#it's November again in Whitechapel London

[mrs-edmund-reid]

[miwhotep]

THE JACK THE RIPPER CASE IN YUUMORI AND IN REALITY

One of my favourite arcs is the Phantom of Whitechapel because it adapted the real Jack the Ripper case quite well and the story was full of elements what actually happened. I wanted to write a little about the similarities as recently was the anniversary of the first murder.

The Jack the Ripper murders or Whitechapel murders took place in 1888 in the East End of London, the infamously poor Whitechapel district where the underclass people lived. Lot of women here earned their money for the living from selling their bodies and a serial killer, Jack the Ripper started to target them. The number of the victims is unsure, the police accepted five murders to be surely connected to Jack the Ripper, they are often referred to as the canonical five. The women got murdered by their throats being cut away and some of their inestines were also removed from their bodies.

The first victim was called Mary Ann Nichols whose body was discovered at 3:40 a.m. on 31th August. She was last seen alive by a woman she lived with in a lodging house. These all are very similar to how Moriarty the Patriot described the murder details, except that there, the victim's name was Melanie Nichols and she was seen with a blond man.

The second victim was Annie Chapman, her body was found at 6 a.m on 8th September and she was last seen half an hour ago in a company of a dark-haired man. The details shown in Yuumori are again similar, just the victim was called Adeline Bergman.

(Interesting addition to here - just like you see, the fan translation uses the victims' real names while the official gave them fake ones. In the original Japanese, also the fake ones are what are used.)

When it comes to the later murders, Yuumori's story deviates from the historical events, since here, the last three victims of the canonical five was just a stage-play by William who tried to catch the killer(s) with setting up a fake Jack the Ripper. In reality, two of the victims, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were found on the same morning of 30th September - the Morigang placing two of the dead bodies at the same place so they get discovered at the same time must be a reference to that. The last victim, Mary Jane Kelly was discovered in the room where she lived on 9th November - her murder was the most gruesome out of the five, what I think Yuumori also referenced with Jack's show who pretended to kill a woman brutally on the roof.

Several letters signed as Jack the Ripper were sent to the newspapers. The media, especially the Central News Agency where some of the letters arrived, also overexaggerated about the details when they wrote about the murders, spreading a lot of misinformation just to sell more papers. In Yuumori, the group of people responsible for the murders who committed them to cause fear in the public and make a revolution by the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee and the police forces collide, hired Milverton to create the Jack the Ripper agenda with the help of his media power and he also manipulated the public opinion. The quotes shown from the letter sent to the Central News in the Moriarty the Patriot manga are from the first letter (called as Dear Boss letter) signed as Jack the Ripper what was also sent to Central News in reality - now researchers say it was written by a journalist to sell the papers better. The real letter was longer and the writer threatened to send the lady's ears to the police instead of her organs (however, with one of his later letters, Jack truly sent one of his victims kidney to the police), otherwise they are the same.

The Scotland Yard, just like in Yuumori wasn't really on the top when it came to solve the murders what resulted in riots and conflicts with the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee in reality too. And just like Chief Inspector Arterton was removed from his position in Scotland Yard - tho, for a slightly different reason - for not solving the Jack the Ripper case one of the police chiefs of London back then was also fired. In Moriarty the Patriot, a doctor was wrongly arrested and sent to prison in order to silence the raging public and in real life, lot of doctors were suspected to commit the murders.

In Yuumori, the identity of Jack the Ripper was solved by both Sherlock Holmes and the Morigang - who killed them - but it stayed unsolved for the public. In reality, the identity of Jack the Ripper either remained unsolved or not - few years ago, there was a DNA test what was said to determine the killer's identity, but lot of researchers believe that the test was incorrect and don't accept the answer.

I adore this arc for how well the series merged reality with fiction and it was especially exciting to read knowing the details of the real Jack the Ripper case.

[egyptianhoney]

Growing pains (on friendship)

When I first moved to London in September, I subletted a room in a flat in Hoxton. I found the room through someone I had met in Montreal, and she then became my first friend in the city. We bonded over going to car-boots, playing board games in her flat, getting ready together for a night out watching Sex and the City, and long conversations under the heated lamps of the De Beauvoir Arms.

Our friendship grew quickly. I remember walking home, tipsy off orange wine, where we chatted endlessly. We had an intimate understanding, and it was refreshing for both of us to candidly discuss our traumas, particularly our mutual experiences with an abusive partner. In those moments, we both needed to reveal those things we’ve never said out loud, those violent memories we once kept in a box, chiseled as grief within our bodies

It's easy to write about falling in love, but difficult to express coherently the moments in a budding friendship where love begins. I hesitate to call that phenomenon “falling in love,” as it is still different, while “platonically falling in love” is gawky. One doesn’t surely love all of their friends either.

My sublet was over by the end of October. A mutual friend from Montreal was coincidentally moving to London, and remarkably found a flat in South Bermondsey with 2 available rooms. She joined at the end of November. I had a few more months of experience in the city, so I wanted to help her with the transition.  We got to know one another through setting up bank or NHS accounts, laughing in the home section of Big Tesco in Surrey Quays, or trying the local Chinese takeaways. 

Spending time with her was always an adventure. Whether we were obnoxiously spotting Joe Jonas after a night out in Camden, trying to find the best bagels, laughing our way around machines at the gym, or exploring the city with the fond sound of heeled boots clacking on the pavement. Or even, just simply spending time together in the flat, experiencing our new lives at the same time. Because of her, I will always remember that grim, frigid first winter in the city as bright and full of warmth. 

In All About Love (1999), bell hooks constructs a powerful understanding of love as a word defined most fundamentally by its meaning as a verb. To hooks, love is an intentional, continuous act—“the will to extend oneself for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual and emotional growth.” Love does not simply denote feelings of tenderness. Like planting a small seed, love sprouts remarkably out of the soil. With sustained intention, it can grow into a beautiful tree amongst the forest of the loves within one’s life.

In Arabic, there are at least 24 words for love. Hub, the root word of Habibi is used the most frequently and universally. Ishiq centres the passion between intimate lovers, while gharam describes the devotion. Whereas khula or al-wad specifically refer to friendliness and platonic bonds. Like love, there are degrees to friendship in Arabic. From jalis, someone that you sit or share social space with, to khalil, a close friend. 

It’s difficult to identify the initial moments in which those friendships began to fall apart. When I moved to South London, it was difficult making plans with the girl in Hoxton. After numerous miscommunications, we haven’t seen each other in months. In March, I moved back to Hoxton and I was excited to become neighbours again. When I got a flat tire in Whitechapel riding my bike to my new flat, she was even the first person to pick up the keys. Regardless, our relationship never recovered and I haven’t seen her in months. 

As I started making more friends, it became increasingly apparent how incompatible me and the girl from Montreal were. We began to get into heated arguments, often over the most random subjects. When I moved back to Hoxton, we were no longer able to have those spontaneous adventures, because instead of just knocking on each others doors to see if we wanted to go grab dinner, we needed to be very intentional with our plans.

To lose a friend, to uproot one of those trees, even if still a sapling, leaves a profound wound on that forest. A forest can still thrive after its loss, and uses the detritus to create new, stronger trees. Not all friendships create deep lasting roots. Regardless of the aftermath or universality of the experience, the wound itself is felt.

I choose not to write bitterly about moments in which I was hurt, because multiple truths can exist even if in opposition, and thus I choose to intentionally leave more space for tenderness in my memory. But, just as detritus makes for strong fertilizer, I’m writing this to reflect on my own mistakes—so I can become a better friend too. 

In her framework, hooks highlights the fundamental role of self-love. To love oneself requires an honest self-awareness, to push yourself to grow. And just as it was as a child, growing can be painful—but it is both beautiful and neccesary.

To be self-aware, I am writing this to also honour the ways in which I was and continue to be a wonderful friend. And as I grow, make new connections or grow deeper roots with the friends I have, my love grows into a lush forest. 

While I’m biking home from work, on my one-year anniversary of living in London, I think about the friends that I’ve lost. I wonder if there are still any roots left, or a stump that can be salvaged and tended to. Maybe our brief time together was all we needed, the maximum we could have extended ourselves to one another, and maybe those types of friendships are beautiful in their own right. Maybe we were only friends when it was simpler, and struggled when it required confrontations and intentional effort. Maybe it wasn’t love, hob or khalil, but maybe we were just sharing space in this life for a fleeting moment, jalis. 

On a random street in Islington, I stop by the path. A car honks at me at speeds past. I’m looking up at all the beautiful trees, creating a canopy over the road, orange and red leaves fall, while small critters rummage around the piles. I realize, my life is filled with love. I love my friends that I’ve made in the past year, and I love the friends I’ve made before. I love the city and the life that I'm living.

My life is filled with love because I too, am filled with love. 

[trilogiesofterror]

EIGHT THINGS YOU PROBABLY DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT THE JACK THE RIPPER CASE

Author Reveals What He Learned While Doing Research for Victorian Gothic Murder Mystery Series "The Ripper Lives"

Jack the Ripper murdered and mutilated five women between August and November 1888 before disappearing for reasons unknown, never to be heard from again. He remains one of the most notorious serial killers in history who continues to be an object of fascination, even after more than 135 years. Author Kevin Morris researched the case for his Jack the Ripper gothic horror series, The Ripper Lives, and shares eight lesser-known facts that he uncovered about the case.

Fear of the Ripper Spread Around the World

The Ripper's reign of terror in Whitechapel and Spitalfields captured international attention, with media outlets as far away as Russia and the USA sensationalizing the horror story and stoking widespread paranoia. The St. James Gazette documented two cases of this phenomenon. On November 16, 1889, many St. Petersburg residents received threatening letters, purportedly from the notorious killer, causing widespread fear among the populace. The Prefect of Police was compelled to dispel the hysteria by declaring the threats unfounded. Meanwhile, in Madrid, in a real-life incident recounted for dramatic effect in The Ripper Lives, more than 500 women gathered at a local police station to seek retaliation against a beggar whom they suspected to be the murderer. The man's life was spared after it was revealed, to everyone's shock and horror, that he was the victim of a dangerous prank orchestrated by a young boy.

Other Killers Were at Work While the Ripper Was Active

Jack the Ripper was far from the only mystery murderer wreaking havoc in London in the Victorian era. During the construction of a new Scotland Yard, the HQ for the Metropolitan Police, a dismembered torso was found buried in the old foundations. And it wasn't the only one. Two more torsos were discovered in the River Thames over the next year, with other body parts washing up on the shores. The police had nothing to go on because the serial killer left no evidence. No cause of death could be deduced, and without the heads, the bodies could not be unidentified. The only conclusions that surgeons could draw were that this Torso Killer possessed some rudimentary anatomical knowledge and that he and Jack the Ripper were not the same person.

Police Leadership Was in Turmoil

The Victorian investigation was hindered by internal discord within the Metropolitan Police, mainly due to their Commissioner, Charles Warren. Warren was unpopular among fellow officers, civilians, and the press because of his focus on military tactics, his appointments of unqualified former soldiers to senior positions, and his spending of taxpayer money on campaigns to criminalize unmuzzled dogs. His long-standing resentment of Assistant Commissioner James Monro, who ran the Criminal Investigations Department under then-Home Secretary Henry Matthews, ultimately led to his removal. Monro, who took over the role, was much more popular, but by then, the Ripper was long gone, as would become apparent in the months that followed.

Criminal Profiling Was Invented During the Investigation

Although he joined the investigation towards its conclusion, the highly regarded surgeon Thomas Bond of Scotland Yard played a crucial role in shaping the ongoing search for the infamous Ripper. At the request of Assistant Commissioner Robert Anderson, Bond created what is now recognized as the earliest known offender profile in the world. This pioneering report was the result of an informed analysis of the evidence, providing valuable insights into the character and motivations of the murderer. Bond identified patterns among "The Canonical Five" victims and speculated that the Ripper's compulsion to mutilate must stem from either a homicidal or other mania. He also concluded that the culprit was likely a solitary and eccentric individual who enjoyed some form of protection from well-intentioned individuals in his close circle. Even today, Bond's groundbreaking work continues to guide and inform ongoing efforts to unravel the mystery of Jack the Ripper.

Suspects Ranged From the Intriguing to the Absurd

During the late 19th-century investigation, hundreds of suspects were interviewed, and dozens were shortlisted as serious possibilities. Everyone from famous figures like Lewis Carroll and Lord Randolph Churchill to incarcerated murderers and criminal emigres was considered. One particularly intriguing conspiracy suggests that Prince Edward Albert Victor, Queen Victoria's grandson, along with her physician, royal wigmaker, and others, conspired to commit the murders as an occult sacrifice, reflecting the prevailing fears and beliefs of that era.

The Search is Still Ongoing

The quest to unmask the Ripper and deliver some form of justice has persisted for over a century, with new evidence, theories, and suspects regularly presented. After years of investigation, Patricia Cornwell revealed her findings about Walter Sickert in Portrait of a Killer and Ripper: The Secret Life of Walter Sickert, triggering waves of criticism. In 2019, the Journal of Forensic Sciences claimed to have identified the killer through DNA evidence, naming him as Polish barber Aaron Kosminski, who was a prime suspect at the time of the murders. However, controversy surrounds the conclusion due to the possibility of DNA sample contamination and doubts about the authenticity of the article from which the DNA was taken. More recently, TikToker Kiki Schirr named French artist Edgar Degas as the serial killer, an accusation that many consider to be absurd.

The Ripper Has Inspired Countless Works

Jack the Ripper's dark allure has served as a wellspring of inspiration for various forms of artistic expression, including art, music, literature, theatre, film, and video games. Notably, the grim and gritty imagery associated with the Ripper has found particular resonance among heavy metal bands, while his almost otherworldly presence has spawned numerous horror-themed creations. The author's The Ripper Lives, a historical horror sequel to the true account, is just the latest. From the pages of the Italian comic book Martin Mystère to the unsettling imagery of the Japanese film Jack the Ripper, and even infiltrating the world of superhero narratives as a recurring adversary for various DC characters, the Victorian killer's multifaceted influence on diverse forms of entertainment is truly remarkable.

There Is So Much That We Still Don't Know

While every aspect of the case has been examined in excruciating detail by everyone from armchair detectives to FBI profilers, there is still a lack of universal agreement on a suspect. As frustrating as this may be, it's even more so to know that many critical pieces of the puzzle are gone forever. Very little archival footage exists from the period due to the infancy of photography. In addition, large areas of impoverished Whitechapel were demolished and rebuilt in the decades that followed and so geographical context is all but absent in modern-day research. Contemporary tools, like forensic analysis, didn't exist in the Victorian era, and, as a result, vital evidence was poorly maintained, if at all. Worse still, most of the files the City of London Police had regarding the Whitechapel case, such as witness statements and suspect reports, were destroyed in 1940 during the Blitz. Despite all this, future advances in crime detection may open up avenues of investigation that are impossible today. Until then, the desire to solve the case once and for all continues unabated.

