#RipperFiction

[trilogiesofterror]

Dr. Thomas Bond was instrumental in helping Scotland Yard profile Jack the Ripper in the original case of the Canonical Five. Some of his findings were as follows: 1. All five murders were committed by the same hand. 2. The women were lying down when murdered, and, in every case, the throat was cut first. 3. There is no evidence evidence of a struggle. The attacks were probably so sudden and made in such a position that the women could neither resist nor cry out. 4. In all the murders, the objective was mutilation. 5. The killer had no scientific or anatomical knowledge. 6. The instrument used was a straight knife at least six inches long, very sharp, pointed at the top and about an inch in width. 7. The murderer is a man of physical strength and of great coolness and daring. There is no evidence that he had an accomplice. 8. He is subject to periodical attacks of homicidal and erotic mania. 9. The murderer is likely to be a quiet, inoffensive-looking man, probably middle-aged and neatly dressed. Bond returns in the historical detective mystery The Ripper Lives, which is a sequel to the original case.

BOOK SERIES PAGE: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0CR7Y98R6

[julesdelorme]

Hey guys. Sorry I didn't post this sooner. If anyone does get a chance to read this rewrite, I would love any feedback that you might want to give...

(And, please be warned, some very graphic and gruesome content.)

i am haunted i am haunted i am haunted. i am haunted. funny. very funny. that is very funny. i am one who haunts. i am the stuff of nightmares. i am the nightmare that haunts this city’s streets. i am the monster of whitechapel. i am the fear that lurks in the shadows and at the outer reaches of their minds and the corset bound morality the upper crust hands down to them in place of food or living wages.i am the nightmare that haunts their every waking moment. i am the last thing that they see before they descend into the darkness of death. i bring the blood and the carnage and the fear and the nightmares.i wake them up screaming. but now these apparitions have appeared to haunt me. i see them though i know that they cannot be real. i see them though i know that they cannot be alive. i killed them. i cut and slashed and let their blood gush and dribble out onto the cobblestones. i destroyed them. i cut away anything that could be said to make them women anything that can be said to make them alive or have the ability to make anything alive.that was what knife and i did. they cannot be alive because i destroyed anything about them that was alive. they cannot be there because i left their mutilated corpses in the dark corners of this hell that calls itself a city because it was my knife that ripped their tired treaded upon souls from their drunken bodies. they cannot be there. and yet they are. bloody mangled walking corpses who and follow me wherever I go and stare at me with lifeless eyes who creep out at me from the shadows from the darkness and afflict me no matter where i go. they haunt me. they haunt me. i am haunted. i am haunted by these waking nightmares. i am taunted by these things that cannot be and because they cannot be i am all the more troubled by them. it is not my guilt that brings them. i feel no guilt. it is not my conscience because my conscience has always been good and silent. my conscience has always left me alone.perhaps it is the drink. perhaps, like those that i cut into, i have imbibed more of the liquid courage for longer and in greater quantities than i should have. or perhaps i am going mad. perhaps as so many have claimed and written about i have always been mad and that madness has merely now begun to manifest and accelerate in a way that i can see and perhaps these visions these cannot be’s are nothing more than that madness taking form before my very own eyes. or perhaps my crimes come back to haunt me. perhaps there is some kind of god and i am being paid in full in this life and will be paid yet more in the next for the things that i have done.i am not a superstitious man. so many of the fools today believe in seances and hauntings and golems made of mud lurking in ever single shadow. perhaps they are not such fools as i thought. perhaps there is something beyond this ugly life and perhaps these visions are shades of what is waiting for me on the other side of my own bloody existence. perhaps there are consequences for my heinous acts and this is only the first hint of the consequences to come. perhaps the carnage that i thought that i had left behind me cannot be left behind and perhaps the fear and the suffering that i sought to inflict on others must be inflicted back on me despite my absolute certainty that i was beyond such human foibles and weaknesses as faith and guilt. i do not know. i only know that these visions haunt me.i fear that they might take on solid form and harm me or trick me into harming myself or making mistakes when i kill again.and i will kill again.these spectres will not stop me from my mission.it did not stop me tonight.it did not stop me from killing two tonight.i was not given enough time to do what i wished with the first. i was rudely interrupted my a man and his horse before i could finish. so i crept into the city proper and found another one. and i did my worst to her so far. she was delicious. i ripped her face and i cut off her nose. i cut and i ripped to my heart’s content but i got so excited in all my doings that i cut myself too. perhaps my hands were shaking too much from the excitement and the drink.i took a piece of her apron to stem the blood and i crept back home to the safety of the chapel. as i lingered in this alley off goulston and watched the police rushing to and fro and the citizens rushing to and fro i crouched down to wash my wound and saw the chalk writing low on the wall. -the juwes are not the ones who will be blamed for nothing.i could just make it out by the gaslight from the street and all the passing lanterns.how wonderful. even better than the letters.  