Author: wdfyfe

Before WD called himself a writer, he worked at a number of different jobs from stacking lumber to interior design. He studied English at UBC and creative writing at ASU where one of his teachers, Rita Dove, taught him the importance of the tale. He has written for radio, magazines and newspapers, but never television. He’s published both fiction and nonfiction in Great Britain and the US. He reads French passably and speaks enough Spanish to get from A to B and find the toilet. He has interviewed John Cleese, Peter Ustinov, Margaret Drabble, Kenneth Branagh and enough other famous people to make him a hopeless name dropper. His not-so-secret passions are history and trivia, and he has never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit — although he did come 4th one drunken Quiz Night at the Uxbridge in Notting Hill. He lives on the Pacific Ocean, although, not close enough to see, so he spends his days looking at a computer screen. It’s a wonderful life and he has only one regret: he can’t type faster.

Jack the Ripper: Letters From Hell

jackWhen evil comes calling in the night, it comes quietly. It’s a rustle of dry leaves, a scratch at the window, a creak on the stairs in the dark. We stay still and hold our breath and hope it doesn’t find us. But, the next day, in the sunlight, we laugh louder and make jokes and juggle our fear, more curious than cautious. This was London in 1888. Ordinary people held captive by the horror of grisly, unstoppable murder, lost their sense of perspective. There was gossip and innuendo and even physical violence. There were wild accusations — against immigrants, butchers — the Jews. And there were letters – hundreds of letters. Some were written with good intentions, some as jokes, some by unbalanced minds, frightened and confused. Some were even written by journalists looking to ramp up a good story. Most of them were fakes. It’s generally agreed, however, that three were not.

On September 27th, the Central News Agency received one of these letters. Although, at first, they thought it might be just another hoax, they passed it on to the police. It read:

Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.Yours truly
Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name

PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. ha ha

Whole libraries have been written about the motivations for murder. There are more theories than there are victims. Wejack1 do not know with any certainty why people kill randomly and without reason. In Victorian England, the study of psychoanalysis was just beginning. Very few people understood the workings of the human mind nor how easily it could be broken. To the average person on the London streets, the man who called himself Jack the Ripper was an unholy horror. He needed to be hunted down and killed before he killed again. But he did kill again.

On Sunday, September 30th, at about 1:00 am, Louis Diemschutz, a trader in cheap jewellery and steward of the International Worker’s Club at 34 Berner Street was returning to the club. When he opened the gate for his pony, it shied away from the entrance. Diemschutz could see there was something lying by the gate, but it was too dark to see anything else. He went into the club to get a light and some help. He wasn’t gone more than a minute or two. When he and two friends returned with a lantern they discovered the body of a dead woman. Her throat had been cut from left to right. She was still warm and the blood was still flowing. She was Elizabeth Stride – Jack the Ripper’s third victim.

At approximately the same time, Catherine Eddowes left the Bishopsgate Police station. She had been jailed earlier that evening for drunkenness but was now relatively sober, and so she was released. When she left Bishopsgate, she gave her name as Mary Ann Kelly and gave her address as #8 Fashion Street. When Eddowes left the station, she walked away in the opposite direction to that of Cooney’s Lodgings, where she was staying. Instead, she went down Houndsditch, probably to Duke Street and through Church Passage to Mitre Square. It would have taken her 10 to 15 minutes to reach Mitre Square. At approximately 1:30 am, Eddowes was seen at the corner of Duke Street and Church passage — by three witnesses — talking to a man. At about the same time, Constable Edward Watkins passed through Mitre Square on his rounds. At 1:45 am, Watkins came back through Mitre Square and discovered the body of Catherine Eddowes. Her throat has been cut from left to right, and her body had been mutilated but not slashed. The bottom of her right ear had been cut off and left at the scene, and some of her internal organs were missing — notably her left kidney.

On the darkened streets of Whitechapel, two murders in less than one hour – two victims and no suspects. Obviously, Diemschutz disturbed the murderer on Berner Street and he may have still been there when the pedlar went into the Club to get help. Then a second murder some distance away. Was it just crime of opportunity? Or was the blood lust so powerful it could not be ignored? But why didn’t Catherine Eddowes go back to Cooney’s Lodgings? And why did she call herself Mary Ann Kelly?

On October 1st, the Central News Agency received a postcard which they immediately sent on to the police. It read.

I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you’ll hear about Saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.

Jack the Ripper

This postcard makes direct references to both the murders of the previous night and to the earlier unpublished “Dear Boss” letter before they were known to the general public. All the evidence says that these are the words of Jack the Ripper. And he wasn’t finished. On October 16th a package was delivered to Mr. George Lusk, chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilante Committee, which had been organized to patrol the East End streets after Ann Chapman’s murder. It read:

From hell.
Mr Lusk,
Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

Inside the package, preserved in wine, was part of Catherine Eddowes’ left kidney.

