Of Man Or Beast: A Jack The Ripper Tale

By Ivan Sean

She taught him everything he knew about killing. He once hunted deers and other small animals with his bare hands. Devouring their raw flesh. He then graduated to cannibalizing children. He would soon stop hunting children after she bade him not too. She introduced him to the phrase prostitute and told him it would be best to hunt them. Thus began his sojourn as Jack The Ripper. The most notorious serial killer in history!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivan Sean
• Release date: Aug 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201108823

Ivan Sean

Ivan Sean is the author of several titles ranging ftom sci fi, poetry, urban fiction, horror and hos autobiography. He's 49 and resides in South America.

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IVAN SEAN

Copyright ©2020 Ivan Sean

Published by Ivan Sean

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

In any form without prior written consent of the publisher,

Except in brief quotes used in reviews.

This is a work of fiction and the product of the author’s imagination. Any references or similarities to actual, real people, living or dead, or to the real locales are intended to give the book a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely coincidental.

To my brother Devon Gladstone (Maga), this one’s for you and our beloved uncle Eon Thomas (RIP). Maga, I did the cover art myself. I hope you like it from an artistic perspective as well as you enjoy the story line! My gratitude to you Maga is enormously insurmountable, and all I can humbly say thank you for all you’ve done for me, especially during my prison tenure. I am forever grateful!

And to my dad Ivan Alexander Godfrey Barton. One day I hope to make you proud of me.

Ivan Sean

Circa 2022

The beast within that navigates the conscience,

To and fro, waywardly, meandering off course,

Haphazardly...his destination ever so chaotic...

Ivan Sean (excerpted from the poem The Mind’s Eye)

CHAPTER ONE

Maryam watched him. She pouted her thin translucent lips. The Thing sat morosely with his hunchback to her. His shoulders drooped, defeated, as if playing a game that could never be won. His left eye twitched. And he smiled, remembering the yellow hibiscus flower he had given her. A rhythm pulsed in his heart as it did so in his mind. They had shot at him, the villagers had. He had eluded them, but even now, he could hear the bloodhounds’ loud persistent barks. He must be careful now. They would be lying in wait ever so vigilantly, wanting to capture him. The papers had called him a monster. Maryam had read it to him and explained the meaning of the word.

The chamber in the cellar was closed, but he knew she watched him now. The little girl had been no older than Maryam, who was eleven. And her brother, Tim, appeared to have been a year or two older than his beloved Maryam. He brought her flowers each time he voyaged outside the castle. He remembered the day he brought Maryam home as if it was yesterday.

He smiled now, his lips a fleshy purplish mass. Diane, Paul and him, William, were born together. Paul had perished during childbirth. He and Diane became twins, and they had a strong bond and love for one another. No one understood him as she had, Diane, except Maryam that is. Maryam called him Thing. He didn’t mind even though she had explained to him what it meant. To Diane, he was simply William.

You can’t face me, can you? she began, breaking him out of his reverie. "Didn’t I forbid you from leaving the grounds? What will I do without you if they catch you? It’s all over The London Times. Scotland Yard has taken an interest now. Go on, look at me when I talk to you. You must listen to me. Very well, I’m off to school now. I’ll see you this evening. Will you be joining me for supper?" she asked, her tone softening. The Thing did not say a word. To convey his answer, he cocked his head slightly and smiled. She understood. He heard the pitter patter of her shoes as she scaled the stone staircase out of the cellar. All was silent again as she ascended to the main tier. Perhaps she’d write him a short poem, a sonnet. Or maybe teach him a new word. She was rather precocious and an ardent fan of words. She wrote and read with a fury, not unlike Diane, his twin.

It had been a cold, frosty day when he had voyaged beyond the perimeter of his parents’ vast