My Dear Mr. Coles

My Dear Mr. Coles,

Sir, during the summer of 1888 I arrived in Whitechapel from Canterbury looking for work as a boot maker. Three days after arrival, I meet John Pizer, a local proprietor of a boot shop. Mr. Pizer’s boot shop was on the downturn. Business, as he described, dropped considerably due to the slowing economy. He felt as though he needed time off as he was feeling sluggish. He hired me after what he called a “working interview”. I made boots for him, displaying that I could indeed make boots. Impressed, I was hired.

My third month into boot making, the Jack the Ripper murders were at its height. Two women had already been murdered. On the night of September 30, the bodies of Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride were found lying dead on the streets of Whitechapel. Ms. Eddowes was disemboweled. Her intestines were removed and drawn up over her shoulders. Ms. Stride’s body wasn’t invaded upon in the same manner as Ms. Eddowes. Yes, both their throats were cut, but only Ms. Eddowes was disemboweled.
How do I know this information?

The night of September 8, I couldn’t sleep. I decided to clean up the boot shop. I arrived there at 3 o’clock in the morning. I entered through the backdoor of the shop. To my surprise, I found John Pizer naked and covered in blood.

I asked him, “What happened? Are you injured?”

Before he could answer, a knock rapping on the storefront caught our attention. I looked out from the back of the shop. Standing behind the door was an officer. Mr. Pizer raised a knife and threatened to kill me if I told the officer my boss was in the backroom. The knife he threatened me with was a long, straight-bladed knife. It too was covered in blood.
I did as instructed. I didn’t unlock the door. I spoke to the officer through the glass and told him I was alone. After further questions regarding a woman found dead and answering with boldfaced lies, the officer told me to report any suspicious activity to police headquarters. After agreeing to the officer’s request, he left.

When I returned to the backroom, Mr. Pizer had washed up and dressed. The bloody knife was clean. He looped a leather apron around his waist and shoulders and left for home. The days following, rumors of a man wearing a leather apron and killing prostitutes began circulating the streets of Whitechapel. It doesn’t take a math professor to add up the events and evidence and come to a conclusion. The recent murders were committed by Mr. Pizer, a.k.a. Jack the Ripper, or as the locals nicknamed him, The Leather Apron.
Throughout the remaining days of September, I followed Mr. Pizer nightly. I had a sense he may have known I suspected him as being the murderer and that I was following him. No murders occurred during this time.

However, days before the murders of Ms. Eddowes and Ms. Stride on September 30, a letter was circulated by the Central News Agency. It was signed Jack the Ripper. Since that moment the nickname The Leather Apron, ceased in use. And it was that day, September 30, I followed Mr. Pizer more closely. Fortunately, this night I lost him but stumbled up the first murder of the night, that of Elizabeth Stride.
This was also the night I came to the conclusion that John Pizer wasn’t jack the Ripper. I know this because I stumbled upon the true Jack the Ripper while he murdered Ms. Stride.
I don’t remember much about the murder of Ms. Stride. I do remember that I was aroused seeing her throat cut. Oh, the blood! I felt my penis erect. As the man, cloaked in black long-coat and matching slouch hat, lowered Ms. Stride to the cobblestone, I wiggled my hand between my skin and pants and started rubbing my erection. I ejaculated prematurely due to the excitement. I’ve never been more aroused. I’ve never experienced a more fulfilling orgasm.

As suddenly as the moment arose, it ended. My orgasm forced a long and deep moan from my throat. It startled Jack the Ripper. He fled before finishing his “work”. Curious of whom the identity of Jack the Ripper was, I followed him across Whitechapel.

I never got a good look at Jack the Ripper’s face. I also don’t remember how the meeting between Jack the Ripper and Ms. Eddowes transpired. What I remember the most was watching the murder and evisceration of Ms. Eddowes. It was sexually exciting.

Jack the Ripper engaged Ms. Eddowes with a kiss. With his left hand he grabbed her right breast. With his right hand, he removed a knife from under his black long-coat. The attack was swift. He sliced her throat from her right to her left in a single motion. Her eyes, they widened in shock. The look of terror in her eyes aroused me. Again, for the second night my penis became erect. I began masturbating again. This time, I didn’t ejaculate at first touch. I reached orgasm when Ms. Eddowes intestines were removed and draped over her shoulder. I kept my orgasm quiet to not disturb Jack the Ripper and scare him away as I had with the previous murder. I tried to masturbate again. I most certainly wanted to but I was sexually spent. I left the scene before the Ripper was finished.