Friday: Jack the Ripper: The Last of his Kind

Jack The Ripper: Where Nightmares Come From

jackOn chilly dark evenings, footsteps still echo in the Whitechapel district of London. Sometimes, if there’s a mist, you can hear them making their muffled way in the night. They are ghosts of sounds, travelling through time from their far away shadows. They live in our minds, where the light is dim and uneven. It flutters close to our eyes. The smooth stones at our feet slip away from us, and we step slowly. The streets are slender and the walls are high. They turn and fade with long shadows of shapes of people that move like silence in the night. There are corners and alleys too deep for us to see them…black shades…they are only sounds of voices that have no words. There are faces. We are among them. They move past us without features. Just seen and then gone. We cannot be sure of what we see. Our senses are tricked by the dark and the night.

This is the half-light world of the East End of Victorian London. It’s a world we’ve never seen and can only imagine. It’s crowded and dirty and smells like rotten food and unwashed people. It’s a place that’s greasy and old, with narrow walkways and sputtering gaslight, shaded faces and shiny hands. Too many people and not enough money, it has shallow, gasping breath and it coughs dry and alone in the night. It’s a place where nightmares are made, and, in 1888, it made one. It called itself Jack the Ripper.

For a few months in 1888, Jack the Ripper stalked the dim streets of Whitechapel. Forever after, he walks in our collective memory. His name is synonymous with evil. He is that thing we look over our shoulders for, on lonely nights. He is the horror we can’t talk our way out of.

Jack the Ripper was not the first serial killer, nor the most prolific, nor even the most hideous (although that is a relative term) but he is the most remembered. People who know nothing about history, crime or violence still recognize his name. Given what we now know about serial killers and their motivation, he would be quite pleased to know that he’s been so famous for so long. He might even laugh.

So what is the fascination? Why do we still fear him? How did Jack the Ripper creep into our subconscious and why is he still hiding there? Even Count Dracula, a Victorian horror in his own right, doesn’t hold that kind of power. Why Jack the Ripper, and what did he do to all of us on those chilly, dark evenings in Whitechapel?

It was on such a night, August 31st, 1888 that Mary Ann Nichols walked down Whitechapel Road. She stopped outside ajack1 grocer’s on Osborne Street to talk with Emily Holland, who had once shared rooms with her. The Whitechapel Church bell struck the half hour; it was 2:30 am. At 3:15, Constable John Thain passed the entrance to Buck’s Row and Constable John Neil walked down into the little street. There was nothing unusual. At 3:45, Charles Cross and Robert Paul entered Buck’s Row on their way to work. They found the body of a woman, lying in the street. They thought she might still be alive so they went off to find a policeman. Constable Neil was continuing his rounds, and, within a few seconds of Cross and Paul’s leaving he entered Buck’s Row and also found the woman. She was Mary Ann Nichols, the first victim of Jack the Ripper.

At the inquest, it was revealed that Nichols’ throat had been cut — twice — from left to right, and the mutilation of her body had been done by a left-handed man — a very experienced left-handed man. The wounds were precise and death was immediate. Also, it was revealed that earlier, Nichols had been thrown out of her lodgings, because she had no money. This was not unusual. It was also stated that she had been drinking heavily and had gone “out” with a couple of men to get some money for more drink and to pay for a room for the night. This, also, was not unusual. Mary Ann Nichols was only one of many women, who, for a few pennies, would accompany a strange man into one of the dark corners of WhiteChapel, East End, London.

Eight days later, on Saturday, September 8th, at about 5:30 am, Elizabeth Long was walking down Hanbury Street. She noticed a woman she knew, Annie Chapman, but did not stop and talk to her. At approximately 6:00 am, less than a half hour later, John Davis left his room at #29 Hanbury St., probably to use the outdoor toilet. In a shallow recess by the door he discovered the body of a woman. It was Annie Chapman.

At the inquest, Elizabeth Long testified that she had been on her way to Spitalfields Market — Saturday was Market day – and that the streets were crowded. She also stated, that when she saw Annie Chapman, she was standing in front of #29 Hanbury St., talking to a man. She didn’t see his face, but she described him as about 40, wearing a dark coat and a deerstalker’s cap. She also said he had a shabby-genteel appearance and that he was only slightly taller than Chapman who was about 5 feet tall. John Davis testified that, before he discovered the body, there had been nothing unusual about that morning, and he did not see or hear anything. Each of the other 17 occupants of #29 said exactly the same thing. The yard where the body was found was about 12 feet square and there was only one exit – back onto the street. Annie Chapman’s throat had been cut from left to right, she had been horribly mutilated and part of her uterus had been removed. All of this took place in the dim light of morning — on a crowded London Street — in less than 30 minutes! And nobody saw or heard anything.

