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I am a master vampire, so my powers extend along the complete gamut. Concealment, shape-shifting, mind control and so on. This is not an admission of guilt, I feel no guilt about anything. You eat meat, we drink blood, you cultivate then slaughter animals for their meat, we cultivate you. All the stories about vampires, the legends, the myths – all created by us to confuse you – misinformation I believe it is called. We are not completely indestructible but crosses, decapitation, stakes and burning do not worry us.
The concept of the city was invented by us as a kind of corralling system. Blood typing to select the best vintages, AB negative is our equivalent of your champagne. The man on the train next to you, the woman on the bus – are they human? Well, possibly but possibly not, we need to herd you now and then to pick off our next food supply. But once a year our younger brethren feel the urge to hunt – let me take you on a hunt. This particular chase will help solve a century old mystery.
It was November in London in 1888, the East End pubs had regurgitated the last of their patrons to sing their drunken way home. The fog swirled around the hunters as they moved from doorway to shadowy doorway. There was a man out tonight, a very special one. He was a human but he also hunted, tonight he was the prey.
John Fitzgerald had emerged from the prostitute’s hovel in Miller’s Court, her blood was still drying on his coat as he stepped quietly into the street. A light stopped him and its owner, a police constable nodded to him,
“Another late night, Doctor? You work too ‘ard.”
The doctor tipped his hat in response and walked away. It had been an interesting kill tonight, FitzGerald mused as he strolled towards his house. She was a pretty girl, but Irish and a whore to boot, so hardly worth the bother of remorse. He was learning much about human anatomy and helping to rid the streets of filthy prostitutes as well.
The hunters could smell the blood on him and it made it all the easier to follow the killer through the wet, dark streets of Whitechapel. FitzGerald needed to be given some encouragement now, otherwise it would be much too easy to catch him. One of the vampires, Elrich, deliberately let his footsteps be heard then faded into the shadows again.
The doctor turned, he was sure he heard something. He shrugged, turned back and continued his journey home. He felt apprehensive, Whitechapel was a dangerous area and there had been talk of strange disappearances in the vicinity. There, another footfall! He turned the handle on his walking stick and a sharp four-inch blade sprang from its tip, FitzGerald called out,
“Who’s there? I’m warning you, I’m armed.” There was a snicker that chilled his blood,
“So are we, Doctor Ripper, so are we.”
He peered into the fog,
“Who’s there? Why do you call me that?”
“Mary Jane Kelly* – that why.” the voice in the shadows almost sang the words.
FitzGerald could now make out three tall dark figures approaching, another voice said,
“And Catherine Eddowes and Lizzy Stride…” it continued to name his victims and then admonished him, “Who’s a naughty doctor?” They were feet apart now and the doctor could see their faces, completely white with bloodshot eyes.
“My God are you apparitions of some kind?”
“Don’t let that concern you now Doctor Ripper – there’s much more pressing business to which you need to attend – such as staying alive.”
He brandished the stick again and as one of the figures stepped forward, he lunged and stabbed it through the heart. The figure looked down at the wound curiously and said,
“My dear doctor, did you really think that would bother me?”
Fitzgerald dropped the stick, turned and fled. He heard a mocking cry of,
“Run Doctor Ripper, we might let you live.”
He felt as though his lungs were about to catch fire after ten minutes of dashing headlong through the deserted streets. Glancing over his shoulder, he noted despairingly that his hunters were keeping pace with him and didn’t seem to be even breathing hard. On Tower Bridge, he stopped running and faced them. There seemed no point in continuing to flee. They circled him and stopped.
“What are you? You’re not Lusk’s** vigilantes are you?”
“That trouble-making nobody? Far from it, we are more like yourself, doctor. We share a predilection for human blood, only we prefer to drink it.”
“Vampires? but those are just myths, folkloric ghouls to frighten peasants and the weak-minded.”
“I don’t feel mythical, neither do my kin. However I do grow bored very easily.”
The vampires closed on FitzGerald and Elrich sank his teeth into the doctor’s neck, he drank for a while then allowed his fellow hunters to imbibe until they drained their victim. Elrich produced a clasp-knife, sliced the doctor’s throat taking care to cut across the puncture wounds. He lifted the corpse over his head and threw him into the river. If he was found he would be dismissed as another victim of the cut-throats that roamed London’s East End.
So there you have it, we did a service for the good citizens of London. After all, we couldn’t allow a wolf to continue killing our sheep – could we? Goodnight my lambs and sweet dreams.
*Mary Jane Kelly was the last of the Ripper's victims and the only one to be murdered indoors.
**George Lusk was a Marxist agitator who had formed a group of vigilantes to obstensbibly hunt for Jack the Ripper. His main interest, however, appeared to be stirring up trouble in London's already problematic East-End.
In five hundred years time, most of us will be forgotten dust. But Hitler will still be remembered, God loves irony.