______________________________________________________________

The Ripper Lives (1-10) is FREE on Kindle Unlimited.

FOLLOW Trilogies of Terror and Kevin Morris on Amazon to stay posted on new-release Victorian murder mysteries and gothic horror novels.

[sodamnradd]

Jewelry, rare books, all the opulent gifts he gave her, shoved into a box, sealed with Spellotape, and dispatched to Malfoy Manor. She returns everything but his old coat, then books a one-way Portkey to New York City.

It’s October, and it’s bleak and nobody in Manhattan spares her a smile. She hides her clenched fists in the oversized sleeves of her coat, shrugging off the phantom weight of his arms when he used to hold her in it.

Narcissa warned them everything would change when Lucius returned. But Draco left prison first, and for three years the two of them lived blissfully.

She sees him in the pale blond buzz-cuts of SoHo’s stylists. Who’s running her fingers through his hair tonight? He’s the all-black uniforms of Meatpacking’s hipsters and the tattooed baristas of Greenpoint and the tailored business men of Upper East, slicing through traffic with their ears suction-cupped to mobile phones. At the MoMA she is ferried back to Whitechapel Gallery, holding Draco’s hand as he scrunches his nose at the ‘Muggles’ peculiar talents’.

Weeks pass and seasons shift. London would be worse, she thinks. The sun sets earlier there and everybody recognizes her and––the obvious.

Hermione migrates from one shoebox apartment to the next, subletting whatever’s cheapest. She craves him when her breath frosts the air in her new studio and the heater jams up. She remembers her creaky, old Diagon flat and the way he always kept her warm in soft rumpled sheets.

She visits old bookstores, starts a jazz record collection, and takes up journaling in cat cafes. Her pockets fill with ticket stubs from comedy and drag shows and indie film festivals, celebrating the queer expression.

She feasts on oversized slices of pizza and fat doughy bagels slabbed with thick cream cheese. She thinks of his sweet tooth buying vegan brownies and wishes he could taste the peculiar smoky flavour of a campfire latte. In the back of a yellow taxi, braking so hard it makes her nauseous, she wishes she was on the back of his broom instead. Oh, how he’d laugh at that.

One November afternoon, Hermione dons her favourite coat and sets off to a local pottery class. The city is blurry in the rain, lights warbling; a swish of sound added to every beat of movement.

“Hermione!”

She doesn’t stop when she hears her name. It’s not the first time his voice deceives her. He lives in her head, disguised in the hum of traffic and drawling street conversations and music bleeding through automatic shop doors. It’s an awful trick, and she swallows the lump in her throat as she keeps walking.

“Hermione.”

She looks over her shoulder and the head-spinning pace of the city comes to a standstill.

His shirt clings to his chest, soft blond hair tousled around his temples, and all she can think to ask him is, “Where the hell is your coat?”

Draco looks into her eyes like he’ll lose her if he blinks. “Don’t you ever leave me again.” And then he’s striding forward, grabbing her face between his palms.

His mouth is cold and his hips are sharp and someone blares a horn behind them, but Draco holds her so fiercely it almost feels real.

She shoves him back, looking up into his cool grey eyes. They’re not grey like the clouds or the skyline or the sea, but something entirely different. She’d forgotten what it felt like being trapped in his gaze.

“I’ve been to France and Italy and Australia, searching for you. I was losing my damn mind.”

“How did you find me?”

He tugs on her coat. His coat. “I unboxed the package you sent me, and realised you never returned this rotten thing. You took it with you.”

“I love it.” She shoves her hands into the deep pockets.

“It’s yours,” he says, and she knows he’s not just talking about the coat.

“Your father––

“To hell with Father.” Draco shows his teeth. “To hell with home. To hell with everyone. I just want you.”

She’s shaky all over, her heart just catching up with the turn of events, and all she can think about over the sound of her erratic heartbeat is taking him home to her frigid studio so they can unthaw together.

He’s here. Draco is in New York.

“I have so much to show you.”

“Show me,” he says, drawing her into his arms again. “Show me everything.”

(745 words, cross-posted from twitter)

“I've been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night;

And now I see daylight, I only see daylight…”

[where-fantasy-meets-reality]

“Reflections of a Distant Past” Chapter 1

Masterlist 

Pairing: Ben (Obi-Wan) Kenobi x Fem. Reader (second person) 

Word Count: 4.4 K

Warnings: Death, blood, stalking, sadness, language....basically this story starts off with a bang. 

A/N: One night I had a dream( this sadly, is very true) that Obi-Wan and I were in the middle of Victorian London and Jack the Ripper was chasing us....but he was a werewolf....and for me to get away, Obi put himself in harm's way for me ( of course he did, he's amazing like that). In the dream, he told me not to worry, all calm and confident like....that he would find me again one day and that everything would be alright. Then the dream just ended....poof....gone, over....like a puff of smoke. I woke up and immediately grabbed a notebook and started writing down the dream and all the ideas coming to me... because...I had to know how this story ended. So this story is a modern-day AU, with a reader insert in the second person, that meets historical/fantasy fiction.  I hope you all enjoy this fic, it might just be my favorite one yet! 

- - - - - - - - - - -

November 9, 1888, London, England

The streets were empty. Months of mayhem, chaos, and fear had turned these once busy streets into desolate wastelands.

That night, it was a cold autumn evening. Mist laced in between the fog that hung so thickly in the air that he could barely see anything in front of him. He shoved his gloved hands into his woolen coat; they were still cold despite the black leather gloves.

He could see his warm breath materialize in front of him as it hit the cold air. He buried his face in his scarf, the wool slightly scratching his whiskers. The eerie glow of the street lamps was the only light the city offered in this part of town.

Rows of dark houses and empty businesses surrounded him. There was not a sound to be heard on the streets. No lively crowds on their way home from a good time, no horse-drawn taxis carrying people home, not even a stray dog….nothing; just the occasional click of the patrolmen's shoes on the cobblestones of the street.

His stomach clenched with nervousness. His body was tense with anticipation. Four murders in 10 weeks...one had been a double murder….each victim brutally mutilated beyond belief….a horror to behold. All taking place within a quarter-mile of the same street….The street corner he now stood on.

“Jack the Ripper” He called himself in the letters “he” had written to the press.

Ben Kenobi stood at the corner of Dorset St. in the heart of the east end of London. The burrow of Whitechapel. This was a tough neighborhood. Infamous for the refugees, homeless, prostitutes, and the poor….the outcasts of their Victorian London society. The scourge of the modern world.

During a good time, no respectable person wanted to find themselves here after dark. Never mind nowadays with a mass murder running around terrorizing the streets. And yet, he had elected to be here.

Genuine concern for his community as well as his job demanded that he be here tonight. He thumbed his notepad and his led pencil between his gloved fingers that were in his pocket as he attempted to keep his hands warm.

“Please don’t go, Obi….Please.”

Sophie Edwards. The love of his life. Her words had rung in his ears as the cold stabbed his muscles on the empty street corner. Only she called him “Obi,” as it was her nickname for him, a term of endearment. This wasn’t the first time he had set out to cover the Ripper murders or even to help catch the scoundrel, and yet every time he went, her heart sat in her stomach till the morning’s light.

Their families had known each other for as long as he could remember. As children, they thought nothing of each other, and then one day, as if meeting for the first time, he and Sophie seemed to notice each other. It was as if the two were born and blossomed overnight. From there, a respectful and proper courtship began.

He had felt guilty telling her, knowing that she would fuss all night and worry about him. In the morning, he would call on her and her family to let them know everything was alright. Perhaps he would have a messenger send a letter….or maybe he would stop in for tea on his way home from work. He knew she worried and he didn’t like to keep her waiting for confirmation that he was okay, but they were used to this by now. It was as if they had established a routine.

After all, he had been trying to help catch this guy for the past few weeks. Tonight was one of many nights that he stood out on the London streets. The only difference is he hoped they would actually catch him so tonight could be peace and closure at last.

In his trouser pocket, his hand gently curled around a small box. He wasn’t expecting to be pulled out onto the streets tonight for work, but his boss had insisted. After finishing his day shift, he had gone off to his afternoon appointments, only to receive word once he got home that he was needed back at the office. When he arrived, his boss had told him of his nightly assignment, much to his chagrin. He had said he wanted his two best reporters out there because it was going to be “any night now” that the infamous Ripper was set to strike again; he had been taunting the press all week, teasing at what was to come, leaving everyone in London on edge.

He had just come from the jeweler’s when he arrived home. Sophie's Christmas present sat in his pocket; an engagement ring. His heart fluttered at the thought of it. Unlike most of the people of his generation, he loved the woman whom he wanted to be his wife. Better yet, he knew that she returned his sentiment. Granted it was only the beginning of November, but when he had seen it earlier in the week, he knew it was a sign.

Slowly he was gaining prestige at the paper he worked for, The London Times. Additionally, he secretly had been given her parents' approval and blessing when he had asked for it in early fall. Purchasing, what he thought was the most perfect ring, was the final nudge and sign he needed to know he had chosen rightly; on Christmas Eve, he was going to propose.

Next to him on the dark and quiet street corner stood his best friend, Charles Brooks. Charles was the other reporter for the London Times who had been sent with him to cover the Ripper’s antics.

The two of them had been sent out on many other nights like this one, hoping to help catch the notorious murderer….and be the first to get the story. Ben wondered which part of that his boss was more concerned about...the well-being of the community or being the first to release the story?

He could barely make out the passing police patrol that was approaching him the fog was so bad. Behind him, about two lamp posts down, another group of citizens was standing alert and ready.

It was not often that London society could come together for a common good, but this had brought people of all rank and file to stand together in hopes of catching the murderer, with citizens aiding the police with their own patrols and watches.

“Bloody hell it's cold tonight,” Charles murmured as he rubbed his hands together.

Ben chuckled as he shook his shoulders and bobbed on the balls of his feet, attempting to warm himself up. “Sure is.”

“Watch this bastard get the jump on us.” Charles groaned as he took a sip from his flask. He gestured the flask towards Ben but he declined with a shake of his hand.

“Well it’s not us he’s looking for mate….unless you want to grab a dress, throw it on, and stand in the middle of the street and give it a go?…. Maybe then we can lure him out and use you as bait.” Kenobi teased.

“Hahaha, you have a better shot of seeing pigs fly.”

The two men exchanged knowing smiles. They started pacing in opposite directions, stretching their legs, attempting to keep warm. Who were they kidding, the thought of the Ripper terrified them both. The press and the police had turned these gruesome murders into a national sensation...a warning of the price of sin and the vulnerability of the streets.

The minutes seemed to pass by like hours. From off the distance, he could hear the chimes of Big Ben as he paced…..10:00 P.M.

He stifled a yawn that was threatening to creep upon him. He couldn’t lose his focus, not now.

Just as he thought about letting his guard down, a piercing police whistle sounded from down an alleyway off Dorset St.

Charles leaped off the curb and took off toward the noise. Police and citizens from the watch came flying from all directions.

Shouts and the stampede of shoes on the cobbled streets filled the once quiet street, but over the noise, Ben could hear Charles call out to him.  “Wait here!” He had cried out over his shoulder toward Ben.

Charles, being slightly older than Ben, always seemed to treat him like a little brother; he was very protective of him. Ben had to remind him every now and again that he was only older by a year and that as a grown man, Ben could easily handle himself.  

Ignoring Charles, Ben was about to step off the curb, when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a dark figure come up from another alleyway and take off in the opposite direction into the fog.

He grabbed a policeman that was running by him. “Hey...hey look!” He pointed and shouted at the disappearing figure.

The constable took one look at the figure and then turned to Ben. “Follow him, lad, I’ll be right behind you with some reinforcements!”

Without a word, Ben took off after the figure that was slinking off into the shadows.

His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. His muscles clenched from the forced movement through the cold air. The scarf around his beck was coming loose. He took it and shoved it in his pocket so he could breathe better.

The shadowy figure seemed to pick up speed, he must have heard him approaching from behind.

Ben noticed how the figure seemed to move gracefully and with ease….almost in-human-like.

The figure suddenly turned down a random alley.

“HEY! HEY! STOP!” He shouted through panted breaths. The piercing air made it hard for him to breathe.

Not bothering to wait for the reinforcements, he followed the figure into the dark alley without abandon.

“HEY STOP!” He shouted as he entered the alleyway.

Light from the main street crept in, but he could barely see the figure in front of him.

“Stop! Why are you running when there’s just been a murder?” His voice was accusing.

The figure stood facing the wall of the alleyway. “What’s it to you?”

His voice was gruff and grumbly, low and sinister.

“Well….for starters if you weren’t guilty then you wouldn’t have run…especially away from something everyone else is running towards.” 

At Ben’s accusation, the tall figure turned around.

From within the shadows, his eyes seemed to glow a golden yellow and even in the dark Ben could see the man's ravenous, toothy smile.

It sent a chill up Ben’s spine, one that was not attributed to cold but out of genuine fear. Rumors and whispers throughout London had said that the Ripper was in-human. Possibly a religious fanatic, someone with medical training, or perhaps a butcher. The more far-fetching rumors, or so he thought up until now, had said that he was some kind of monster…something from fairytales or religion’s worst nightmare.

“Wh…… Who are you?” He stuttered trying to keep his resolve.

The man stalked slowly forward, his eyes continuing to be the most significant source of light in the darkness.

“Stay back!” Ben shouted. “Stay back or the police will arrest you on grounds of suspicion alone!”

The figure stopped stalking forward. “You should have minded your own business.” He hissed.

Ben never saw him move, never heard him. Instead, He felt a searing pain in his neck as something with the strength of an ox barreled him into the brick wall of the alleyway.

He let out a blood-curdling scream as he felt something sink into his skin. Whatever it was had punctured through his clothes and coat.

His body went rigid in the worst pain he had ever felt in his life. His vision blurred as he felt the air evaporate from his lungs with the force of the blow.

The next thing he knew, he was on the ground. His entire body was numb. He could feel nothing but the searing pain in his neck. It was as if his head existed away from his body, he couldn’t even wiggle his fingers if someone asked him to. His senses were failing him. He knew he was gasping for breath because he could feel his body convulsing, but other than that the world had gone dark and silent.

As he faded out of consciousness despite his fighting attempts, he couldn’t hear the whistles of the approaching police that had arrived too late to be his backup.

“Please don’t go, Obi….Please.”

Her voice rang in his ears like the police whistle in the distance. Her words that she had used to plead with him, begging him not to go. Waving her off telling her would be fine, like always, he kissed her forehead and had given her one of his infamous smiles for comfort before he dashed off into the darkness.

The realization that he was wrong and that he could never be right again stabbed him in his chest worse than any of the other pain his body was receiving.

“Sophie.” Her image flashed in his mind as he lost consciousness. He had failed her. He broke his promise to her that he would be alright, like all the other nights.

His world slowly turned black as he gasped his last breath of air.