Over the next month, before the last Jack the Ripper murder, I spent my nights searching for Jack. I wanted to watch him murder again. I wanted to masturbate to his devilish work. I never got the opportunity though. After that last murder, he vanished.

Why am I writing all of this to you, Mr. Coles? I’ll explain.

To support my need for violence and sex, I began to solicit prostitutes. With each sexual advance on them, I was flaccid until I fantasized I was killing them and masturbating while they bled to death. With each orgasm, I failed to reach that explosive height as I did while watching Jack the Ripper at work. I realized I wouldn’t ever achieve that type of sexual gratification again unless it involved blood.

It was that moment I made up my mind to kill. It was also that next night when I met your daughter, Frances Coles at a pub called The Mint in Whitechapel.

Frances was dressed ragged. Her face was dirty. She, as many men, women and children in Whitechapel, had fallen on hard times. I could tell by her poor appearance she would wonder off with me if I offered money for sexual favors. To gain her trust, I befriended her by asking the barkeep to supply numerous pints. From there I gave her an offering of 2s. 6d. Cheap I know, but she agreed.

From there, I led the object of my sickness to a secluded area. The area was chosen in advance. I believe this was how Jack the Ripper operated. He led his victims to areas that were dimly lit and had low foot traffic. What I also noticed, his areas had numerous routes to escape if a pedestrian or officer stumbled upon them. My area was the same.

There is a difference in the operation that Jack and I share. The difference is I didn’t kill Frances immediately. I was erect before we arrived to my selected area. I had to have blood to orgasm. Jack the Ripper had to have blood to feel power.
When we arrived at my “spot”, Frances and I removed our clothes. I made sure she didn’t see me place my trusty knife, the same I used to cut boot leather with at Mr. Pizer’s shop, within arm’s reach. If Frances saw the knife, I’m sure she wouldn’t run to safety even if she were nude.

I sat reclined on a stump. I instructed Frances to turn her back to my chest and lower herself atop my penis. Her palms were pressed hard against my legs. Her fingers stretched out and curled back in, scraping along my skin. I flinched a bit. I loved the pain nonetheless. I knew she drew blood. I could feel the moisture burble upon my skin. It was warm and slippery, as was your daughter’s vagina.

I wanted so badly to stab her at that moment, oh how blood does turn me on. I felt the urge to orgasm and kill at once. But I resisted. I began scraping my fingernails lightly, scratching up and down Frances’ back from her neck to her hips, stopping an inch above her plump ass before running my fingernails up her spine and across her shoulders. He neck was within reach of my hand murderous hands. Again, I wanted to stab her. But I fought the urge until the right moment.

I began to breathe heavily. My exhale stuttered with each lowering of Frances’s pelvis down upon my erection. I mentioned to her, in a catty manner, that I enjoyed watching the back her hairy pussy swallow my entire cock. I then mentioned how lovely the sides of her ample breasts were as they bounced and peeked out from behind the curvature of her undersides.

I began thrusting my hips up to meet her lowering pelvis. I could feel my hips turn flush from exertion. I began to tire a bit. But I kept raising and lowering my hips harder, faster. I breathed deeper, quicker. The friction upon my penis against the insides of Frances’s vagina built up so much so that I felt the head of my penis begin to throb. The next trust down upon my penis caused me to come. The ejaculate felt hot inside of her. I immediately began to feel it drizzle from out of her pussy and follow the curvature of my thighs where it pooled between my legs.

My orgasm was violent. I squeezed both sides of Frances’s hips tightly as my dick convulsed. My fingernails pressed into her skin. Again, I could feel the warmth of blood seep under my fingernails. This was the moment that I decided Frances was going to die.

I intertwined my fingers within her hair, grabbed a handful and pulled back with great force. So much that I nearly fell and nearly bucked Frances off my lap and onto the ground. With the grace of God, I caught my balance and kept Frances on my lap.

I quickly reached for my knife and slit Frances’s throat right to left, left to right, and a third time, right to left. I wrapped my arms tight around her waist, keeping her from fleeing. She trashed and kicked. She dug her sharp fingernails into my neck. She clawed and scratched. She hoped I’d let go.
Instead, the pain turned me on. I felt the warmth of her blood flowing from her neck over my forearms. I ejaculated again.
She died with my penis still erect inside her vagina.

Yours truly,
J. Sadler