still very steamed. And, I might speak out loud in anger. I know not very much cricket, old chap, I mean young future constable, but, one day, you too will start to speak to yourself. As I just did now, and, at that time, you will understand what I am talking about at this moment. Do you have a fag I can get from you?

The young Bobbie said, No, sorry, sir. I keep breaking them, so I smoke a pipe now. Do you want some, sir? Benson thought for a second and said, No! I have no time. I must get back to my office. Thank you; you did a great job tonight, especially what you witnessed here tonight. Remember, remain calm at all times. Understand? I must go now!

Sergeant Benson continued to walk down the street in anger. He thought to himself, I want to get back and write up this event while it is fresh in my mind. Benson continued walking down the cold streets; he thought once more to himself, I remember, when I was young, my father would come home with blood on his face and hands. I also wondered, ‘What did my father do to have blood on his body. Why does that image haunt me?’ Benson walked down the street; he could feel the chill in his bones. It was a kind of chill that could freeze your soul if you stopped too long just to breathe. It reminded him of one very cold night long ago when he was just a young lad.

He remembered, one time at night, he was asleep, and his mother woke him up with a blood-curdling scream. His father was at his very own throat. She screamed at his father to stop and grabbed him with all her strength below his elbow on his right arm. His father whipped around and grabbed Benson’s mother and said, Who the bloody hell are you to question me!? What if…I should kill very slowly…this son of a bitch child of yours, what would or could you do to stop me? He is your human bastard son, not mine. He then lifted her up from the ground by her shoulders with one clean jerk, shook her violently in midair, and said with great rage in his voice, How dare you question me! Me! You are nothing more than a female; my property like my oxen, nothing more. Know your place, Toffer. When your pathetic mortal life ends, you will no longer be there to protect his sad life.

Sergeant Benson looked up and there, before him, stood his station and office inside. The station was lit up with all its light blazing brightly. The station was a tall, three-story building made of stone and washed in cold, earthly tan with black-painted, wood-framed windows and a large, made out of English oak, double doors stained with dark, walnut stain and with iced-style glass windows. And, the doorknobs were both white, glass ovals. Over the top of the doors was a clear glass window, the size of both doors; on the window, it read, ‘Scotland Yard.’ On the side next to each side of the door were diamond shaped square lamps with gas burning in them. The white-stoned steps stood out from the building almost like beacons in the darkness. Every night, Benson walked up the high steps and into the building. He passed the high desk of the front desk clerk and around the corner, then up the stairs that were just before the desks of the lower-ranked Blue Bottles. The stair hallway was narrow and covered with plain white wallpaper and dark wood on the lower half. He walked up the stair, inside ‘The Yard,’ trying to reach the second floor while still haunted by his own memories of the past.

Benson was haunted by the blood on his mother’s face from years ago. Trying to understand this man Benson called father. Trying to understand how the same man, which would cuddle him when he was a child, was the same one that was trying to kill him that night. Why…why would the same man that cuddled and fed me as a child, haves a need to take my life? What was he that he hid from others? It hurt to see the coldness in his eyes. His eyes turned from blue to dark and empty when I turned seven years of age. He was supposed to be my father, not this evil creature. Why God? Something about this case moves me to remember myself as a child and the strange deaths that came about the same time my father started to change. He would come home with blood on his hands. Mother swore up and down, to me and my sister, that the life of a butcher was like this, but I never saw Father’s butcher shop or his aprons, said Benton to himself softly.

Sergeant Benson sat down at his desk. He pounded his fist on the desk repeatedly. The rage reminded him of his father. He thought to himself, Please, God, what would it take to stop remembering? All I remember is the last night he came after me with death in his eyes. Why try to kill me and not my sister? Is he still out there? Is he still going to calm my blood? Is he going to kill me as he did my mother? I thought he loved us. What would it take him to forget me? Please, my sweet God. Protect me from his evil. I still feel like that little boy that terrifying night.

The whole room was covered in darkness and shadows. Not even one candle was lit. I can remember the screams, fresh as if it was yesterday. Their faces…still very much fresh in my mind’s eye. All those so-called fond memories could be his strength and he could be happy. As long as he can bury away all those bad memories deep into his mind and never let them out. He rubbed his face with his hand and hung his head over toward the desk. Memories of that night caused him to slip into a deep dreamlike state as the office started to blur to eyes, and Benson became lost again to the past. Yes, the room was very dark that night, but I could still see them fighting in the next room.

Still there, watching. Here come his eyes. You are supposed to be a part of me, but your mother holds you tight in her arms as if you are hers only, said his father in anger. God, I loved my mother so. I can still feel her grasp weaken. He was enjoying himself. My father had a cut upon his left wrist from the fight with my mother. He said, You will feast upon your mother. I expect nothing less from you. I am teaching you how to be a murderer. For the blood you taste should make you immortal, but, first, you should taste of me to become like me.