- - - - - - - - 

Northern New England, USA (Modern Day)

The warm breeze blew your hair slightly out of place as you walked down the street. Your sundress swayed around you, moving fluidly with your graceful movements. Little wisps of your long brown hair tickled your nose as they blew across your face.

Your smile radiated with joy as you stepped into the coffee house, the little bell on the door announcing her arrival.

“Hey Emma!”

You giggled. How did she do that? The girl who had called out to you from her spot behind the counter, Ahsoka, had never even looked up. Yet, she always did this. It was as if she always knew it was you walking in the door. Granted, you were a regular customer at the shop but you came in all different times. It would always boggle your mind how she was able to do that and always be right, for you had seen her do it with other customers.

Her white apron matched her blue and white striped hair; she was always dying it in different colors and patterns. As of late, blue was her choice of color. You liked it, the blue matched her eyes and her orange-tinted skin wonderfully. Her maroon t-shirt matched her lipstick and it allowed her white apron to stand out. Lastly, her blue jeans were accented by the alternating stripes in her hair. Her white high-top converse sneakers, dirty as they were, stood out all on their own. Yup, she was that kind of girl, a total package of style, sass, and awesomeness.

The cafe was small and cozy, but modern. Tables, big bean bags, and oversize armchairs were scattered throughout the cafe, so whether you were crunching the next deadline or just sipping a coffee casually, there was a seating arrangement that would fit your needs.

On this particular morning, the cafe wasn’t too busy. In the corner on some bean bags was a group of teen girls giggling and looking at their phones as they conversed with one another. A few people sat working on their laptops and one person even read the morning paper as they sipped their coffee. But even they had a laptop next to them…making you somewhat sad at the thought of how crucial technology had become to human existence in the 21st century.

“Hey, Ahsoka.” You spoke cheerfully as you approached the counter. You placed your small handbag on the counter as you had already started looking for your billfold.

“Regular order number 1 or regular order number 2 for you today?” She called over her shoulder as she walked down the counter towards the stack of to-go cups.

“Oh, you better make it a number 1.” You huffed.

“Ooooo red-eye it is….it's that kind of a morning.”

You just smiled silently, ready for the teasing.

After she fixed the coffee with the double shot of espresso, she sat the large cup in front of you, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re late this morning.” She teased.

“Pft. I am not.” You didn’t even look up as you addressed her, still looking for your billfold.

She rolled her large blue eyes playfully. “Yes, you are.” Looking down, she saw that you had a book on the counter next to your handbag. Chuckling, she let out a half-hearted sigh “Really Emma, again? How many times have you read that one?”

“I have no idea what you are referring to.” You brushed her off casually as you handed her the payment.

“Seriously….it’s bad enough you own the town book store, do you have to get caught up in reading in your spare time as well?... I mean how many times can you read that book?... How many times can you read any book really? Once or twice is fine, but you take it to an extreme.” She chided you.

“....Hey, Sherlock Homles is amazing, he never gets old…and I'm not just talking about that modern rendition that the BBC did either…” You laughed.

“I’m just saying, he’s an overly dramatic, stubborn British detective….reading it once, cool get it, see what the hype is about….But to read it as many times as you have?.... I just don’t see it.”

Just as you were about to give her a sassy retort, a voice from behind you interjected.

“..... The reason is Elementary, my dear Watson...Or should I say, dear Ahsoka…When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? ...She has never stopped going back to them because the stories are brilliant...”

Turning around to see who your mysterious defender was, you were stunned to see that it was newspaper boy….or, more like newspaper man.

Ahsoka didn’t seem surprised by the man’s response or even that he had involved himself in the conversation. Instead, she rolled her eyes as she huffed out a breath of air.

Looking up at him, she made eye contact with him and gave in to a small smile. Turning around and reaching for the back counter, she grabbed a cup that had been sitting there off to the side. Looking back at the man, she raised it up to him, gesturing that it was ready. “Hey, you.”

Placing the newspaper down, he causally walked over.

“Hello there.” He chimed back as he came to stand next to you at the counter. Turning to look at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes enthusiast up close, you were taken aback...as he was not at all what you expected him to be.

The man was pretty tall and his body was in fantastic shape. His velvety smooth voice held a British accent. He was casually dressed in dark jeans, dark sneakers, and a light blue t-shirt. His auburn hair and beard were neatly trimmed and combed.

His eyes, which only seemed to be accentuated by the color of his shirt, seemed as if they were….endless. Wise and warm; which was odd for the icey color that they were. His eyes looked like they had seen a thousand things happen in a thousand years. Once you came back to earth and realized he was smiling at you, you returned the gesture.

“Hey, stop flirting with my customers.” Ahsoka taunted him as she put a large coffee cup in front of him.

Glancing his eyes toward her and then back at you, he gave you a crooked smile. “My apologies; I met the lady no harm…..Miss…?”

“...Em...Emma…” You hated to admit that you had stuttered and borderline forgotten your own name. There was something about this man that you couldn’t put your finger on….was it that he had this simplicity about him that didn’t match his level of beauty?…. Or was it that he was clearly a Holmes nerd? Either way, he stopped you in your tracks and not many men did that to you.

He tilted his head forward, almost as if he was giving you an old-fashioned head nod. “Well, my apologies if I made you feel uncomfortable Emma...what the young one mistakes for flirting are my pathetic attempts at friendly conversation….”

Giggling lightly, you tried to make him feel at ease. “No no, you’re fine. I don’t feel uncomfortable at all….If anything you're correct in your hypothesis….It’s the brilliance of the writing that keeps me coming back for more...Mr. Holmes never disappoints.”

His eyes seemed to glow as they rolled over you, looking you up and down. “Indeed he doesn't.”

The two of you were looking at each other for how long you weren’t aware but the world seemed to slow down as the two of you just looked at each other. There was this magnetic pull that you could feel as if you could just stare there and look at nothing but him forever.

The sound of Ahsoka leaning across the counter and snapping her fingers in the middle of the two of you took you out of your daydream.

“Hey you two, stop making eyes at each other like that in public….It creeps me out.” She said sarcastically. Turning toward the gentlemen, she crossed her arms. “And you, don’t you have some history thing to get to? Some dead person or other that needs to be talked about?”

The beautiful Holmes defender closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth as the same crooked smile he had given you earlier crept over his face. “It’s not a person….it’s a bill. In fact, it's the Married Women's Property Act of 1882...It was significant bec…”

Ahsoka waved at him nonchalantly. “Yeah, yeah….You know I don’t care…”

Feeling somewhat sorry for the man, even though you knew Ahsoka was teasing him, you decided to return his favor from earlier and come to his defense. “Hey….history is quite interesting, it's the story of humanity... It’s especially better when it's presented by a good instructor who is passionate about it.”

He stood up straighter at your compliment, so you decided to go further.

“I’m sure Mr….um….?” You looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Ben.” He smiled warmly.

“Ah….so that's his name,” You thought to yourself.

“...Ben….” You nodded politely at him, acknowledging his name. You pointed at him as you turned to look at Ahsoka. “...With an instructor like Ben here, I’m sure history is a fascinating subject.”

“Kiss ass,” Ahsoka mumbled as she was counting some change in the drawer.

Ben rolled his eyes at her antics as you just shook your head, smiling.

He checked his watch as he took the to-go cup of coffee in his other one.

“Well yes...as Ahsoka said, I do have a research assignment to get back to…. I’m a professor at the university and I’m currently doing research for an upcoming course, I am trying to get as much done as I can before the semester starts and I have to wing it.”

“Oh that’s wonderful, I’ve heard really good things about that school. What area of history do you teach?” You asked as you blew softly on your cup of hot coffee.

“I specialize in 19th-century British history but I can secretly hold my own all the way up till about the Great War.” He shrugged bashfully. “My courses all center around the 19th century though as I am the resident British Victorian historian.”

Your eyes grew with excitement. “That’s awesome though, the Victorian era is so vast! The political and social movements, the culture and growth of the society…and don’t even get me started on the colonization and wars…”

Ben's face seemed to become more excited, tilting it as he considered you. “Indeed. It’s fascinating and provides never-ending possibilities for exploration.

“Hey…Romeo!” Ahsoka called out over her shoulder as she cleaned the espresso machine. “...she’s already late and if you keep flirting then you’re going to be late too…”

Not wanting to keep him, you picked your handbag up from the counter and sling it across you.

“Ah….Well, it was very nice to meet you, Ben.” You stuck your hand out toward him.

He gave you a firm but gentle handshake. “It was my pleasure. The two of you enjoy the rest of your day.” Giving Ahsoka a nod, he turned and headed for the exit.

Turning from the machine, Ahsoka cupped her hands around her mouth. “BYE DAD!” she called out from behind the counter.

In front of the door, Ben stopped short, as if her goodbye had been a surprise to him. But all he had done in response was look over his shoulder at her, chuckled, and walked out.

You whipped around to face Ahsoka. “That’s your dad?!” You shrieked.

Great, no wonder why the flirting had been so awkward for her to endure.

Not only that, but it prompted you to question how old Ben was. You knew Ahsoka was 17….But Ben looked to be around your age...and you were in your early 30s. Yeah sure, it was plausible but it still left you with some questions….he was either extremely good-looking for his age and was her dad, or it was an inside joke.

She gave you a reassuring smile. “Kind of….It’s complicated, I know it gets a rise out of him or throws him off course, so I can never usually resist.”

You just nodded back at her trying to connect the dots.

“Why? You like him?”

You blushed immediately. “No! Of course not….why….why would I?”

“Oh please….You were practically drooling around him, you were making eyes at him and the man was quoting Sherlock Holmes….I’m surprised you didn’t ask him for his number right then and there.”

“Shit.” You thought to yourself, that would have been a smart idea.

She laughed as if she could read your mind. “Don’t worry, I’ll give him yours….it might take him 100 years to message you or give you a buzz...But I’m sure he eventually will. I’ll have to remind him that I don’t know how many other Homles nerds there out there who could stand to listen to him yammer on about Victorian society and are normal like you….” She scrunched up her face as she looked you and down…”...well….semi-normal…. you’re a nerd like him, that already takes away your normalness points.”

“Goodbye, Ahsoka!” You said sarcastically, but with a friendly wink, as you headed toward the door of the shop.

“See you tomorrow!” She called out happily.  

@nanagoswife @transcending-time @sillynilly27 @thewhitedannimal @janebby @kirstenvldfan21 @the-clones-and-me​ @naughtyry​ @hugmekenobi​

[therewasatale]

stolen (Part 1)

Part 1 - the missing Priwen

(Part 2)

On Ao3.

Summary: And someone did anger him, stole something very important from one of London's most powerful vampires. He looked down at the bloody scarf for just a moment before nodding to the Ekon.

London was drenched in the late November rain. With gutters filling up as hundreds of raindrops pelted the roofs and windows.

Those who could, remained in their homes and waited for the morning, hoping that winter would not arrive the next day, that it would wait a little longer. Still, with each day the temperature dropped lower and lower, and during the dawn layers of frost already took over the windowsills and rooftops.

Such gloomy nights usually passed quietly, the number of Skals finally decreased, as the epidemic seemed to die down. Of course, this did not mean that the city was completely safe again.

More livable, perhaps, but danger always lurked in the depths of the alleys and sewers.

Four hunters were standing in an alley in the north part of Whitechapel, trying to figure out what could have happened.

The drained and lifeless bodies of their battle brothers laid along the walls, discarded like worthless garbage. The traces of the fighting were clearly visible, based on the scorch marks and the holes drilled into the walls by the fired bullets. Blood soaked the ground.

"Jim, any ideas?" The youngest of four looked up.

"Nothing yet," came the honest and uncertain answer. They should have been able to take a leech, or even two, since Geoffrey was with them, thought the hunter. "Did you find his body?"

The other hunters slowly shook their heads; he wasn't laid near the others, or in other nearby streets. The leeches mostly suck their victims dry, sometimes they broke their bones or tore their necks open so the poor souls couldn't run away or make a sound, but most of the time the beasts just threw them away after they were fed on.

They rarely had cases when a vampire bothered to take or hide their victim's body.

"Shit."

"Do you think it was the doctor?"

"Hardly." Jim, the oldest of them, rubbed his face and adjusted the shotgun in his hand. "He never hurt any of us." He was able to feel the skeptical glances behind him. "At least he made sure all of us survived, even when we attacked him. It’s not his style. Besides, even Geoffrey thought he was different." And he acted differently towards him as well, he added, but only in his thoughts.

"So, if it wasn't him, then who?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. Look around again. He couldn't just disappear! There must be some clues somewhere."

The others nodded slowly and began looking around again.

Jim glanced around at the wall and checked every cut or bullet hole. Finally, he found something.

"What happened?"

The sudden voice made him jump. He spun around, his gun ready to fire, but he didn’t fire. "You."

"Good evening, sir. May I ask you what happened here? " Asked the Ekon again, his eyes followed the man's arm and stopped for a moment. "What happened?" The question was serious and somehow there was a deep weight behind it. He vampire walked closer, ignoring the weapon pointed at him.

"We don't know. Someone might have attacked them." Jim swallowed his nervousness. He couldn’t stop himself from answering the vampire. "Three of our brothers are dead, but Geoffrey…"

Jonathan carefully picked up the scarf hidden among the broken boxes. The end of the material was soaked in blood. "Where is he?"

"We do not know, yet." He didn't dare to look at the Ekon's eyes. "We didn't find his body. The leech probably took him away."

The vampire didn’t answer. Jonathan glanced around, watched the spilt blood and the footprints remained after the fight. He had to find something to start with. The remains of the battle laid out in front of him what had happened in the alley. But something was missing. Something he hadn't been able to notice yet. He tightened his hand around the bloody scarf.

"We think it was a…Skal." Jim tried." It probably dragged Geoffrey to his lair to-"

"No." That was it.

"Huh?" The hunter raised his thick brown eyebrow.

"It wasn't a Skal. It was an Ekon."

"Friend of yours?" Jim realized maybe he should pick another time to make a joke. He coughed glancing around. "Any idea who could it be?"

"No. But I have an idea where to start with." Jonathan turned around on his heels.

"Hey!" The Priwen made a weak attempt to stop him. "Do you know anything?"

"I don't have the time to explain." Jonathan glanced over his shoulder. " But I will find him."

Jim felt a chill run up his back. Now he was sure that he didn’t have a snowball in hell chance to stop the vampire. Not only that, but he feared that if someone angered him, his chance of survival would also drop to that level.

And someone did anger him, stole something very important from one of London's most powerful vampires. He looked down at the bloody scarf for just a moment before nodding to the Ekon. "You better be."

The creature disappeared in black smoke.

The hunter rubbed his sweaty palms into his coat and walked back to his companions. He muttered a prayer that the vampire would find Geoffrey in time.

The cold floor woke him up. His body shuddered as the icy feeling ran down his back. His arms felt numb, and it spread through his wrists like a thousand of tiny needles.