i almost giggled out loud.-the juwes are not the ones who will be blamed for nothing.i might have giggled too if i had not looked up to see both women, the very women who i had only just killed staring down at me from the entrance to the alley. the first, the thin one with the broken teeth gaped at me with both mouth and neck. the second stared at me with her mangled face despite the fact that i had cut her eyes so that she could not do so. i should have cut the eyes out. my knife so sharp and clean because i keep it sharp and clean cannot kill these visions that haunt me because they are not real they are not flesh and blood because i cut and ripped their flesh and blood and i am not so mad yet that i do not know the difference between what was there and what cannot now be there. i cannot lure these things that i see into the dark alley away from the rushing feet and prying eyes so that i can rend the life from their frail and filthy frames once more.i beckon but they do not move. they just stand there. and stare at me. had i known when i cut into their flesh with my sharp knife and watched their blood ooze out onto the stones to dribble in the spaces between the stones and when I reached inside them with my bare hands and pulled their innards their intestines and their organs and their very sexes and placed them over their shoulders beside their turned heads that they or the images or the ghosts of them would come back to haunt me i might have hesitated for a fraction of time to consider my heinous acts. i would not have stopped altogether. i could not have stopped altogether.the hunt, the boiling of the blood when i find the perfect one and do what i do and then get away with it gives me far too much pleasure for me to ever stop. stopping is beyond me even if i wanted to stop. stopping is beyond what i could or would do even had i known that i would be haunted by my acts. perhaps it is not completely beyond my control to stop or beyond my ability but it is far beyond my desire. it is far beyond my want. it will remain far beyond my want. even if i am to be haunted beyond this life throughout eternity by these spectres these bloody reflections of my acts i would not stop. even if i am to be driven far beyond madness far beyond my desire to remain alive beyond my will to survive i would not even wish that i did not do the bloody and terrible things that i did. i did not do it because i believed that these women did not deserve to live. though they certainly did not deserve to live. i did not do it because i held any hate or hostility towards these women. though each creature was truly disgusting and despicable. i did not do it because of my hatred and disgust for this place or for the filthy pressed together multitude that come to this place and live in this place and spread their obscene droppings on its stones and on its very walls. though it does disgust and sicken me and they do disgust and sicken me. i do not do it because i have to do it. i do it because i want to do it. and i am not the least bit sorry that i did any of it or that i will do more of it. i would do it all again. i will do it again. my knife is sharp and clean and thirsty.and i cannot be stopped.i am the ripper.jack.that is the name that the fool of a letter writer has given me. jack. as in every man jack. ripper. because i slash and cut and rip with my knife so sharp. i have no idea who the fool was who wrote that letter and came up with the name but it is a good name and now it is how they see me in their nightmares late at night when they wake up screaming.yet now it is i who am haunted. i have tried in sleepless delirium to cut these ghosts these spectres these bloody hauntings again to stick my knife inside them and rip them some more. but my knife only cuts air no matter how i try and try and try. i cannot kill them any more than i already have. that is a shame. they appear to me in the darkness and they appear to me in the light and they seem no less real to me than those who i can touch and who can touch me. their blood glistens just as it did when i cut them first. i am haunted by them. i am persistently and consistently and constantly haunted by them. yes. i am haunted. i am haunted. perhaps this is the beginning of madness. perhaps this is the ghastly end of my madness. perhaps. perhaps. they will not make me stop. no. no matter how they haunt me i will not stop. let them haunt me. let them haunt me. and i will continue to haunt the rest of this world. with my knife so sharp and so thirsty for blood.they will not make me stop.no. no matter how they haunt me i will not stop.let them haunt me.let them haunt me.and i will continue to haunt these streets.i will continue to haunt this world.and perhaps even the next.

#writing #writers #story #stories #fiction #ripperfiction #jacktheripper #whitechapel #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #delormewriting #scarboroughwritersworkout

[julesdelorme]

Another attempt at Ripper fiction….