What did he mean by ‘taste me’? Benton thought as he looked around. What did he mean by ‘immortal’? I do not understand what really happened. I was so young. Why was he like that on that night? I still remember when he grabbed me by the chest, just under the arms, and with one fast, graceful movement, he pulled me from the ground, next to my mother, to his face. He looked long and deep into my eyes. I reached for his hands. They were cold, like touching a statue, and just as strong. And, his eyes…were no longer blue eyes that I once remembered, but solid black with a white iris and the pupil black as well as the midnight sea. Just as cold and barren. I still wake up at night in fear, soaked in sweat and my heart pounding. Still feel like his dark, cold eyes are watching me. Thank God, for my Aunt Jane knocked on the door that night and opened the door with the spare key Mother give her for an emergency. Father jumped out the kitchen window, and he disappeared for months. Now, I have to deal with the matter at hand and put the past behind me. I must forget my past to keep my sanity.

Benson grabbed some papers on his desk and shuffled the papers frantically while he recalled the last time he saw his beautiful, young sister in his father’s dead, cold hands. Is she still alive or dead? And, are these letters I am receiving in her name really her? All it says is, ‘I’ll be calling upon you soon!’ How do I concentrate when little things about this case keep making me think about my own past? Well, bloody hell, if I do not finish this report, I will never get home. As he began to write, Benson was having problems keeping his hands from trembling. He hesitated for a moment and rubbed his hands slowly together, then stopped. Benson looked down to his drawers of the desk and thought for a second or two. He reached down to his middle drawer on the left side of his desk to pull out a hidden bottle without looking. Benson placed the bottle down on the desk before him. Benson pulled out the cork out of the top of the bottle, then placed the cork down next to the bottle on the desk. Benson slowly lifted the bottle of liquid courage to his lips and swallowed a big measure of what he thought was mental strength, hoping the scotch, malt whiskey would steady his hands long enough to finish all the paperwork.

Benson looked at all the paperwork, shook his head in disbelief, and took a bigger drink from the bottle. He took a long, deep breath as he placed the cork back, sealing up the bottle of spirits. Benson placed the liquor back in the drawer and closed it without looking. He took another big breath and began writing again. Benson worked continually into the night, trying to keep his mind on his work at hand, not his past.

It is another cold night, and the fog is starting to set on the tops of the roofs. The fog fights a slow battle to gain a foothold on the lights below to rooftops, but the night traffic of horses, carts, and people keeps the fog at bay. A young woman, who usually works the streets at night, like so many of the other lost souls around her age, worked the White Chapel district. She decides that the business has been good tonight, very good. The lady walks over to two of her friends and asked them if they would have a drink or two with her. She tells them the drinks are her treat tonight. The three friends lock their arms around one another as they start to walk, side by side, into the cold November night. They laugh together as they head toward their favorite pub to have those soul-warming drinks to chase away the night chill of hard-working ladybirds. The three women continued laughing and having fun, talking about the gents they had earlier that evening. Both of the two other ladybirds thanked the one called Mary for the drinks. They all laughed once more loudly before they entered the pub. They order some drinks from a barkeeper. Mary paid for the drinks and guided them to their favorite table near the front window. Mary told her friends that she finally had more than enough money to buy a boat trip to America to start a new, wonderful life. Mary also had plenty of extra money for a good place to sleep tonight, and money to start a small business in America. They kept drinking together until some sailors walked up to the table and ask the ladybirds if they were still working. The two friends of Mary said to the sailors, Yes, and then said, Sorry we have to work still. Mary said, Okay, but I am going to finish my drink first and then, maybe go back to work or leave early. Mary had a few drinks with another younger ladybird. The younger ladybird starts to feel a little sick. Mary told her to go lay down in the room she saw Mary walk out of from earlier in the alley. Mary said, I will be there, a little later, after a few more drinks. The young ladybird thanked Mary and walked out the door. Mary told the barkeeper, Drink with me; this is my last night working the streets of White Chapel district. Mary drank a few more drinks with the barkeeper. Finally, Mary told him she decided to turn in now. Mary said, Goodbye, Bob the Barkeeper, and wobbled out the door, singing her favorite song.

In a small, poorly lit back alley, a room had been rented for just one night. It was not much, but it was a great place for a very tried ladybird, plus it was warm. A tired ladybird got ready for bed. She was full of beautiful hopes and dreams for a better tomorrow. She feels money is the answer to her future, but all that is about to end, as a stalker is coming to find his next victim. Another Harlot to kill and clean the city is Jack the Ripper’s carefully thought-out plan. Jack slowly creeps down the small, poorly lit back alley for his next prey. Jack walked up to the window he just heard a woman coughing from. He glimpsed at her through the broken part of the window by pulling a white veil curtain to one side a little to see a woman in the room. She sleeps in her small bed in the far corner of the room, with only her cough to keep her company. He slowly slips his hand through the broken part of the window. Carefully and gently, he turns the doorknob to the small door to the one-room flat. Jack opens the door very slow and quietly. Because of the age of the door, he must be very careful. He enters the room like a cold, foggy mist. The woman feels the cold, and in her sleep, grabs for the cover to fight back the cold.