"Shit." His throat was felt coarse and his head was throbbing from the moment he opened his eyes. Still, he had to figure out where he was.

It took time for his eyes to get used to the darkness, and with small movements he managed to breathe life into his hands. He sat up, but his head still felt heavy. After some groping he felt the pained bump on the back of his head, his fingers became slick and sticky after touching it.

Geoffrey squinted into the darkness.

He found neither his knife nor his crossbow. There was almost no chance that the bloodsuckers attacking him would have been stupid enough to leave his weapon with him but he had to check. You never knew when your enemy makes a mistake, be ready to exploit it. That's what Carl always taught him.

The man would probably scream his head off right now. He promised him that he would not follow him too soon. McCullum pushed the thoughts away and focused on the present.

His hands and feet were free, so his captors did not see him a threat, at least not a big enough one to be tied up. If only he could find something to defend himself with.

While taking care he began to feel around with his fingers to discover the place where he was imprisoned.

He remembered as they were walking their routes in Whitechapel when they heard a painful scream: himself, William, Tim and Jack. Sounded like a civilian in trouble, but as soon as they stepped into the alley, they realized they ran into a trap.

The first attack nearly impaled William, then all hell broke loose around them. The leech was not alone and they were all ready for them. Ekons. There was no question about that the others died.

Geoffrey could taste the bitter taste of iron in his mouth. As he moved, his clothes clung to his arms. He felt around the nearest wall around him, and started to walk along it, with careful steps. Stacked boxes and sealed barrels got in his way. Then he found the way to the stairs leading up.

So, he was dragged into a basement. The wood stair creaked under his feet, cutting into the silence of the room. "Fuck." He tried to calm his own heart down as he focused on the noises above him. There wasn’t any now.

Instead, the chuckle came from right behind him.

Geoffrey froze in his step, his heart nearly burst out of his chest as the chill ran down his back. He was about to turn when the first blow hit him. His felt as if it was on fire, the cry of pain filled the basement, but no one came to help.

"Got you." The vampire's voice tinkled with satisfaction.

The blow knocked him off his unsteady legs, and the kick hit his arm he raised to protect his face.

"You piece of weak human shit!" The second kick broke the bones in his forearm. He felt his body bruise and break under the rain of blows, agony bloomed like fire all over him. He tried to pull himself together, first vampire easily pulled his limbs out of the way, and after a while he didn't even care, the leech just wanted to hurt him in anywhere he was able to reach him.

He could hear his nose crackling and his lungs wheezing. After seconds, he let his body be tormented by the creature, focusing only on not showing his pain. He had learned to be ready to die, and he wouldn't have given a bloodsucker the satisfaction of seeing him begging.

Biting in his lips, he was able to feel the blood filling his mouth, making it difficult for him to breathe.

"Adam!" It was a woman's voice that ended his torment for a couple of seconds.

"What? He's still alive."

Footsteps came down on the creaking stairs and stopped in front of McCullum. "Did you have to beat me up like that?" She almost sounded disappointed.

A foot dug into his side. With a groan of pain, Geoffrey rolled over, his face already swelling around his left eye as he coughed up some blood.

"I wanted to play with him."

"Play with him?! After he killed Alfred?" Snarled the other vampire.

"Well not anymore, you ruined his face, and he didn't need much to finally die. If you ask me, he's already dying, slowly."

McCullum winced. Was he really? He couldn't focus, his body echoed in pain.

"Slowly." Answered the vampire. "And Peter?"

"Reading his novels." Waved the woman off. "You know him, likes to act sophisticated after he kills someone." She slowly knelt down, and took the hunter's chin into her hand.

Ha made a weak effort to pull away from the touch. Nails dig inside his skin.

"Look at him, he still has some fight inside him." She chuckled.

"He will die here." Now the other vampire waved it off and made his way towards the stairs. "I'll go upstairs, Sasha. You do whatever you want."

"Don't worry, I'll follow you right away." She leaned towards the bleeding hunter, watching the blood pumping through the man and slowly seeping from his wounds. "His heart is beating so fast." She chuckled.

"Get...off…me..." Geoffrey gasped for air.

"Oh, he still can talk." She leaned closer.

A new sharp pain joined the choir. It was as if two thin daggers slid into his throat. The vampire's swallowed with a satisfied sound. But it only barely reached him.

He could almost feel the life draining away from him. In the midst of his last thoughts, Jonathan appeared. The vampire would avenge him. He will find these monsters, Geoffrey was sure, the doctor will find them. The only thing he regretted was not being able to join him. But these leeches will die soon, and at least he will get some small payback.

He drifted away into unconsciousness with a half-smile.

[victorianwhitechapel]

Elizabeth Stride timeline

1843 – Elisabeth Gustafsdotter is born at Stora Stumlehed farm in Torslanda parish, north of Gothenburg, Sweden (November 27).

1843 – She is baptized in the Torslanda church in Gothenburg (December 5).

1859 – She is confirmed in the Torslanda church (August 14).

1860 – Elisabeth moves to the Gothenburg parish of Carl Johan to stay with her sister Anna Christin, who found work for Elisabeth as a domestic for Lars Frederick Olofsson (October 14).

1862 – Elisabeth moves to the Cathedral parish in Gothenburg, still working as a domestic servant.

1864 – Elisabeth's mother dies (August 25).

1865 – Because she is a pregnant single woman, she is registered by the Gothenburg police as “Female Prostitute #97” (March).

1865 – Elisabeth gives birth to a stillborn daughter result of her 7 month pregnancy (April 21).

1865 – She moves to Philgaten in Ostra Haga, a suburb of Gothenburg, and supports herself through prostitution (October).

1865 – Elisabeth is treated for venereal disease at the Kuuset hospital (October 17 to November 3).

1865 – She is registered healthy in the following visits at the hospital and doesn't have to report to the police after her last visit (November 7, 10 and 14).

1865 – Elisabeth works as a maid for Mrs Maria Wijsner in Husargatan, another suburb of Gothenburg (November 10, to July 1866).

1866 – She applies to move to London, England (February 7).

1866 – Elisabeth Gustafsdotter arrives to London to work as a domestic. She is 23 (July 10).

1869 – Elizabeth marries carpenter John Thomas Stride at St. Giles in the Fields, in the London Borough of Camden (March 7).

Ca. 1869 – Elizabeth and John keep a coffee shop at Chrisp Street, Poplar (Tower and Hamlets).

1870 – Elizabeth and John keep a coffee shop at Upper North Street, Poplar.

1871 – Elizabeth and John move themselves and the coffee shop at 178 Poplar High Street (April 2).

1875 – John Dale buys Elizabeth and John's coffee shop.

1877 – Elizabeth is admitted to the Poplar workhouse, suggesting that she and John may have separated (March).

1881 – Elizabeth and John had reunited by 1881, but separated permanently at the end of the year.

1881 – Elizabeth is treated at the Whitechapel Infirmary for bronchitis (December 28 to January 4, 1882).

1882 – She lodges on and of at the common lodging house at 32 Flower and Dean Street (January 4 to 1885).

1885 – Elizabeth lives on and of with waterside laborer Michael Kidney at Devonshire Street, Marylebone, City of Westminster.

1886 – She begs for money and food at the Swedish Church (May 20 and May 23).

1887 – Elizabeth is admitted to the Poplar workhouse suggesting that she and Michael may have split (March 21).

1887 – She accused him of assault, but failed to turn up at the hearing against him at Thames Magistrate’s Court (April 6).

1888 – Elizabeth Stride receives again financial assistance from the Swedish Church (September 15 and 20).

1888 – Elizabeth leaves Michael for the last time. She goes to stay in a lodging house after a quarrel with him (September 25).

1888 – Dr Michael Barnado, a leading social reformer, meets Elizabeth at the lodging house at 32 Flower and Dean Street (September 26).

1888 – Elizabeth still lodges at 32 Flower and Dean Street lodging house (September 27 and 28).

1888 – Elizabeth spends the evening cleaning 2 rooms at the lodging house and she is paid 6d for that (September 29).

1888 – She and Elizabeth Tanner have some drinks at the Queen's Head public house and go back to the lodging house together (September 29).

1888 – Elizabeth leaves the lodging house, but before she gives a piece of green velvet to fellow lodger Catherine Lane, and asks her to keep it until her return. Watchman Thomas Bates says she showed him the 6d she had earned before (September 29).

1888 – Liz is seen with a short young man by two labourers at Berner Street, later another labourer sees her with the man too (September 29).

1888 – Matthew Packer claims he has sold some grapes to Liz and the man (September 30).

1888 – PC William Smith sees Elizabeth and the man at Berner Street, opposite the International Working Men's Educational Club (September 30).

1888 – Israel Schwartz sees Elizabeth and two men having a fight (September 30).

1888 – Elizabeth is seen with a man (September 30).

1888 – Louis Diemschutz finds the murdered body of Elizabeth at Dutfield's yard. She was 44 (September 30).

Your life was difficult and cut short. You were free at last... 🌼

[cavernovs]

Jakoris “Jack” Davenport

➵  BASICS

NAME: Jakoris Davenport GOES BY: Jack, Ripper, The Better Davenport AGE / D.O.B: November 8th,  [ 267 yo ] FACECLAIM: Chris Wood GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cis-male, depends on the day. HOMETOWN: Whitechapel, London.  CURRENTLY: Darklands SPECIES: Vampire ROLE: Vizier

➵ TRAITS

POSITIVE:  NEGATIVE:

➵ BIOGRAPHY

[triggers: murder, blood, mutilation, serial killer, violence.]

There’s a darkness behind blue eyes; an ocean that roars like a lion and a vicious tendency hidden in azure hues. Such eyes look black in the night, a deep lull that eats away at all the innocence that ever was and a sickening smile that matches the flickering abyss that flashes on twisted features. There’s a man in there somewhere; something resembling a human being, stalking the nights of what people used to call London streets. A lit cigarette in hand and gutter thoughts in mind.

It’s never just a calm stroll in the late hours, there’s never tranquillity; neither his mind nor intentions are at peace. Jakoris wants them to be, but he knows it’s a lost war trying for it. So he never does. Like a broken tick in his mind, something dark calls to him, reminds him to bring knives for the night; tells him to play reaper until dawn breaks. And he does.

Jack’s not a likeable man, more monster than anything else. A predator that favours nice woman, alone in the roads - offering services in exchange for paper; coins. A sick man that offers no mercy for those who look better in red.

Ask him what happens to a kidney if you slice it open, press that blade hard enough into a stomach that the splitting of flesh sends blood bursting through the seams. If something’s hit well, then there might be screams too.

Ask him, he’d dare you to. Let him tell stories of how they deserved it, that they asked for such an end that only the luxury of a blade could give. Drawn by his hand, slaughtered like cattle in the city streets. Because if you ask him, he might offer you that end too.

And someone did; a woman more vicious than he ever could be asked. And Jack died.

That was two centuries ago.

Years pass differently in death, they don’t seem to matter. There’s no value to them and Jack never cares about knowing where time has taken him. A man so good at killing that when he’s given opportunity to do it better - he thrives from it. But he never did ask for it. Jessica Davenport his end as well as his new beginning. A woman so like the ones he used to put blades in, now holding unprecedented power over him, bettering him in ways he never figured he could be. He’s never known parenthood; can’t even recall if he had parents, he knows everyone does - but he never actually had them, he doesn’t remember much in the past when he comes to think of it. Just snippets of what used to be. 

He’s never forgotten, or forgiven that his mind snaps into something from nightmares when he’s triggered by whoreish behaviour. Whether its stemmed from a blacked-out memory, he doesn’t know, but he becomes volatile and virulent in its presence. Jessie being an unavoidable exception; he can’t deny her a thing and mostly, he doesn’t really want to. An unwavering respect for her, despite her methodology in her position. Jack’s right there beneath her in the ranking. Where’s she’s the conduit for them all, he’s vicious in other ways. A team that could rival the world if they were given motivation. 

With death however, comes consequences that aren’t all enacted by his own hands. And with shaky alliances, enemies of the undead that haunt the nights; the daytimes when they cannot meet the sun; bring untimely ends to those creatures that are known to be oh too good at making meals of those with beating hearts. Jack doesn’t remember too much about how he came beneath human captivity, some kind of POW in a battle he doesn’t even recall diving into. Not that it mattered, the man’s too good with pain; likes it like he enjoys a good wine. 

Revels in a it, enjoys it like only a twisted masochist could. Even as a subject of whatever humanity’s science took them a century or so ago - he can’t quite remember, but he knows that ever since, he’s broken his self-appointed rule of never procreating. Though, that creation had nothing to do with him besides the stolen blood in human experimentation; locked into a bond to a man he didn’t choose to turn and bring into his ranks. 

So in denial about it; refuses to ever acknowledge its existence. Lets the monster he created at on its own actions; Demitri would never know, never understand the bond that ties them and presses Jakoris traits into him without even realising. The one loose end he has no way of fixing without bloodshed. His justifications; it feeds the masochist within. 

Jack’s usually a well-spirited individual, he doesn’t exude the psychopath that lives beneath his flesh; the cold of his skin, the dangerous grin he wears like the Cheshire Cat the first tells that he’s not all the rational; human being that people probably wish he was. But if you ask him the right (or wrong) questions, that smile darkens; those eyes redden and those teeth sharpen. He’ll play the games asked of him, be a good Vizier and he’ll relish in every opportunity presented to him. He doesn’t have automatic hatred for anything - not really, but he’s not all that favourable of anyone either. Much like his maker, gain his interest, win him over and he’ll be your greatest asset. 

Lose his interest; you’ll wish he never caught wind of you. 

➵ CONNECTIONS

JESSIE DAVENPORT / Maker, Ride Or Die, Unofficial Wife, Vampire. MALCOLM “MAL” DAVENPORT / Friend in Arms, Vampire. DEMITRI DAVENPORT / Secret Protégé, Vampire. EVANORA BILE / Best Friend, Witch.

➵  ADDITIONAL

Nobody besides Jessie knows his name is Jakoris, nor does anyone get away with calling him Ripper besides her, though, test the theory if you like. She’s his maker and they’re solid. 

If Jessie knows someone - the likelihood is, Jack knows of them too. 

He really really, really loathes ‘easy’ woman; give him a challenge; a chase; he does not do well with women throwing themselves at him if he knows they’re (a) trying to use him, (b) thinking he’s any more merciful than others. He can be, but not for them. He’ll snap.

Frequents Bite Club himself and when Jessie’s dragging him there. 

He’s loyal to the hierarchy, but doesn’t appreciate weakness. 

If you can surprise him - he’ll like you, usually.

Again, don’t call him Jakoris or Ripper. It’s just Jack, he’ll accept The Better Davenport also. In fact, he’ll probably be more inclined to like you with that being his introduction. 

Jessie will correct that statement if she ever hears it.

He will irritate the hell of you before you accept that it’s going to be that or eternal torment.

He’s not related by blood in any way to Jessie - she just gives her prodigies her surname; it’s more like a marriage thing; open relationship style?