TRIGGER WARNING: I really tried to get inside the killer’s head for this one and was shocked reading my own work just how vile and hateful the thoughts that got expressed actually were. This should not be read by anyone who is uncomfortable with violence, madness or misogynistic thinking… 

(I want to add that this is me trying to think like the killer. This is not my personal opinion or anything that even resembles my personal view of the world.)

the blight

they must be culled.

these filthy beasts these dirty cows worse than cows pigs sows these filthy sows are everywhere wallowing in their filth spreading their filth everywhere and it must be stopped these sows these stinking sows must be cut down they must be culled like the filthy animals that they are.

they wear their dirty rags the only things they own and they walk the streets drunk and drunken and spew their fetid gin soaked breath at any man or woman who passes  them these stinking whores are not human are nothing like human they spread disease and filth everywhere they go and like the sows that they are they must be butchered they must be cut down and have their sex their remnants of humanity cut from their bodies so that no one can mistake them for women for human beings because they are not they are a blight on whitechapel on the entire world and if we do not want to share their sties with them we must butcher them before they turn us all into beasts into pigs like them.

they don’t see it.

they don’t see it.

all these people walking these streets they have become so used to the filth and the sows the whores that they don’t even see it anymore. they walk and talk and laugh in the filth that the sows spread and they do not see that it is the sows the pigs the whores that are spreading the filth everywhere.

they must be culled.

they must be cut down.

they must be butchered and slaughtered like the pigs they are the sows they are and once i am done with them once i am done with the whores then i can look to the other filth the filth of all women.

all women are filthy.

they are no better than the whores no better than sows themselves they draw us into filthy thoughts and filthy behaviour there man there is adam and then there is eve all women who are pigs who are sows with their filthy sex and filthy bodies even the ones who clean themselves those from better stations than the sows here they cannot clean the filth from their souls from their being from their very sex and it is only by erasing that sex altogether by cutting it out of them that they can be made clean at least in death.

they too must be culled.

they too must be cut down and butchered like pigs.

but first the most filthy sows of all the filthy whores the disease ridden stinking sows they must be destroyed first and they must be butchered without mercy of any kind their throats must be slashed and then they must be opened up and the offending organs removed so that all that is left is the meat the meat not clean but free of the filth that made it alive. these filthy gin soaked whores these sows must be cleansed they must be butchered and cleansed not just of life but of the filth in their bodies and in their minds their gin soaked minds their gin soaked mines of disease and evil thoughts.

i can hear their thoughts.

i can hear their filthy whore filthy sow thoughts and it eats at my mind at my soul and if i do not act quickly then i will be as diseased as them and as dull as the cattle who walk these streets without seeing or hearing drowning in their filth and disease but not know that they are drowning or that they are lost. 

they cannot see the blight because they do not know anything but the blight. they cannot hear the filthy thoughts and those who spread the filth are the ones who will not be blamed for nothing.

the sows.

the whores.

the bitches who are nothing more than whores in that they always take something when they give you their sex their disease and they leave it behind their filth their disease the dirty bitches the whores they are all whores.

and them. the others. those who have come here wallowing in their filth from whatever sties they come from they too will not be blamed and they too must be culled.

but first the whores.

first the whores.

they stink. wearing all the clothes they own never bathing never washing the pigs stink worse than any sow wallowing in their own filth pissing right in front of people loud and stinking and filthy they’re not human beings anymore if they ever were all that they’re good for is spreading their filth nothing more than meat they should be butchered they should have anything that makes them sows cut out and thrown on the ground in the filth in their own filth these stinking rotting animals these pigs these sows deserve to die to be cut into that’s all they’ll ever be good for these whores these sows these pigs.

my knives are sharp and ready and when i begin i will butcher the thing like the animal the stinking sow that it is. i will cut out her insides and lay them on the filthy ground i will erase her sex with my knives so sharp and i will cull them from the herd and on that night that morning there will be one less stinking pig walking this filthy earth one less sow spreading her filth everywhere that she goes i will do it and there will be blood and entrails and butchering until the sow is truly a pig nothing more than meat rotten on the inside and the out these pigs these animals these sows shall be culled and my knife shall cut into them again and again and again for they will know the fullness of my fury my righteous wrath that they walk this earth that they spread their disease and their filth and their stink they shall know and when there is one less i will strike again and again leaving the meat to rot in the dark alleys and the streets just where they wallow where they belong in their own filth lifeless and no longer able to spread their putrid filth.

i will do it.

i will most certainly do it.

in that moment they will know and i will know that the blight that is these pigs will be cut down again and again as many as it takes until their filthy bodies and their gin sodden faces are no more just rotting meat left on the ground.

i will do it.

i will do it.

i will clean these streets i will wash them with the blood of whores i will gut them the sows the whores and they are all whores even those who do not seem to be whores they are all pigs even those who do not appear to be pigs they are all sows they are all beasts they are all refuse they are all filthy mindless beasts and beasts should be slaughtered they should be cut down they should be culled and i will do it i will do it.

