He Who Held the Night

They were dirty women, the scum of Whitechapel,

Living under his rein of ruthless might.

They now shall live in endless fear of

He who held the night.

He grasped the blackness, the hate, the evil, the fear

In his iron fist,

And slaughtered these filthy women

Knowing they would not be missed.

As dawn approached, a body lay,

Resting peaceful in her bed,

Limp, bloody, twisted, mangled,

Blood oozing from her head.

She is missing her heart, her ears, her womb, her breasts.

Will the truth ever be told?

A gaze of pain and suffering is portrayed

In her eyes stony, dead, and cold.

No longer does she look human,

But more like a grotesque bloody mess,

And yet, there were THREE before,

So she is no different from the rest.

Who killed these girls is still a mystery,

But I know the murderer

Will go down in history.

I could be a doctor, a butcher, insane, sure,

Or a Jew, you’ll never know.

But as of now they have done nothing wrong,

So do not condemn them so.

In time, I will send her kidney

In a box with wrapping tightly fitted

Just to give you a sad reminder

Of the crimes I have committed.

I will send you letters written

In her blood, gruesome and bright red

Simply to give a feeling

Of insecurity, fear, and dread.

There shall be more soon.

That is a promise I will keep, my son,

And I will kill these whores

Until my life is done.

You will never know when or where

I will choose to kill her.

Good luck to you, my friend.

Best wishes,

Jack the Ripper