Jack’s got some heavy strips of scarring along his backside from an old reprimand that got messy; don’t ask him about it, he’ll probably stab you if he can’t bite you for it.

Often knows how to silver-tongue out of most situations; something picked up from his maker; watch him, he’s a  h y p o c r i t e. 

Like, biggest hypocrite going; doesn’t like whores; is basically the epitome of one when he masters the art of balancing pain and pleasure; he’ll threaten it, you’ll like it. 

Turns everything into a joke, 99% of the time. 

Will play the game of ruses, but has every ability to shred you to pieces if you test him.

QUICK LINKS

THREADS

SELF-PARAS

HEADCANONS

MUSINGS

[nuclearblastuk]

Fleshgod Apocalypse Announce 'Veleno Across Europe Tour 2020' w/ EX DEO

Last year, Italian orchestral-death metal giants FLESHGOD APOCALYPSE unleashed their highly-praised 5th album, »Veleno«, unto the world through Nuclear Blast. After storming European stages as part of the »MTV Headbanger's Ball Tour« alongside label mates KATAKLYSM as well as WHITECHAPEL and DYSCARNATE in November/December 2019, the time has come for the band to once again return to our clubs as headliners in autumn 2020. This time, the sextet will be supported by metal legionnaires EX DEO. Further details can be found below!

Frontman Francesco Paoli says, "Dear European friends, this is going to be massive. We will finally bring our new music and live production to Europe, coming back as headliners to many familiar places that we deeply love, and hitting some others for the first time. We'll be covering the whole Old Continent, rocking every city with a new, ambitious live show, featuring an extended setlist and some cool surprises that will turn every night into a night to remember! Moreover, we're stoked to announce symphonic death metal band EX DEO, featuring members of legendary Canadian band KATAKLYSM, as our guest for the entire »Veleno Across Europe Tour 2020«! You don't want to miss this…"

»Veleno Across Europe Tour 2020« w/ EX DEO 01.10. D Übach-Palenberg - Rockfabrik 02.10. NL Nijmegen - Doornroosje 03.10. F Paris - Petit Bain 04.10. UK London - The Underworld Camden 06.10. F Nantes - Le Ferrailleur 07.10. E Bilbao - Stage Live 08.10. P Porto - Hard Club 09.10. P Lisbon - RCA Club 10.10. E Madrid - Sala Caracol 11.10. E Barcelona - Sala Bóveda 12.10. F Toulouse - Le Metronum 15.10. I Retorbido (PV) - Dagda Live Club 16.10. CH Sion - Le Port Franc 17.10. CH Schaffhausen - Kammgarn 18.10. D Leipzig - Hellraiser 20.10. D Munich - Backstage 21.10. SK Košice - Collosseum Club 22.10. H Budapest - A38 23.10. BG Sofia - Mixtape 5 24.10. RO Bucharest - Quantic Club 25.10. RO Cluj-Napoca - Flying Circus 27.10. CZ Prague - Futurum Music Bar 28.10. PL Poznan - u Bazyla 29.10. PL Warsaw - Klub Proxima 30.10. LT Vilnius - Vakaris 31.10. LV Riga - Melnā Piektdiena 01.11. FIN Helsinki - Ääniwalli 04.11. N Oslo - Røverstaden 08.11. B Roeselare - Trax 11.11. D Weinheim - Café Central 12.11. D Berlin - Musik & Frieden 13.11. D Essen - Turock 14.11. F Pagney-derrière-Barine - Chez Paulette 15.11. NL Leiden - Gebr. de Nobel

More FLESHGOD APOCALYPSE dates:

»Veleno« - UK/IRL Tour w/ BLOODSHOT DAWN 12.02. UK Bristol - The Fleece 13.02. UK Leeds - The Key Club 14.02. IRL Dublin - Voodoo Lounge 15.02. UK Glasgow - Slay 16.02. UK Manchester - Rebellion 17.02. UK Milton Keynes - The Craufurd Arms

14./15.03. MEX Mexico City - Hell And Heaven Fest

»An Exclusive Evening Feat. The »Veleno« Classical Quartet« w/ THE AGONIST 16.03. USA Dallas, TX - House of Blues 17.03. USA Austin, TX - Emo's 19.03. USA Atlanta, GA - Buckhead Theatre 20.03. USA Baltimore, MD - Soundstage 21.03. USA Philadelphia, PA - Theatre of Living Arts 22.03. USA Brooklyn, NY - Warsaw 23.03. CDN Québec City, QC - Le D'Auteuil 24.03. CDN Montréal, QC - Théâtre Corona 25.03. CDN Toronto, ON - The Phoenix Concert Theatre 26.03. USA Cleveland, OH - House of Blues 27.03. USA Chicago, IL - House of Blues 28.03. USA Lincoln, NE - The Royal Grove 29.03. USA Denver, CO - Summit 31.03. CDN Vancouver, BC - Rickshaw Theatre 01.04. USA Seattle, WA - El Corazón 02.04. USA Portland, OR - Crystal Ballroom 04.04. USA San Diego, CA - The Observatory North Park 05.04. USA Mesa, AZ - Club Red 06.04. USA Los Angeles, CA - The Regent Theater

10.07. S Gävle - Gefle Metal Festival 14./15.08. A Graz - Metal on the Hill

-----

Order »Veleno« now: www.nuclearblast.com/fleshgodapocalypse-veleno

More on »Veleno«: 'Sugar' OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xmq3iyW02b8 'Carnivorous Lamb' OFFICIAL LYRIC VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RMEoOl80SM 'Worship And Forget' OFFICIAL TRACK VISUALIZER: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rx67BcnDk9c 'Healing Through War' OFFICIAL LIVE VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mviUmbrvAP0 'The Fool' OFFICIAL LIVE VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYJ4UmxGrIk

Italian for 'venom', »Veleno« marks FLESHGOD APOCALYPSE’s first record in 3 years, since the release of their critically acclaimed record »King« (2016). The 'metal part' of »Veleno« was recorded in Rome, Italy at Bloom Recording Studio and Kick Studio with long-standing collaborator Marco Mastrobuono, while the 'orchestral part' - the ensembles - were tracked at Musica Teclas Studio in Perugia. Fleshgod Apocalypse then took the effort over to Grammy-nominated Jacob Hansen (VOLBEAT, THE BLACK DAHLIA MURDER, EPICA) at Hansen Studios in Denmark for mixing and mastering. The entire production of »Veleno« took, according to Paoli, about three months. Artwork for the album was created by Travis Smith (AVENGED SEVENFOLD, OPETH, KATATONIA).

»Veleno« - Track Listing:

CD 01. Fury 02. Carnivorous Lamb 03. Sugar 04. The Praying Mantis' Strategy 05. Monnalisa 06. Worship And Forget 07. Absinthe 08. Pissing On The Score 09. The Day We'll Be Gone 10. Embrace The Oblivion 11. Veleno Bonus Tracks (DIGI, DIGITAL & DIGITAL DELUXE) 12. Reise, Reise (RAMMSTEIN Cover) 13. The Forsaking (Nocturnal Version)

»An Evening in Perugia« (Bonus Blu-ray) - Track Listing:

01. Marche Royale 02. In Aeternum 03. Healing Through War 04. Cold As Perfection 05. Minotaur (The Wrath Of Poseidon) 06. Gravity 07. The Violation 08. Prologue 09. Epilogue 10. The Fool 11. The Egoism 12. Syphilis 13. The Forsaking

--- More info: www.fleshgodapocalypse.com www.facebook.com/fleshgodapocalypse www.twitter.com/fapocalypse www.instagram.com/fleshgodofficial www.youtube.com/fleshgodapocalypse www.nuclearblast.de/fleshgodapocalypse

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 129: Digging Deep (Transcript) - 11th November, 2019

tw: ghosts, human remains

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

The construction was called to a stop the moment they found the bones. The work crew was preparing a building site along one of London’s many ancients streets when they uncovered what appeared to be a body – or, at least, the remains of one. It was clearly old, given that nothing but bones could be seen beneath the dirt, so a team of archaeologists was brought in to preserve and study the remains. In the end, they determined that the bones belonged to a teenage girl who had lived in London over 1600 years ago – a Roman girl. It’s not the last time something like that has happened in this city. During some development work near Spitalfields Market in the 1990s, a work crew uncovered what turned out to be an entire Roman cemetery. Among the finds was a perfectly preserved lead coffin, its lid covered in beautiful artwork that had been hammered right into the surface, still visible, all these centuries later.

And that’s the way history tends to work – time will bury it under new and current events. But if we dig deep enough, and brush away the soil, we can come face to face with it all over again. The past never truly goes away, after all. It’s there, waiting to be discovered, so that we can study it and relearn the stories it contains. Oftentimes, though, the things that leave the deepest marks tend to be the most tragic and painful, events that rattled people to their core and left a shadow on the history of a place that no amount of sunlight could ever chase away, and the older the city, the more common those shadows tend to be. Which is why I want to take you on a tour of one of the oldest, because while the past is always nearby in our modern world, few places allow it to dwell so close to the present as the city of London. Its past is both a treasury of historic significance and crypt full of the darkest tragedies we could ever imagine. Because in a city filled with so much light, there’s bound to be some shadows. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

 London is ancient, there’s really no other way to say it. Most Americans live in a community that’s less than 200 years old. If you’re in New England or one of the other places with roots in pre-colonial America, perhaps those locations go back a bit further, but London’s history makes all of those seem brand new by comparison. Archaeological work in London can place humans in the area as far back as 4500BC, but if we’re looking for a major settlement where it stands today, that didn’t happen until 47AD, when the Romans arrived and set up a community there that they called “Londinium”. Although from what we can tell, it didn’t last long, all thanks to a woman named Boudicca. As far as historians know, Boudicca was the wife of King Prasutagus, who ruled over an eastern British tribe known as the Iceni. When the Romans arrived in their territory in 43AD, they came to an arrangement with Prasutagus, allowing him to maintain control of his kingdom. When he died 17 years later, though, the Romans refused to acknowledge his widow as the new ruler, and instead invaded them to take the land for themselves. But they misjudged Boudica, assuming she was a quiet woman, incapable of ruling anything. Instead, she rallied a massive army of close to 100,000 warriors and then led them on a campaign against the Romans all over Britain. In 61AD, her army rolled over Londinium like a Sherman tank, burning the entire settlement to the ground. In fact, her campaign against them was so fierce and unstoppable that the Romans nearly left Britain altogether. But those who survived managed to rebuild, and within a handful of decades it had grown large enough to become capital of the entire province.

Over the years, the city continued to expand and mature, and even though the Romans left towards the beginning of the fifth century, the community there refused to die. By the 7th century, London had earned a reputation as a major trade centre, which brought in a steady flow of wealth and goods, and also turned the city into a political powerhouse. Of course, power and wealth has a way of making a community a target for others, and London was no exception. In 1066, William the Conqueror sailed across the English Channel and earned his nickname by taking control of the entire kingdom and making it his own – and, of course, special attention was paid to London. Within two decades, the population of the city had reached nearly 15,000, and by the 1300s that had multiplied to over 80,000.

But something unexpected was heading their way that would ravage that growing community, something mysterious and dangerous and seemingly unstoppable – the Black Death. What started as a plague in western Asia quickly spread to Europe, bringing death and destruction to every community it touched. By the time the Black Death had burned itself out, some historians estimate that upwards of two hundred million people were dead. The people of London lost at least 10,000 lives, most of whom were buried outside the city walls. It wouldn’t be the last time the city would face tragedy. In 1664, a fresh outbreak of the plague killed another 100,000 people, and then two years later, in September of 1666, a fire broke out in the house of a baker on Pudding Lane. It eventually spread west, destroying much of the city as it went, and while there were only six verified casualties, historians now think the fire burned hot enough to completely cremate those who were caught in it, making the true death toll anyone’s guess.

So much of London’s history was tragic and outside human control, but there have also been moments along the way that could only be blamed on the people who lived there. Jack the Ripper and the murders that took place in 1888 in the Whitechapel district of the city are always front and centre in most people’s minds. But there has been a lot more bloodshed than just those five innocent women. In fact, a lot of the city’s murder and violence could be found higher up the ladder, in the very chambers and homes of the people who held the power and wealth. It seemed that rather than being immune to the shadows that lingered in the city, even the powerful could fall under their spell. Because if there’s one thing the nobility of England’s past seem to attract more than anything else, it was pain and suffering and death.

 We don’t need to look far to find bloody nobles. It sometimes feels as though all we have to do is open a history book and flip it to a random page. Life at the top was often a cutthroat game, both figuratively and literally, and anyone who found themselves in the orbit of a king or queen certainly understood that risk. A great example of how blood-thirsty the English kings could be was Henry VIII. Henry is known for a lot of things, not all of which are so great in retrospect. He expanded the power of the crown during his lifetime and based a lot of that on his belief in the divine right of kings, something that threatened the freedom of his people. He was greedy and vindictive and had an ego that was only surpassed in size by the codpiece on his armour. But if there is one thing that most people remember today about Henry VIII, it’s his many wives. Henry had six of them, half of whom were named Catherine, which must have made it a lot easier for him, I’m sure. Five of those six wives came and went within a single 10-year period in his life, but not all of those breakups were friendly. After having his first marriage annulled in 1533 and sparking the English Reformation and the country’s separation from the Catholic church, Henry married the sister of a former lover, a women named Anne Boleyn. Three years later, he had her executed for treason and adultery, but also possibly for failing to deliver a male heir.

The day after Anne’s beheading, Henry proposed to one of her ladies in waiting, Jane Seymour. They had apparently fallen in love months before, but Jane had managed to hold off Henry’s advances in the name of honour. Once the queen was dead, though, she was much more agreeable. They were married 10 days later. From everything I can tell, Henry believed that Jane Seymour was “the one” – he viewed her as his perfect queen, and when she gave birth to his first male heir a year later, he probably sighed with relief. The complications from the birth put her life at risk, and over the two weeks that followed she slowly declined. In October of 1537, Jane Seymour passed away. That had taken place at Hampton Court Palace, Henry’s favourite London residence. It was a mixture of a pleasure palace, a theatre and a royal home, so when Henry brought his next two wives through those doors over the next few years, they were probably bittersweet moments. A lot of joy would be possible there, but it would also sit in the shadows of a painful past. His fifth wife, Catherine Howard, made a fool of the king by conducting at least one less-than-secret affair. After learning about what she had done, Henry had Catherine arrested and thrown in a prison cell there, at the house. She was only 18 at the time, and I can’t imagine the fear and desperation she must have felt, being a prisoner of the most powerful man in the kingdom.