i watch them. i hear them. i hear their thoughts i see them on the streets i see them from my window and their filthy minds they disgust me they fill me with loathing they make me nauseous and angry and filled with rage blood rage blood red rage these disgusting creatures these chattel these filthy wallowing beasts no bonnet no clothing can hide their lowness their filth their mindless meaningless existence i will cut them down and i will cut them open and leave their innards for the daws to peck at these beasts these pigs these whores.

i will cut them down.

i will cut them all down.

my knives are sharp and i am ready.

they must be culled.

they will be culled.

https://www.facebook.com/Whitechapel-Murders-Discussion-Group

#writing #writer #writers #poetry #poem #poems #poet #JulesDelorme #JulesFDelorme #delormewriting #ScarboroughWritersFightClub #blind #native #jacktheripper #whitechapel #whitechapelmurders #whitechapelmurdersdiscussiongroup #ripperfiction #horrorstory #horrorstories #noir #noirstoiries #victoriancrime #victoriancrimestory #victoriancrimestories

[julesdelorme]

(Another attempt at Ripper Fiction for me. Special thanks to those from Scarborough Writers' Fight Club for their help in editing and for their generous feedback. Am looking for any more feedback that anyone out there might be willing to give.)

WARNING: Very graphic and brutal language and subject matter...

i am haunted

i am haunted. i am haunted. funny. quite funny. that is quite funny. i am one who haunts. i am the stuff of nightmares. i am the nightmare that haunts this city’s streets. i am the monster of whitechapel. i am the fear that lurks in the shadows and at the outer reaches of their minds and the corset bound morality the upper crust hands down to them in place of food or living wages.

i am the nightmare that haunts their every waking moment. i am the last thing that they see before they descend into the darkness of death. i bring the blood and the carnage and the fear and the nightmares.

i wake them screaming in the middle of the night. but now these apparitions have appeared to haunt me. i see them though i know that they cannot be real. i see them though i know that they cannot be alive. i killed them. i cut and slashed and let their blood gush and dribble out onto the cobblestones. i destroyed them. i cut away anything that could be said to make them women anything that can be said to make them alive or have the ability to make anything alive.

that was what my knife and i did. they cannot be alive because i destroyed anything about them that was alive. they cannot be there because i left their mutilated corpses in the dark corners of this hell that calls itself a city because it was my knife that ripped their tired treaded upon souls from their drunken bodies. they cannot be there. and yet they are. bloody mangled walking corpses who follow me wherever I go and stare at me with lifeless eyes who creep out at me from the shadows from the darkness and afflict me no matter where i go. they haunt me. they haunt me. i am haunted. i am haunted by these waking nightmares. i am taunted by these things that cannot be and because they cannot be i am all the more troubled by them. it is not my guilt that brings them. i feel no guilt. it is not my conscience. my conscience has always been good and silent. my conscience has always left me alone.

perhaps it is the drink. perhaps, like those that i cut into, i have imbibed more of the liquid courage for longer and in greater quantities than i should have. or perhaps i am going mad. perhaps as so many have claimed in the newspapers i have always been mad and that madness has merely now begun to manifest and accelerate in a way that i can see and perhaps these visions these cannot be’s are nothing more than that madness taking form before my very own eyes. or perhaps my crimes have come back to haunt me.

perhaps there is some kind of god and i am being paid in full in this life and will be paid yet more in the next for the things that i have done.

i am not a superstitious man. so many of the fools today believe in seances and hauntings and golems made of mud lurking in ever single shadow. perhaps they are not such fools as i have always thought. perhaps there is something beyond this ugly life and perhaps these visions are shades of what is waiting for me on the other side of my own bloody existence.

perhaps there are consequences for my heinous acts and this is only the first hint of the consequences to come. perhaps the carnage that i thought that i had left behind me cannot be left behind. and perhaps the fear and the suffering that i sought to inflict on others must be inflicted back on me despite my absolute certainty that i was beyond such human foibles and weaknesses as faith and guilt. i do not know. i only know that these visions haunt me.

i fear that they might take on solid form and harm me or trick me into harming myself or making mistakes when i kill again.

and i will kill again.

these spectres these visions these cannot be’s will not stop me from my mission.

it did not stop me tonight.

it did not stop me from killing two tonight.

i was not given enough time to do what i wished with the first. i was rudely interrupted by a man and his horse before i could finish with her. so i crept into the city proper and found another one. and i did my worst to her so far.

she was delicious.

i ripped her face and i cut off her nose. i cut and i ripped to my heart’s content but i got so excited in all my doings that i cut myself too. perhaps my hands were shaking too much from the excitement and the drink.

i took a piece of her apron to stem the blood and i crept back home to the safety of the chapel. as i linger in this dark goulston alley watching the police rushing to and fro and the citizens rushing to and fro i crouch down to wash the wound and see before me the chalk writing low on the wall.