A dark silhouette of a figure walked across the cold, dimly lit room, carrying a black handbag just like a doctor’s bag. Jack carefully sets his doctor’s bag on an old nightstand at the head of the bed on the left side of the bed. The room had brown-stained wallpaper that was peeling and a single potbelly stove that was also her heater which sat in the corner just past the window facing the bed. Her bed was a large single just big enough for her to roll around in, yet she hugged the wall for warmth. She was asleep with her face pointed toward the wall, on her left side, with her hands curled toward her face, and her dark hair pulled back in a loose mess on the bed. Jack opens his doctor’s bag on the nightstand by way of a latching buckle on top. Jack starts carefully placing different kinds of knives on a white handkerchief he laid out first on the nightstand. The last piece of equipment to be removed from the bag was his favorite. A shiny scalpel with his name engraved on the handle. He leaves the doctor’s bag open on the stand. Jack places his right knee on the bed carefully as to not awaken her and leans over to look at the young woman’s face while she lies there sleeping in the bed. He grabs her head quickly with both hands. And in a violent jerking motion, Jack sits her up and slams her head against the wall. There, sticking out of the headboard is an old piece of wood. The piece of wood had been sticking out a good two-and-a-half inch or so. The piece of wood pierced her head near her temple. Jack making sure she was dead by slamming her head once more into the pieces of wood. He says with a little laugh in his voice as he pulls the piece of the wood out of her temple, She sleeps forevermore! Sleep well, Ladybird…in hell.

Jack still went through tying her down to the bedpost. First, her hands, and then her feet were bounded to the poles as well. Then, he stuffed her mouth with cotton and tied a cloth around her head so no cotton would fall out. Just in case the blow to the head was not final. He lifted his scalpel upward to get a closer look. Jack thought to himself, these are my artist tools. One must handle this like a true artist, with care. With these instruments, I will show her inner beauty. Jack reached back in the bag and pulled out a white piece of cloth to keep the blood out of his way while slicing her soft skin.

Jack moved his scalpel closer to the woman and started to cut at her abdomen from left to right. All of a sudden, her eyes opened wide as she tried to scream. Her screams filled the gag, and only muffled screaming made it through the gag. The blood ran out from the cut on her stomach and then down onto her sides, soaking into the bed. Tears, from the pain, flowed from her eyes, and her screams, still, were muffled from her gag. Her head thrashed about as she still tried to fight. Jack laughed as he sliced at her stomach. He said as he was still laughing, Now, this might hurt a little. Jack pulled out her womb, set it on the bed, and continued to cut. Slowly, the woman was a bloody mess with only the arms, legs, and head intact. After Jack finished his precision cutting on the body, he untied her carefully. He laid her body up so it looked like she was asleep. He stood up and admired his work as if was a beautiful portrait of blood and broken dreams. This work of art is for the Bobbies to find in the morning, he said while smiling to himself. Jack cleaned up his tools and then he put his tools of the trade-in into his doctor’s bag. Jack picked up the white cloth, which was now stained in blood, and folded it up. He put the bloody cloth away in the doctor’s bag with his favorite tools. Jack smiled as he closed the bag. Jack looked around her one more time, then picked it up to his doctor’s bag. He turned toward the closed door and started to walk away from the woman’s dead body when the door opened wide quickly. And, there, standing in the doorway, is a woman with an evil smile, laughing out loud.

Bravo, my dear killer. What a fine display of insanity and ruthlessness. You’ll make a fine killer for my army! the woman said with heavy laces of arrogance as she looks over him with her black, curly hair hanging around her face and the most unnerving black eyes that change before Jack’s eyes, instead of white of the eye, to a deep endless black, and the color around the iris is now medium gray color. The iris stayed completely black in color. Her face is oval-shaped as thin, bloodstained lips pull back to a sinister smile. She leans on the doorframe on the right-hand side in almost a lazy posture. Only her visible tightness of her muscles in her arms show she was very fit. She defies the norms by wearing horse-riding pants of the times with a black, loose-fitting, high-collared silk blouse that is tucked into her pants loosely. She wears a light black, long coat, and leather-riding boots. She pulls off her silk, black gloves to reveal a snow-white, travertine-colored skin that matched her face from the previous tanned, olive-colored skin while her nails grow out to sharp, pointed, two-inch nails that return to her hips.