According to the stories, though, Catherine managed to slip away from her guards one day, while being walked through the palace. She bolted away and ran down one of the long galleries that led to the king’s chapel, where she knew Henry could be found. Her goal was probably to beg for forgiveness, to ask for mercy and to plead for her life. But the guards caught up to her before that could happen, and her screams of terror were the only thing to reach him. Catherine Howard was beheaded a short while later, and Henry moved onto a new wife, also named Catherine. But just because those former wives were gone, doesn’t mean they were forgotten. In fact, if the stories are true, they might have stuck around to serve as a cruel reminder. It’s said that even today, visitors to that long gallery in the palace have heard echoes of a woman screaming, a desperate, panicked cry that chills them to the bones. Others have heard the quick rhythm of footsteps, as if someone were running down the hallway. And in 1999, according to one source, two different tourists fainted in the gallery at different times on the very same day.

Elsewhere in Hampton Court Palace, other shadows have stuck around as well. In a room at the top of the staircase known as Silver Stick Stairs, multiple visitors have claimed to have seen the figure of a pale women. She stands silently, hovering slightly above the floor, with a mournful expression and vacant eyes. For those who have witnessed it, the spectre has been both calming and terrifying. Whether or not the visions are real, though, it’s fascinating to look at the true history of that room, because while it has been used for countless purposes over the last few centuries, one specific resident stands out above all the others. It was in this room, you see, that Henry VIII’s only male heir was born to his true love, Jane Seymour, and it was there, just two weeks later, that she passed away.

 The old home, located on Berkeley Square, is a townhouse, just one of many in a long row of similar facades, but as far back as the mid-19th century, it was different enough to stand out from all the others. But before I continue with the legends, let me be clear that not a lot is known about the house’s origins, and a lot of stories have yet to be completely verified. Still, we know enough to make this a journey worth taking – so let’s get started. The majority of the tales begin with the man who owned the house back in the 1860s. Thomas Myers wasn’t the first to live there, but he was certainly the most infamous. It’s said that he had once been engaged to be married, but his fiancée eventually changed her mind and ended their relationship. Broken and distraught, he retreated into his house and was rarely ever seen again. Neighbours claim that the house would be dead during the day, only to come alive at night. It was as if Thomas had traded in the sunlight for the shadows, living the rest of his life during those moments when most of the world was asleep, and it might very well be whispers of the house all lit up at night that first gave birth to the rumour that it was haunted – but it could also have been what happened next.

Sometime around 1872, the house sold to a new family, and they moved in to clean up the home and make it their own. The couple had two daughters, both in their late teens, and there were precious few years left for the parents to enjoy life as a family in this new setting before they became empty-nesters. In the weeks that followed, though, the future crept in. The oldest of the two daughters became engaged to a young officer named Captain Kentfield, and conversation became filled with talk of wedding plans and guests lists. And at some point in their engagement, Captain Kentfield planned a visit, so the family set about preparing the attic bedroom for his arrival. According to the story, what happened next is still shrouded in mystery. The family maid was sent up to put the final touches on the fiancé’s room, and while she was up there, the family heard her scream. At once, everyone in the house rushed upstairs to see what had happened, only to find her lying on the floor, an expression of complete horror painted across her face. More mysterious yet was that she couldn’t seem to put a complete sentence together and was unable to answer any of the questions the family asked her. All the maid was able to do was mutter a low, cryptic refrain. “Don’t let it touch me. Don’t let it touch me”.

The maid was immediately taken to the hospital to recover, where I imagine someone observed her, and did their best to treat her rattled nerves, but other than that, there was little they could do. Sleep, they assumed, would be the best medicine. The following morning, though, she was found dead in her room. The fiancé arrived the next day, and after hearing the stories of the maid’s unexpected death, he decided to check the room out for himself. Maybe he was playing the brave soldier in front of his future in-laws in an effort to impress them, or perhaps his fiancée needed some reassurance and he wanted to calm her nerves. Whatever the reason, he climbed the stairs to the attic bedroom and declared that he would keep watch throughout the night. In the darkest hours of the morning, though, a gunshot pulled everyone from sleep, their hearts racing at the sound of it. Everyone climbed out of bed, threw on their night coats, and then rushed up to see what had happened. What they found, according to the legend, was the young captain, dead on the floor of his room, a victim of his own pistol.

In 1907, author Charles Harper wrote about the house in a book, and it was there that he declared it to be “the very picture of misery”. After the events that were said to have taken place there, it’s easy to wonder if the misery was in the structure or the lives who lived there. Either way, the stories we’ve heard so far shed a bright light on one more tale that Harper added to the legend. According to him, the next family to own the house moved in fully aware of the tragedies of the past. The owner was an older gentleman, who was said to be practical and not prone to stories of the supernatural. Still, he understood the power of suggestion a creepy old house with a dark past might have over him, so he set some rules for everyone to follow. After settling in with his family, he told them all that he would ring his bell to tell them if he ever truly needed help. If it was a moment of fright, he would only ring it once, which they were all instructed to ignore, but if matters were more pressing and he truly needed help, he would ring it twice, a signal that they were to immediately come to his room.

Everyone went to bed at the end of the evening, and while the night began peacefully, the quiet was broken around midnight by the loud chime of the old man’s bell, not once, but twice, which sent everyone rushing to see what might be the matter. What they found, though, weren’t answers. The old man was writhing in his bed, his face twisted by panic and fear. Just like the housemaid all those years before, he too couldn’t answer the questions that the others around him asked. He could only mutter and shake with horror at something no one else could see. After doing their best to help him, they calmed him enough to let him sleep, and everyone wandered back to their own rooms. They left his bell on the table beside his bed, hoping that he would remember how to use it if he needed them, but the remainder of the night was one, long stretch of unbroken silence. In the morning, they discovered why. After visiting the old man’s bedroom to check on him, one of his family members gently pushed the door open and peered inside. The shape in the bed was unmoving, and so they approached to wake him and see how he felt. But like those in the house before him, he too had passed away. A random coincidence of natural causes, or a demonstration of the power of fear?

 There’s a lot about London that seems to echo the atmosphere of the house at 50 Berkeley Square. It’s a city painted in shadows, but it’s unclear if that darkness was always there, or if we imported it over the centuries. What’s clear is that almost from the start, tragedy and suffering has been a resident of this ancient city. Right back to the invasion of Boudica, nearly 2000 years ago, and up to its most modern challenges, the city of London has had to suffer through quite a bit, and that has a way of leaving a mark. Over the centuries, though, the city has always found ways to move on. New layers are added all the time, building the present on top of the past and slowly burying one dark moment beneath another – which is probably why London is one of those places where new construction always seems to bump into ancient things. If you dig deep enough, you’re guaranteed to find something. And look – London is a massive city, and while I did my best to cover some of its larger and more powerful stories, there are hundreds more that I had to leave untouched. Honestly, if you want to visit a haunted location in the city, just visit a local pub, like the Ten Bells, or the Flask, or the Spaniard Inn. If the stories are true, you’ll find a lot more than a pint of ale waiting for you inside.

But if there’s one mark on the pages of London’s history that is bigger than most, it’s hard to deny the power of the plague. If you remember, when the wave of disease washed over the city in 1665, it took two years to run its course, and in the process, it claimed the lives of nearly 100,000 people, and that was a lot of tragedy to deal with – on the personal and the public level. The biggest problem seemed to be what to do with all those corpses. We’ve all seen films like Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and can all remember lines like “bring out your dead”, and from what we can tell, that’s pretty close to how it actually would have been, a steady, daily flow of bodies out of the city, away from the places where people lived in the hope that it would stop the spread of the disease. And most of the bodies were carried outside the city limits. One such burial location was started by the Earl of Craven, who purchased a parcel of land west of the city for disposal of plague victims, and every night, for months on end, carts filled with rotting corpses were wheeled out onto his land and then dumped into the pits there. Over time, the place became known as the “Pest House Field,” and later it was named Gelding Close, but to be honest, few people actually went there. They were too afraid of what might happen if they got too close to the body of a plague victim or, heaven forbid, accidentally touch one. So, the burial plot, like so many others around the city, became a sort of no man’s land.

After years of waiting, the owners of the land eventually made the decision to use the property for development. London was growing, and there would always be a need for a new neighbourhood to settle in, so it was sold in pieces and developed into homes for the wealthy and elite to move away from the centre of the city. Gelding Close eventually became known as Golden Square, and today it’s a prominent feature in the SoHo area of London. But even though the name has changed and the landscape around it has been transformed, the past is still there, lingering in the shadows of modern life. In fact, more than a few visitors to the park and buildings that surround it have bumped into the past in a very real way. A few have seen the figures of people dressed in old-fashioned clothing slipping through the square at night, while most have caught the sound of wailing, as if someone were enduring horrible pain and suffering. But it’s not the specific things people have heard over the years that are the most terrifying aspect to these stories. No, it’s where they all claim the voices have come from. The sounds, they say, seem to emanate from right beneath their feet.

A city as old and historic as London is guaranteed to have a library of mysterious shadows and otherworldly experiences and I hope today’s tour has been a satisfying dip into that enormous pond, but I’m not done just yet. There’s one more legend from the city that I absolutely love, and if you stick around through the sponsor break, I plan to tell you all about it.

[Sponsor break from the Great Courses Plus, Squarespace and Fracture]

When you think of London, it’s easy to think of money. As far back as the Roman period of the city, there has been an overt focus on the financial industry. In about 240AD, for example, the Romans constructed a mithraeum, a temple devoted to the god Mithras. Some of the most common members of the cult of Mithras were merchants, traders, customs officials and politicians, all professions that revolved around the flow of money. But it didn’t end with the Romans. As the centuries ticked by, the people of London found new and better ways to manage money and build the economy. In the year 1100, King Henry I instituted a new system of currency that even the most illiterate and uneducated citizens of his kingdom could understand: the tally stick. It was essentially a polished wooden rod that had nicks carved into it to denote its value, and it was then split down the middle. The king kept one half, while the other was put into circulation in places like the city markets, and that’s where the system really shined. If anyone tried to change the value of the public half by adding another nick, they just needed to be compared to the other half kept safe by the crown.

But at the end of the 17th century, one of the biggest changes to the financial world of London was born: The Bank of England. It was created in 1694 to solve a tricky financial problem the government of England faced. They needed to build a massive navy to defend themselves but lacked the funds to do it. So, an elaborate system of lending and currency came to the rescue. A century later, The Bank of England was simply a way of life for the people of London. It had all the prestige and power that you might expect from a government-backed bank and had established a reputation for itself that has carried into the 21st century.

But I don’t want to give you a tour of the bank’s full history, I just want to tell you about one of their employees, a man named Philip Whitehead. Whitehead worked in the cashier’s office of The Bank of England in 1811. Everyone around him viewed him as a pillar of the establishment, a hard-working, respectable man who was charming and delightful with staff and customers alike. Except that’s not all he was. Philip was also a criminal. It turns out he had been forging bank documents for months, cheating the bank out of a slow trickle of money, and at some point in 1911, his misdeeds were discovered, and he was quickly arrested and sent off to prison. A few months later, in early 1812, Philip Whitehead hanged for his crimes, and the bank moved on.

Several weeks after Philip’s hanging, though, a woman came into the bank asking for him. She said her name was Sarah, but when she asked to speak with Philip Whitehead, she was simply told that he was out of the office on a business errand. The woman left disappointed but promised to be back at another time. The next time that she returned, he not only told them that her name was Sarah, but that she was Philip’s sister. She told them of how she had lost touch with her brother many months earlier, and that she had been desperate to find a way to reach him, and at some point, her story must have plucked at the heartstrings of just the right bank employee, because one of the men took her aside and told her the truth. Her brother was dead. It wouldn’t be Sarah’s last visit to the bank, though. The next time she returned, she was dressed all in black, with a black veil that covered her face.

She stepped into the lobby of the bank and asked to see her brother. Taking pity on the poor woman, and official at the bank pulled her aside, apologised for keeping his imprisonment and execution a secret, and offered a small settlement. It was a pay-off, of course, designed to keep her from disturbing the other customers, but I’m sure he sold it to her more as a salve for her aching heart. Either way, she accepted the money and then left. But she returned a few days later. Over and over again, Sarah Whitehead visited the bank, each time dressed in that black gown and veil. At first, her voice was nothing more than a whisper, but with each new visit her question became louder and more aggressive – “Where is my brother?” she continued to ask. Each of those visits ended with another small payment from the bank, but they weren’t a charity house, and eventually decided that enough was enough.

Pulling her aside one day, they handed her a massive settlement and told her never to return, and to her credit, Sarah Whitehead listened. She never again set foot inside the bank, although it’s said that she also never wore anything else but that black gown and dark veil. We don’t know how long Sarah lived after that – sometimes grief has a way of speeding up a person’s decline, while other times it seems to give them a reason to go on. But decades later, Sarah passed away, having spent the remainder of her life in a constant state of mourning for her dead brother. Legend says that the churchyard she chose for her burial was the one right next door to the bank. Maybe she wanted to keep an eye on them from the other world, or perhaps it just happened to be where she attended church. I like to think that it was the former, and that those that still worked at the bank and knew her story were aware of where she was buried. It’s very poetic, whether or not it was actually true.

But her story doesn’t end there, of course. In the years following Sarah Whitehead’s death, employees inside the bank began to report seeing strange things. Oftentimes it was nothing more than a movement, just out of their field of vision, caught in the corner of their eye but never there when they turned their head. Other times, it was the fleeting vision of something black and shadowy. Many who have worked in the bank claim that certain areas give them a feeling of hopelessness and despair, and on rare occasions some claim that a mysterious shape has even materialised right before their eyes. All of them have described it in the same way, too, giving the old stories new life as the decades have passed by. They say the shape is that of a woman. Each time she appears, her pale skin is framed by a dress as black as coal, the veil that had once covered her face pulled back to revealed twisted lips, red cheeks and eyes that seem to glow like fire. But it’s the words she speaks that frighten people the most. After locking eyes with them and washing them in a wave of terror, the women in black repeats the same words she had grown so accustomed to in life. “Where,” she asks them, “is my brother?”

[Closing Statements]

[unsolvedcarly]

Jack The Ripper

Between August and November 1888,the Whitechapel area of London was the scene of five brutal murders. The killer who was later named 'Jack the Ripper' murdered five prostitutes, and horribly mutilated Elizabeth Stride. 

The first murder, Mary Ann Nicholls, took place on 31 August. Annie Chapman was killed on 8 September. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddoweson were murdered 30 September and Mary Jane Kelly on 9 November. These are often referred to as the 'canonical five' Ripper murders, although Martha Tabram, stabbed to death on 6 August 1888, is theorised by some to be the first victim.  

There has been much speculation as to the identity of the killer. It has been suggested that he or she was a doctor or butcher, based on the evidence of weapons and the mutilations that occurred, showed a knowledge of human anatomy. Many theories have been put forward suggesting individuals who might be responsible. One theory links the murders with Queen Victoria's grandson, Prince Albert Victor, also known as the Duke of Clarence, although the evidence for this is unstable. 