-the juwes are not the ones who will be blamed for nothing.

i could just make it out by the gaslight from the street and all the passing lanterns.

how wonderful.

even more perfect than those silly letters.

i almost giggled out loud.

-the juwes are not the ones who will be blamed for nothing.

i might have giggled too if i had not looked up to see both women, the very women who i had only just killed staring down at me from the entrance to the alley. the first, the thin one with the broken teeth gaped at me with both mouth and neck. the second stared at me with her mangled face despite the fact that i had cut her eyes so that she could not do so.

i should have cut the eyes out. my knife so sharp and clean because i keep it sharp and clean cannot kill these visions that haunt me because they are not real they are not flesh and blood because i cut and ripped their flesh and blood and i am not so mad yet that i do not know the difference between what was there and what cannot now be there. i cannot lure these things that i see into the dark alley away from the rushing feet and prying eyes so that i can rend the life from their frail and filthy frames once more.

i beckon but they do not move. they just stand there. and stare at me. had i known when i cut into their flesh with my sharp knife and watched their blood ooze out onto the stones to dribble in the spaces between the stones and when I reached inside them with my bare hands and pulled their innards their intestines and their organs and their very sexes and placed them over their shoulders beside their turned heads that they or the images or the ghosts of them would come back to haunt me i might have hesitated for a fraction of time to consider my heinous acts. i would not have stopped altogether. i could not have stopped altogether.

the hunt, the boiling of the blood when i find the perfect one and do what i do and then get away with it gives me far too much pleasure for me to ever stop. stopping is beyond me now even if i wanted to stop. stopping is beyond what i could or would do even had i known that i would be haunted by my acts. perhaps it is not completely beyond my control to stop or beyond my ability but it is far beyond my desire.

it is far beyond my want. it will remain far beyond my want. even if i am to be haunted beyond this life throughout eternity by these spectres these bloody reflections of my acts i would not stop. even if i am to be driven far beyond madness far beyond my desire to remain alive beyond my will to survive i would not even wish that i did not do the bloody and terrible things that i did.

i did these things because they give me pleasure.

i did them because they give me joy. i did not do them because i believe that these women did not deserve to live. though they certainly did not deserve to live. i did not do it because i hold any particular hate or hostility towards these women. though each and every one of these creatures was truly disgusting and despicable. i did not do these things because of my hatred and disgust for this place or for the filthy pressed together multitude that come to this place and live in this place and spread their obscene droppings on its stones and on its very walls. though it does disgust and sicken me and they do disgust and sicken me. i did not do it because i had to do it. i did it because i wanted to do it.

i do it because i want to do it. and i am not the least bit sorry that i did any of it or that i will do more of it. i would do it all again. i will do it again. my knife is sharp and clean and thirsty.

and i cannot be stopped.

i cannot be caught.

i am the nightmare that haunts this city and beyond this city.

yet now it is i who am haunted. i have tried in sleepless delirium to cut these ghosts these spectres these bloody hauntings again to stick my knife inside them and rip them some more. but my knife only cuts air no matter how i try and try and try.

i cannot kill them any more than i already have. that is a shame. they appear to me in the darkness and they appear to me in the light and they seem no less real to me than those who i can touch and who can touch me. their blood glistens just as it did when i cut them first. i am haunted by them. i am persistently and consistently and constantly haunted by them. yes. i am haunted. i am haunted. perhaps this is the beginning of madness. or perhaps this is the ghastly end of my madness. perhaps. perhaps. they will not make me stop. no. no matter how they haunt me i will not stop. let them haunt me. let them haunt me. and i will continue to haunt the rest of this world. with my knife so sharp and so thirsty for blood.

they will not make me stop.

no. no matter how they haunt me i will not stop.

let them haunt me.

let them haunt me.

and i will continue to haunt these streets.

i will continue to haunt this world.

and perhaps even the next.

#fiction #writing #writers #authors #author #novels #novelnovels#newnovels #julesdelorme #julesfdelorme #faller #delormewriting#scarboroughwritersfightclub #story #whitechapel #whitechapelmurders #jacktheripper #ripperfiction #jtrfiction #jtr