I am no subject. I am Jack the Ripper, and I am the cleaner of this dirty city called London, Jack retorted back at the woman in anger at her cheeky remarks. This Judy, in his eyes, had some audacity to call him hers. He, a noble doctor, not a low class than her, and this statement itself made Jack angry.

No, you are the insane killer with the crown of England behind you, and I am the first one made by God. Now you are my victim! says the woman as she smiles wide, revealing sharp fangs like a vampire. She grabs Jack with great speed and rips at his body with her sharp fingernails, spilling blood all over the walls. The demon-like woman bit into him with a wild fierceness and quickly ended the struggle against her. She walks out the door with Jack in her arms and a triumphant smile on her bloody face. She makes a quick gesture and her face is clean. With her doctor in one hand and his doctor’s bag in her other hand, she disappears into the dark shadows of the city as though she was never there. The room left in a perfect bloody mess which will surely be enough to shock the Blue Bottles when they come to see this bloody mess of Jack the Ripper’s Art.

Jack spends the next three days drifting in and out of consciousness. Hearing broken conversations around him and feeling himself being rolled over from time to time. Jack never quite stays awake long enough to hear anything that would help him figure out where he has been all this time. Finally, he woke up after being asleep for so long, to find himself tied down to the floor and looks up just to see the demon-like woman standing over him.

Good, you’re finally awake, I see. It was excellent; for a moment there, I was beginning to think I drank too deep of your warm, rich blood. I have attended to your wounds. It is the least I could do for my new soldier since I did hurt you so easily. And, now, I am going to punish you by cursing you with a fate worse than death. Though, for you, this will be hell on earth. Your soul cursed forevermore, the demon woman says and then bites into Jack’s neck once again. Blood came out the corners of her mouth and down his neck as Jack struggles for his mortal life. His body starts to go limp as she brings him to the brink of death. She stops just before the point of death and says, "My name is Lilith. The accursed soul that is forced to walk alone in this world. Made to walk this Earth to the ends of time, because I defy God, and then I disobeyed Satan as well. And, by not obeying Adam’s wishes as well. I will always be cursed forevermore. Now, listen to me very carefully:

One bite entranced you. Two bites turn you, but if I proceed to drain you of ever, last, drop, I will kill you for sure. You will not die, because I have stopped. You have been blessed with the curse of the demon, and it is coursing through your veins as we speak. You are all mine. You will become my obedient little vampire. Welcome to my Hell, Mister Jack the Ripper. Just think…my own little Ripper, how cute!

Suddenly, Jack feels this rush of strength coursing through his body; he feels strong enough to break free from his ropes and jump to his feet. Soon, Jack was on his feet, and the rope was at his feet on the ground. He grabs Lilith by surprise and pushes her across the room with new ungodly strength. She falls hard to the floor and into some old furniture. Jack had completely turned very quickly. He turned and runs out the door with great speed. Lilith slowly stands up and yells out loud, You, my sweet Jack, now you have the beautiful curse of the demon running through you. You are a fool, Jack! Jack, you really think you can outrun me! Run, run, my sweet Jackie, now is my favorite part of the game, ‘The Chase’! I hope this chase lasts longer than the last ones. Lilith gives a loud evil long laugh as she walks out of the old house right behind him. She chased after Jack and down the alley after him. Lilith said out loud to Jack, Here I come, my sweet Little Ripper. You will not escape my grasp. No one ever gets away from me! Never!

Jack ran down the street after street of London, heading toward the waterfront, trying to escape this mad ladybird that calls herself Lilith. He runs toward the docks where the darkened shady bars, moored boats of all kinds, and people who want to stay lost in their lives from others. The perfect place to have someone disappear into the background and never be seen. He feverishly turned down dark streets, alleys, and behind old buildings, always hearing the evil laughter of a twisted vampire right behind him. Jack sometimes feels like death’s cold breath is on the back of his neck. She likes playing with Jack by taking her time, enjoying every part of the chase as if Lilith follows one step ahead of him, as though she ran it with him before many times in the past. Lilith enjoys hearing Jack’s heart pounding hard. The sound makes her hungrier for his rich tasty blood. Jack can smell the sea, then sees the docks just ahead in the distance. Like a desperate man, Jack runs for those docks for safety, and he runs with everything these new powers that Lilith gives him.

Jack reaches the docks where the few boats are moored at early nightfall. The docks haves small rowing boats and small crates covered with a white canvas. The night at the pier is full of sounds of creaking Trading Boats and rattling pulleys hitting the poles. Jack turns around once, then looks right, then left. He heads toward the end of the pier for one last stand against this Lilith Demon. Jack searches the old pier once in hope for a place to hide. But, he has nowhere to hide where she would not find him, and Lilith is getting closer. Swimming is not an option with the cold waters of Northern Europe; I would freeze, Jack thought to himself. He did not even know what