A quarter of a mile from the scene of Catherine Eddowes' murder, the words 'The Juwes are not the men to be blamed for nothing,' were found scrawled on a wall in chalk, and it was suggested this was written by the killer. A police officer ordered the words to be removed, fearing an anti-Semitic backlash in an area with a large Jewish population. The murderer is also sometimes thought to have made contact by letter with several public figures. These letters, like the chalk message, have never been proved to be authentic, and are theorised to have been hoaxes.

Jack the Ripper is thought to have not killed again after November of 1888 and to this day has never been caught.

[therewasatale]

your true color (Part 1)

On Ao3. 

Summary:  A stormy night, a hunter, and an ekon. And some bantering.

It was a stormy night. One of the many stormy nights descending on London recently. Fog swirled through the city streets, flowing into every little nook and cranny. Hours ago, the sun disappeared behind the roofs, and the night had opened the way for creatures that had been hiding so far.

Another hunt began.

Dr. Jonathan Reid walked the city with determination. He didn't care about his coat slowly soaking all the way through, or the cold November wind that was his constant companion throughout the evenings. He had a duty and he had to hurry.

He turned down a street, descending down a public stairway taking double steps, heading for the nearest bridge. Sometimes he relied on his senses to not to cross paths with any Skals in his path, hurrying away from them, and fortunately he avoided all confrontation.

However, this did not mean that he was lucky every time. The fact that his path had been clear this far only made him even more nervous. Usually in this part of the town he had to run or fight for his life.

Houses rose around him, their windows either locked or broken. As he left the hospital behind, it was as if he had been in a ghost town.

He turned right on a street, then left after that, not far from where he was, he knew a place where he could shorten his journey using teleportation. Before he could take another step, he heard a soft click. He learned it all too well by now, how a gun sounds when its cocked.

"So, you finally showed your true color, leech." The voice came from behind him.

Dr. Reid stopped and listened to find heartbeats. The hunter was alone.

"I beg your pardon, McCullum? I thought you favored crossbows," he glanced over his shoulder. "And how long have you been there?"

"Shut up! Yesterday, you attacked one of my men!" There was a sincere rage in Priwen's eyes again, but the hatred he saw when they first met, was long gone.

The doctor realized that he's going to have another long evening, again. "I don't have time for this. I have to get to Whitechapel." But before he could have moved the barrel of the gun snapped towards him, aiming straight at his head.  

McCullum wasn't fast enough to actually hit him, but the sound of the shot might attract Skals here, so Reid waited. He knew from experience that a man’s anger could drain just as quickly as it rises. Then at least his common sense would get some opportunity to suggest something reasonable to the Hunter.

"Don't you fuckin' dare to move, leech."

"All right, McCullum. What do you want? Aside of killing me. Or at least why now? You could have picked a time when I actually hurt one of your people. Not like it isn’t usually happening when I have to flee from them through the city."

"You almost broke his arm!"

Jonathan jaws dropped, and for a couple of second only the gently taps of the raindrops could be heard.

"He told me, that you showed up from nowhere, after he fought with a Skal and you just jumped him!"

"He was about to die!" But of course, his words would never reach McCullum's ears.

"You attacked him!"

"Oh for the love of God, I dislocated his wrist, because he was about to put hole in his head! Because someone taught him, that being dead is better, than getting bitten and turned! He didn't listen, since he had such a good teacher, and before you say anything, I did it, because I saw that your man was about to bleed to death!"

"He would have gotten to the nearest guardhouse!"

"Well at least we can agree on that. He would have gotten there. Dead. His companions would have retrieved his corpse."

"You didn't-"

"I do NOT have time for you now, Geoffrey. We can play this game another time, but a woman is in need of medical help. So please, let me go."

However, the Priwen just stared at him. His fingers whitened on the grip of his weapon. He would have done everything he could to find a reason to end the vampire doctor. He vowed that as soon as he made a mistake, as soon as he slipped and lost himself, he would send him to Hell.

But no matter how much he hated to see it, Reid had so far controlled himself, and didn't hurt his people. At the very least, they put holes into the vampire more times than he caused them serious injury in return. Of course, that didn’t mean his pride would allow him to let him go without a fight.

He straightened his left leg, his finger trembling on the trigger.

The bang didn’t come.

Instead, a dull thud could be heard, muffled by the sound of the rain.

Reid pressed the man against the nearest wall with his body as hard as he could. He gripped the hunter's gun tightly with his right while holding his other arm securely with his left.

"What the hell are you-"

"Making sure you too won't get killed."

From this close, the doctor's gaze stifled the word even in the Guard of Priwen. In the depths of his blue eyes, darkness swirled that saw straight into McCullum's soul.

"You may be trying to keep the city clean, but you don't know yet why more and more wild Skals are appearing! It would be really unfortunate to draw the attention of whatever supernatural entity, McCullum." Jonathan's voice deepened and sent a shiver down the Guard of Priwen's spine.

"Let me go." He had to force the words out.

"Only if you won't shoot me."

McCullum would have sworn that a small smile played on the doctor's lips. He knew this from the fact that he had severed his gaze from the cold bluish eyes, just to look down at the vampire's lips.

This night started to slip out of his hands.

"It's not like you'd die." McCullum's mouth twitched, looking up into Reid's eyes again, making every effort not to pay attention to his own burning face. "Why did you do it?"

"Because I'm a doctor? And some people say a good one."

"Hypocrite."

"Maybe, then see it as me trying to redeem myself. Even if I don't deserve it." Jonathan let go of the grip and stepped back from the man.

McCullum lowered his arms, taking a deep breath as he felt his heart pound in his chest. The figure in front of him was a complete mystery to him. He was not one of the mindless bloodsuckers, and he helped the people here. Despite calling himself a monster, he hadn't hurt anyone since he got to Pembroke Hospital. At least, they didn’t know he had a victim other than that one right after he turned.

"Good night, McCullum." Jonathan was about to move on. He hoped that was enough for the man by now. However, he was wrong.

"And what about that woman, at the Docks? I knew you killed her. My people reported chasing a vampire throughout the streets who attacked a woman and consumed her blood. A vampire who looked like the spitting image of you. It was you, wasn't it? What did that woman do to deserve that? "

The Ekon stopped, his hand tightened into a fist.

"If you-"

"Don't." His voice had a dark edge.

"What?"

"Don't speak of her like that. She had a name, and a family." Jonathan stared over his shoulder. "I have to go now. Good hunting, Priwen." He vanished and stepped out on the nearest balcony just to disappear again.

McCullum stood and stared after the doctor. He had lived through seen many things in his life, things that no one should experience. However, he was yet to see as deep sadness and pain in the eyes of a vampire as what was reflected in the man's eyes.

He dug a cigarette out of the depths of his coat and lit it.

There was a long night ahead of him, but he felt like he would need that time to think.

[germanperioddramatranslations]

It’s your time to vote

Over on youtube, you now have the chance to decide on my next main project. Just go to my channel and click the community tab or follow this link.

Jack the Ripper - Eine Frau jagt einen Mörder (2016)

English: Jack the Ripper - A Woman hunts a Murderer HD quality | 1 hour 38 minutes TV movie | Set in 1888's London

In 1888, the young photographer Anna Kosminski leaves Hamburg for London to start over again. Her arrival in the poor district of Whitechapel resembles a nightmare: A murderer who calls himself Jack the Ripper, brutally killed and mutilated give women - and Anna's brother Jakob is supposed to be the perpetrator! Anna is convinced of his innocence and does her utmost to prove that. But the police does not believe her, and during her research she comes dangerously close to the ripper.

Sophie - Sissis kleine Schwester (2001)

English: Sophie - Sissi's little Sister SD quality | 2 episodes á 90 minutes | Set in 1860/70s Bavaria

Sophie is the youngest daughter of Duchess Ludovika and Duke Max in Bavaria. Her parents are looking for someone to marry her off well with and believe to have found this man in The King of Portugal. But then King Ludwig II. of Bavaria announces his engagement with Sophie who is a very close friend of his. Everything could be easy but drama and love are just around the corner. The series tells very loosely the story of Sissis youngest sister and takes some historical liberties.

Die Hälfte der Welt gehört uns - Als Frauen das Wahlrecht erkämpften (2018)

English: Half of the world is ours - When women fought for the right to vote HD quality | 2 episodes á ~50 minutes | Set during the Women's rights movement

The series tells the stories of women's rights activists Marie Juchacz, Anita Augspurg, Emmeline Pankhurst and Marguerite Durand. Across Europe, they fought for the women's right to vote, to have something to say and first and foremost to possess the same rights as men.

Kaisersturz (2018)

English: The Emperor's Fall 1 hour 28 minutes TV movie | Set in the Fall of 1918

In the fall of 1918, the monarchy collapsed in Germany and the republic was proclaimed. The movie tells the fight for power between the Emperor's regime and the strength gaining demcoratic powers until November 9th, 1918. Protagonists are Wilhelm II., his wife Auguste Viktoria [English: Augusta Victoria], Friedrich Ebert and Max of Baden.

And now it is up to you which series or movie will receive English subtitles next. Go over to youtube and vote. If you have further suggestions for translations projects you can also comment them below here and over there.

[all-thingsstrange]

Ripper

/November 9, 1888.  After midnight.  Whitechapel, London./

One wouldn’t be quick to call this... thing stalking the alleyways a man.  It walked like one, sure.  It had all the features of one.  But the aura it gave off was that of something far worse - a demon incarnate, a monster that had clawed its way from the gates of Hell itself.  The blood drenching the figure only emphasized the fact that it was far, far worse than any human that had ever crept these streets.  

He’d managed to contain his thirst for over more than a month, after the police search for “the Ripper” had intensified.  For a while, the fear after he’d gotten carried away at the end of September.  The first two had been well spaced.  He’d been satisfied.  The 30th murders, however.... they’d left him open.  The same feeling he’d had after the murder of Carew.  But now, there was no Jekyll left to hide behind.  Now there was just Hyde, what he’d always wanted, but at the same time he had no shelter.  He’d had to lay low instead.  And that just made him that more eager to get back out again.  

He’d had a month of restraint to let loose, and by all things unholy he’d let loose.  Between Jekyll’s precision and Hyde’s malevolence, the girl hadn’t stood a chance.  There wouldn’t be a lot for the police to find in the morning - all the better for the man they’d named Jack the Ripper.  

He clutched her heart closer, grinning in a high of pure malice.  This was just like the first time he’d woken up - smaller, lighter, happier.  With Jekyll gone, only a monster of his own caliber had the power to stop him.  

[exhibitionsvisited]

2021

Top Ten Exhibitions of 2021 

This year I visited 227 exhibitions, here is my top ten.

1.                   13 November, R H Quaytman, Wiels, Brussels

A masterpiece of an exhibition (yet again) by R. H. Quaytman, my swoon artist of the century. The work in this show was made in response to the 19th Century painter Antoine Wiertz and his Museum in Brussles. At Wiels, a wall was built that dissected the space down the middle, starting right in the middle of the entrance and going all the way to nearly the other end. This meant that there was a circular way of walking through the gallery space to look at Quaytman’s paintings on the wall. A promenade that also encourages people to look at the whole painting, as an object, not just front on, Quaytman is particularly attentive to this, her work encourages this way of looking, the bevelling of her paintings, the plywood material, etc. There is also a link here to Benjamin and Baudelaire and the idea they explored around the Arcades project and the flaneur in the promenade, which relates as Benjamin talked of Wiertz in this, and as mentioned above Baudelaire was openly critical/hostile towards Wiertz.

2.                   17 June, Eileen Ager, Whitechapel, London

A complete joy to walk around, being surprised by the smallest things, little details, colour combinations, image shunting, shifts in tone and content, above all invention in abundance and above all a joy in creation and creating.

3.                   12 November, Dominique Gonzalez Forester, Jan Mot, Brussels

I am pretty non-plussed about Gonzalez Forester usually, what I read about her often eclipses the work itself. However, this petit exhibition was a lesson in restraint, and the power of the encounter over the visual. To encounter entailed stepping over and under blue cords that spread through the gallery, web-like. This was necessary in order to read words etched onto simple silver rings that bound the cord together. The rings became the pivot of the piece, both structurally to hold the form together and intellectually, as the haiku-like poems were created as words were read between and in connection with the other rings across the space, continue ad infinitum.

4.                   18 June, Michael Armitage, Royal Academy, London

Armitage is a storyteller of the highest order. His paintings conjure tails that connect with reality, actual and often pretty humbling examples of human behaviour. But they also conjure fictional tales in line with fairy tales and myths. And they are stories in colour and texture, tales that transcend words and are felt.

5.                   18 June, Bracha L. Ettinger, Richard Saltoun, London

I have not seen an Ettinger show before, instead being left to puzzle over her work in reproduction in books and the web; left to puzzle over her own writing and that of other interpreters, most notably Griselda Pollock – often impregnable to my inadequate knowledge, but captivating to what to know and learn more. In reality, my puzzling was more to do with how human and intimate the works are - in size, colour, tone, content, (visual and textual) information…I felt I could encounter them on more level terms face to face, without the weight of expectation.

6.                   19 June, Rebecca Fortnum, Natalie Barney Gallery, London

“I stare at the paintings, I am there with them. I sip water as I look. I notice things,the more time I look, the more I see. One is clearly a painting of a woman, she looks like she is from times past, generations back. Her hair is covered with a russet brown cloth. Her eyes are closed, looking downward, she appears lost in thought, akin to prayer, meditation or solitary reflection. Her lips stand out, the colour is the red of raw meat, a glimpse of the internal, it looks fresh and cold. Her skin is like alabaster, hard and cold; a sculpted shell. Her dress is azure blue, the colour of a fiord, perhaps that of her eyes?” Read the rest of the review for a-n here 

7.                   23 June, Erika Verzutti, Nottingham Contemporary

In a year of pretty much miserableness, this felt like an outpouring of joy, something I hankered for more than usual. Joy was found here in the invention of Verzutti’s mind and hands. Ceramics that are at once playful, transgressive, profound and wonderfully useless in the best possible way.

8.                   22 July, Gurminda Sikand, TG gallery Nottingham

Sadly this was to be Sikand’s last show as she sadly passed away this Autumn. I was lucky to meet her at the private view for the TG show and chat with her, I looked forward to getting to know her better, I guess her work will have to talk in place of her speech now. I wrote a review of her show for Art Review’s Remark, which you can read in full here. “My thoughts after leaving Sikand’s exhibition dwell on to how the time of making and viewing can be folded into works of art.  A focus on slowing down can be aligned to the exquisite drawings on show. Three years is a long time to make a drawing and the history of making of these drawings is evident. Sikand’s process involves an obsessive attention to rendering things precisely as she wants them, resulting in an accumulation of pencil marks, charcoal and Conté crayon, as the artist attempts to get the form, line and detail or her subjects just so. Her process also involves much partial erasure of these marks using rubbers, sandpaper and wire wool, leaving a residue of what was once there. The drawings are like palimpsests – manuscripts that have been erased for reuse but still bear visible traces of earlier marks.”