Tuesday: Jack The Ripper: Letters From Hell

Halloween: Play By The Rules!

halloween2Okay, I’ve had enough!  Hallowe’en is one of the coolest holidays on the calendar, but lately it’s been disintegrating into a dress-up party for icky people.  Maybe it’s just the sugar shock but I don’t care.  Folks, there are rules to these things!  For God’s sake, take a minute and think about what you’re doing before you go out and make a jackass of yourself this October 31st.  So, once again here are some guidelines.

First and foremost:

Halloween is scary, not gory.  If your costume features internal organs, four pints of fake blood or a severed limb, you’re not doing it right.  Mutilation is not frightening; it’s gross.  It amazes me that the very parents who call in the grief counsellors when their child discovers the goldfish is dead will stick a fake chainsaw through their abdomen and congratulate themselves on their imagination.  People, your kid can see you!

Secondly, sex:

Ladies, a one-piece, French-cut bathing suit is not a costume.  Nor do furry ears and fishnet stockings turn you into a cat, dog, bunny, wolverine or dingo.  And that goes double for those little red rayon devil horns.

Likewise Couples!  The Nut ‘n’ Bolt or Plug ‘n’ Socket costumes are totally overdone — unless you’re gay. Then you’re just providing way too much information.

And Gentlemen, exaggerated genitals are just nasty.

In short, remember there’s a noticeable difference between sexy and smut.  If the button-down woman from Accounting comes to the party as Scheherazade – that might be stereotypical, but it’s sexy.  If Roger from sales shows up as the Genie with a magic lamp glued to his crotch, that’s just smut.

And speaking of sexy, Little Bo Peep, Little Red Riding Hood and Little Miss Muffet are not sluts – they’re storybook halloweencharacters.  The operative word here is “little.”  There’s nothing wrong with risque on Hallowe’en, but there are plenty of grown up women to choose from, like Pocahontas, Maid Marian or that scary chick from The Avengers.

Now for some don’ts:

If Mother Nature and Happy Meals™ have made you the Fat Elvis, do not dress up as the skinny Elvis.  That’s just sad.  Go for the sequins — not the leather.  Otherwise, you’ll look like a hyper-extended Italian handbag.  Basically, you need to use that mirror before you prance out of the house on Hallowe’en. Remember, those mouth-open stares are not admiration.

Priests, nuns and the Pope are not costumes – they’re part of a religion.  Honestly, would you go to a Hallowe’en party dressed as a Lutheran or the Archbishop of Canterbury?  If you’re going to make fun of somebody’s faith, pick on the Moslems: they bite back.

Don’t let your kid get carried away.  For example, a ten-year-old in a Lady Gaga extravaganza is beyond inappropriate.  Lay out some ground rules for Jane Jr. or you’re going to end up hating each other when she finally gets to therapy.

Never, never, never, under any circumstances, put a costume on your pet.  That is just mean.  Dogs, cats, ferrets, budgies and, smart as they are, even pot-bellied pigs don’t know it’s Hallowe’en, and they trust you.  Don’t make them look stupid.  (Where the hell is PETA when you need them?)

A word about vampires and zombies:

I don’t care what Anne Rice or what’s-her-name from Twilight says, vampires are not gentle souls.  Nobody should cuddle up with a vampire and watch Dancing with the Stars.  If you do, you deserve everything you get.  Therefore, if you’re going to do vampires this Hallowe’en, put some heft into it: look the part, and a little Euro-trash accent wouldn’t hurt.

Zombie costumes are just sorry.  Everybody and their friend has been doing zombies since HBO discovered them.  If you have so little creativity in your life, grab a sheet and go as Casper. Believe me it’s a lesser cliché.

Some At-Home etiquette:

If kids still come to your door on Halloween, it is never acceptable to give out lame treats.  I don’t care how committed you are to a better society; one night a year, you can lighten up.  For example, do not give out toothbrushes, dental floss or mouthwash.  Organic Free Range oatcakes and that kind of crap are just barely acceptable – but only if you shut up about it.

Likewise, October 31st is the wrong time of the month to start lecturing people on the long and unfortunate history of witches, the evils of 2,000 years of Christianity or the minutiae of Wicca folklore.  You’ve got 364 other nights of the year to be a pain in the ass; choose one!

Halloween1One more thing:

Building is better than buying.  Part of the buzz of Hallowe’en is putting together a costume.  Any fool with a credit card can be Snow White or the Wicked Witch, but it takes real imagination to go as the Apple.

And finally:

Halloween is not carte blanche to be a jerk.  Scaring the bejesus out of your drunken friends is one thing, but pulling that crap on little kids isn’t very nice.  Remember, you’re the adult here.

This is serious, folks.  Hallowe’en is an important event.  Please use some discretion. (Look what happened to St. Valentine’s Day.)

Happy Hallowe’en, everybody!