Creative Writing: The Ripper

Our enterprise began seven years to the date beyond the treacherous malfeasance, of a madman called, “Ripper.” His haunt extended from Whitechapel to Pall Mall, preying on the working-class woman. By comparison, this brutal display of carnage progressed unrivalled, since Scotland Yard expunged the Fleet Street tonsorial and his bawdy innkeeper. Yet, Never a man nor beast more dreadful walk the prestigious Isle of Great Britain, than the monster we'd come to extirpate. The killings had come to a sudden recession and the person (or party) responsible soon vanished behind a wall of anonymity. Again, Londoners had been lured into false serenity. Crime was low, but sex had spilled into the alleys, replacing “Leather-apron” with an invisible …show more content…
“It is here,“ he whispered. “This dirt is from, Brockley, Sussex.” A dim flame cast haunting shadows across his withered face, looking particularly insipid from the terrible burden thrust upon him. I dare not look in a mirror, for I felt it too. “You always call when I’m sleeping,” a thunderous, and sinister, rumble called out to us from a cavity in the ceiling. It vibrated the walls causing an unseen roost of bats to scatter. “Cover yourself, Watson!” Holmes shouted; baring his face with is arms as the winged rats spiraled toward their unseen master while roaches and spiders the size of my fist rained down upon us. “They may be venomous.” We shook of the last, flailing wildly, stepping, crushing, kicking and all other means to keep them away. “Do not let them turn me into bat!” I cried, foolishly as the rest took up residence through a crack in the wall and the nightmare came to an abrupt halt. “Hardly the spirit of adventure, my dear fellow.” His lips moved as he tried to suppress laughter, as a slow smile spread across his face. “We live to press on, …show more content…
Wedged into my heel was a silver mounted monocle, attached to a familiar looking pocket watch. On the chain, were a set of keys, and a ring, possibly a wedding band? I extracted what I could of the shattered bits, watching the crimson warmth seep into pools of discoloration along the woodwork. Sherlock knelt down, and took up the damaged lenses into his hand, examining them with the utmost attention. I saw a resentful look pass over his face. “This once belonged to my father.” “I… I’m sorry, Holmes.” I could have sworn I saw him wiping away tears, but I dare not mention it. “You can’t go on like that,” said he, tying his handkerchief around my wound. ”Unless you prefer to loose your foot.” Suddenly came the nauseating sound of cracking bones. We followed the curious noise until the foul odor of rotten flesh, stale garlic, and stagnant earth made it insufferable to go on. “Quietly now, he must be in there.” He was pointing to room 16; the only accessible option, the very same of which I had no desire to enter. “Do I smell fresh blood?” A mocking hiss chided behind the battered walls.” “Do you here that? Where is