9.                   19th May, Mat Collishaw, Djanogly Gallery, Nottingham

I was hooked from the start, an ethereal ghost of a tree spun softly around, delicate scaffolding kept the branches in place; an aged oak digitally scanned to turn into a spider’s silk-like image that was magical, like much of Collishaw’s show, and rooted in scientific enquiry. An exhibition that was equal parts detective mystery novel, carnival, science experiment and nostalgia fest.

10.                9 July, J J Chan, Bloc Projects, Sheffield

I loved the premise of this show, network-esque, this was a web of associations with Chan. Equal parts solo show made of other’s work, group show hinged on a single artist, and/or a curatorial premise that necessitated the vehicle of considering the artist/curator’s history. All of the artists invited to the show have an association with Chan, ex school teachers, lecturers and classmates, bumped heads with current students of the artist. We could chart these relationships, in fact we were encouraged to; but more so we were stimulated to make links between works by artists that on the surface did not have much in common. The diversity of the work was exciting to be around, a grouping of artists that I could not imagine being brought together in a ‘curated’ and ‘themed’ group exhibition, as so often the artist-curated exhibition excites so much more than institutional efforts. 

17 December, Hannah Cawthorne, Same Scorer Gallery, Lincoln

10 December, John Constable, Royal Academy, London

10 December, Kehinde Wiley, National Gallery, London

10 December, Nicholas Poussin, National Gallery, London

10 December, Gerhard Richter, , Hayward Gallery, London

10 December, Klaus Weber, Hayward Gallery, London

10 December, Mixing it Up, Hayward Gallery, London

10 December, On Hannah Arendt: Truth and Politicsy, Richard Saltourn, London

10 December, Liz Larner, Galerie Max Hetzler, London

10 December, Miquel Barceló,  Galerie Thaddeus Ropac, London

10 December, Rachel Jones, Galerie Thaddeus Ropac, London

10 December, Landon Metz, Waddington Custot, London

10 December, Patrick Heron, Hazlitt, London

10 December, Josf Albers, Cristea Roberts, London

10 December, Alex Da Corte, Sadie Coles HQ, London

10 December, Alvin Batrop, Modern Art, London

10 December, George Condo, Hauser and Wirth, London

10 December, Georges Braque, Bernard Jackobsen, London

10 December, Jutta Koetther, Levy Gory, London

10 December, Pamela Rosenkranz, Spruth Magers, London

10 December, Ebecho Muslimova,  David Zwirner, London

10 December, Cy Gavin, David Zwirner, London

10 December, David Shrigley, Stephen Friedman,London

10 December, Jorge Otero-Pailos,  Holtermann, London

10 December, NIGHT | Max Ernst and Yves Tanguy with Urs Fischer, Nahmad Projects, London

10 December, Kurt Jackson, Messems, London

10 December, Candice Brietz, Goodman Gallery, London

10 December, Right About Now, Frieze No. 9, London

10 December, Roger Elfgin, London 

 10 December, Ronan Bouroullec , Galerie Kreo, London

10 December, Small is Beautiful, Flowers Gallery, London

10 December, Marco Tirelli, Cardi Gallery, London

10 December, Richard Serra, Orvodas, London

10 December, Alex Katz, Timothy Taylor,  London

9 December, Rose Leventon, Blank, Leeds

9 December, Julia Crabtree and William Evans,  Henry Moore Institute,  Leeds

9 December, Henry Moore, Henry Moore Institute,  Leeds

9 December, Beth Shapeero, The Tetley, Leeds

9 December, Superheroes of Leeds, The Tetley, Leeds

9 December, Lauren Gault, The Tetley, Leeds

9 December, Radical Reel, Leeds Art Gallery

9 December, Joana Vasconcelos, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

9 December, Hardeep Sahota, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

9 December, Rachel Kneelbone, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

9 December, Annie Morris, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

9 December, Damien Hirst, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

9 December, Mark Hearld, Yorkshire Sculpture Park

7 December, Pinhole Pictures, Project Space Plus, Lincoln

2 December, Coventry-Dresden Modernism, Litten Tree Building, Coventry

2 December, Small Works, Litten Tree Building, Coventry

2 December, House, The Hyper-Lab, Coventry

2 December, Proof, The Old Grammar School, Coventry

2 December, We Bear, Herbert Museum and Gallery, Coventry

2 December, Hyper-Possible, Herbert Museum and Gallery, Coventry

2 December, Turner Prize, Herbert Museum and Gallery, Coventry

27 November, Rachel Carter, the Collection, Lincoln

16 November, Studio Culture, Project Space Plus, Lincoln

14 November, Rene Magritte, Musee Magritte, Belguim

14 November, Fabrice Samyn, Musee Magritte, Belguim

14 November, Aimie Mpane, fine Arts Museum, Brussels

14 November, Fabrice Samyn, fine Arts Museum, Brussels

14 November, Rachel Labastie, fine Arts Museum, Brussels

14 November, Brueghel Unseen Masterpieces, fine Arts Museum, Brussels

14 November, Marc Renard, Marc Minjauw Gallery, Brussels

14 November, Oli B, Macadam Gallery, Brussels

13 November, 3. Emmaneul Tete, Rossi Contemporary, Brussels

13 November,  Monika Stricker, dependance, Brussels

13 November, Grace Nduritu, Arcade, Brussels

13 November, Marijke De Roover, Arcade, Brussels

13 November, Angyvir Padilla,  Centrale Contemporary Art, Brussels

13 November, Léon Wuidar, Radolphe Janssen, Brussels

13 November, Cecilly Brown, Gladstone, Brussels

13 November, VOD, Micheal Rein, Brussels

13 November, Robin Rhode, Skateroom  , Brussels

13 November, Takayuki Sakiyama, Pierre Marie Giraud, Brussels

13 November, Jan-Ole Schiemann, Almine Rech, Brussels

13 November, Shift expo, Rivoli, Brussels

13 November, Sergio Breviario, Marie-Laure Fleisch , Brussels

13 November, Xie Lei, Messen De Clercq, Brussels

13 November, Ignasi Aballí,  Messen De Clercq, Brussels

13 November, RuiCalcada Bastos, Irene Laub, Brussels

13 November, Bernd Lohaus and Ante Timmermans, OV Project, Brussels

13 November, Dominique Vangilbergen, Nationale, Brussels

13 November, Ruth van Haren Noman, Zwart Huis, Brussels

13 November, Christine Boillat and Nina Haab, Duflon Racz, Brussels

13 November, Ine Lammers, ONE NESS, Brussels

13 November, Mikael Lallemd Pellicer,, Frédérick Mouraux Gallery, Brussels

13 November, Noa Verkeyn & Alexisse Enkonda, Plagiarama, Brussels

13 November, Jerome Le Goff, ANGELINNA, Brussels

13 November, Samuel Levy, Michèle Schoonjans Gallery, Brussels

13 November, Herr Seele, Zwart Huis, Brussels

13 November. Emmaneul Tete, Rossi Contemporary, Brussels

13 November, Ulrike Bolenz and Inge H. Schmidt, Husk Gallery, Brussels

13 November, Johan De Wilde, Hopstreet, Brussels

13 November, Cast In Eternity, Hopstreet, Brussels

13 November, Vo, Xavier Hufkens, Brussels

13 November, R H Quaytman, Wiels, Brussels

13 November, Marecel Broodthaers, Wiels, , Brussels

13 November, Marina Pinsky, Clearing, Brussels

13 November, Aaron Garber-Maikovska, Clearing, Brussels

12 November, Hahaha: The Humour in Art, ING, Brussels

12 November, Dominique Gonzalez Forester, Jan Mot, Brussels

12 November, Evgeny Antufiev, Mendez Wood DM, Brussels

12 November, Daniel Steegmann Mangrane, Mendez Wood DM, Brussels

12 November, Guglielmo Castelli, Mendez Wood DM, Brussels

12 November, Nino Mier, Brussels

12 November, David Hockney, BOZAR, Brussels

12 November, Antoine Weirtz, Weirtz Museum, Brussels

12 November, Frank Stella Josh Sperling, Charles Riva Collection, Brussels

12 November, Pep Vidal, LMNO, Brussels

12 November, Yves Zurstrassen, Baronian Xippes, Brussels

5 November, Out Plastic Ocean, The Collection, Lincoln

5 November, Wildlife Photography Competition, The Collection, Lincoln

2 November, One Step Greener, PSP, Lincoln

22 October, Eleanor Bartlett, Beam, Nottingham

22 October, Ali Lotz, Four/Four, Nottingham

22 October, Carmen Argote, Primary, Nottingham

11 October, Lois Harlin, Project Space Plus, Lincoln

9 October, Walking in Two Worlds, Oceans Apart, Salford

8 October, Painting Doesn't Count, Bridewell Gallery, Liverpool

3 October, Whose Tradition, Tate Liverpool

3 October, Democracy, Tate Liverpool

3 October, Louise Bourgeois, Tate Liverpool

3 October, Lucien Freud, Tate Liverpool

3 October, Emily Speed, Tate Liverpool

2 October, Walter Sickert, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool

1 October, Helen Hancock, Sam Scorer Gallery, Lincoln

1 October, Aga Kowalska, Sam Scorer Gallery, Lincoln

29 September, Forensic Architecture, Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester

29 September, Superflex, Pavement Gallery, Manchester

29 September, MA Fine Art show, Holden Gallery, Manchester

29 September, What does it mean to be human?,  Home, Manchester

29 September, She Appeared to Vanish, Home, Manchester

29 September, Constellations: Care & Resistance, Manchester Art Gallery

29 September, Suzanne Lacy,  Manchester Art Gallery

29 September, Grayson’s Art Club, Manchester Art Gallery

29 September, Pippa Eason, Pink, Manchester

29 September, The Naming of Things Castlefield Gallery, Manchester

29 September, The Annotated Reader, Castlefield Gallery, Manchester

25 September, Polyvocality, Usher Gallery, Lincoln

24 September, Michael Shaw, the hub, Sleaford

14 September, Thomas J. Price, The Collection, Lincoln

10 September, Fallow, General Practice, Lincoln

10 September, Threads, University of Lincoln

9 September, Bummock: Tennyson Research Centre, the hub, Sleaford

27 August, Creative Reactions, Lincoln Central Library

25 August, Mark Chamberlain, Sam Scorer Gallery, Lincoln

6 August, Haegue Yang, Tate St. Ives

22 July, Gurminda Sikand, TG gallery Nottingham

22 July, Grey Crawford, Beam, Nottingham

18 July, Landscape Portrait, Hestercombe, Taunton

13 July, Gustav Metzger, Hauser and Worth, Bruton

13 July, Eduardo Chillida, Hauser and Worth, Bruton

9 July, J J Chan, Bloc Projects, Sheffield

25 June, Jan van Huysum, The Bridge Community Hub, Lincoln

23 June, Erika Verzutti, Nottingham Contemporary

23 June, Mélanie Matranga, Nottingham Contemporary

23 June, Allison Katz, Nottingham Contemporary

21 June, Step 5, X-church, Gainsborough

19 June, Unearthed, Dulwich Picture Gallery, London

19 June, Rebecca Fortnum, Natalie Barney Gallery, London

19 June, Matthew Barney, Hayward Gallery, London

19 June, Igshaan Adams, Hayward Gallery, London

19 June, Turner's Modern World, Tate Britain, London

19 June, Heather Phillipson, Tate Britain, London

19 June, Coooking Sections, Tate Britain, London

19 June, Kim Lim, Tate Britain, London

19 June, Otolith Group, Tate Britain, London

19 June, Ima-Abasi Okon, Tate Britain, London

18 June, Emin & Munch, Royal Academy, London

18 June, RA Schools Show, Royal Academy, London

18 June, The Making of an Artist: The Great Tradition, Royal Academy, London

18 June, Michael Armitage, Royal Academy, London

18 June, Prunella Clough & Alan Reynolds, Annely Juda, London

18 June, Ellen Gallagher, Hauser & Wirth, London

18 June, Frank Bowling, Hauser & Wirth, London

18 June, Tommaso Corvi-Mora, Pippy Houldsworth, London

18 June, Stefanie Heinze, Pippy Houldsworth, London

18 June,  Bracha L. Ettinger, Richard Saltoun, London

18 June, Martine Syms, Sadie Coles, London

18 June, Pavel Pepperstein, Sprovieri, London

18 June, Tony Cragg, Thaddaeus Ropac, London

18 June, Tom Sachs, Thaddaeus Ropac, London

18 June, Robert Rauschenberg, Thaddaeus Ropac, London

18 June, Auguste Rodin, Tate Modern, London

18 June, Introduction. A Year in Art: Australia 1992 , Tate Modern, London

18 June, In the Studio, Tate Modern, London

18 June, Performer and Participant, Tate Modern, London

18 June, Materials and Objects, Tate Modern, London

18 June, Media Networks, Tate Modern, London

18 June, Ed Ruscha, Tate Modern, London

18 June, Jasleen Kaur, Copperfield, London

18 June, Nero, British Museum, London

18 June, JR, Pace, London

18 June, Ryoji Ikeda, 180 The Strand, London

18 June, Iris Schomaker, Huxley Parlour, London

18 June, Francis Bacon and Peter Beard, Ordovas, London 

18 June, Joe Tilson, Marlborough, London

18 June, .ext, Gazelli, London

18 June, Let's Talk About Text, Gazelli, London

18 June, Sonia Delaunay ,Bastian, London

18 June, Dan Perfect, Mucciaccia Gallery, London

18 June, Annan Affotey, Ronchini Gallery, London

17 June, Dubuffet, Barbican, London

17 June, Sharon Hall, Eagle Gallery, London 

17 June, Eileen Ager, Whitechapel, London 

17 June, Phantoms of Surrealism, Whitechapel, London 

17 June, Desde el Salón, Whitechapel, London 

17 June, Nalini Malani, Whitechapel, London 

17 June, Ayo Akingbade with Duchamp & Sons, Whitechapel, London 

17 June, Alvaro Barrington, Emalin, London 

17 June, Nicola Tassie Standpoint, London 

17 June, Yoke, Ex-lab, London 

17 June, Samson Kambalu, Kate McGarry, London 

17 June, Yayoi Kusama, Victoria Miro, London 

17 June, Chantel Joffe, Victoria Miro, London 

17 June, Avis Newman, Maureen Paley, London 

17 June, Mark Fairnington, Handel St. Projects, London 

10 June, Art Club, The Hub, Sleaford

10 June, Jo Fairfax, the Hub, Sleaford

6 June, Sanctum, Project Space Plus, Lincoln

19th May, Groundings, Project Space Plus, Lincoln

19th May, Mat Collishaw, Djanogly Gallery, Nottingham

16th May, Yellow Archangel, General Practice, Lincoln

15th May, Laura Wilson, The Collection, Lincoln

15 May, Bummock: Tennyson Research Centre, Natural World Centre, Whisby

26 April, Dereck Sprawson, Beam, Nottingham