What happened to end Jack the Ripper's reign of terror in Whitechapel, London, 1888? The killings just stopped. The murderer was never apprehended. What happened to this madman? The world may never know...

"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."
-----From Dear Boss letter, attributed to Jack the Ripper, 1888

Jack was calm, perfectly calm, as he examined his nails by the light from a nearby pub window. He'd gotten most of the dried blood out, scraping with a sharp knife until his fingers were sore, but there were still black flakes here and there. Mary Jane Kelly - his latest and greatest Work of Art - had required a great deal of attention to detail, and Jack was a hands-on craftsman extraordinaire. Certainly, whoever had the privilege of entering her squalid hovel in Miller's Court could not help but admire the meticulous way he'd achieved his peculiar vision. He'd made Mary Jane fall to pieces... literally. A messy business, but oh so very necessary. Yes, indeed. From worthless to Work of Art in a few strokes of a very sharp knife.

He chuckled. Actually, it was more like dozens of strokes. Jack didn't much care for skin. He was a curious lad; he liked to see what Things looked from the inside out. The slippery, jiggly bits always left him flushed with excitement.

It was the first time he'd had the privacy and time to really let himself go. Tonight's Work had left him satiated, bloated with satisfaction, fulfilled. The other Works had been done in too much haste, Jack thought, to be considered his best. Brief encounters in filthy alleys, gin stink of their breath, raddled whore-Things pickled in cheap spirits and despair.

Mary Ann Nichols - his first, and he could still recall the stunned ox expression on his face as he strangled her. Saucy Jack strangled all his Works first, to ensure silence and cooperation. Death wasn't important; it was what came after that elevated it to Art. He'd had to keep an eye out for witnesses, which had made him somewhat nervous. Not a Work of pure genius, to be sure. Jack had gotten better, though. Practice made perfect.

Then came Annie Chapman, Dark Annie... he'd been able to take away the best bit of all, carried her womanhood in an oil paper sack under his arm. He'd put it in a jar of alcohol, which he kept under his bed. Wouldn't the landlady be astonished to find out what trophies Jack kept concealed in the dark?

Long Liz Stride. Hmph. Jack was almost ashamed to admit her into his gallery. A man had interrupted him before he'd been able to begin the Work properly. So he'd fled and sought another, Catherine Eddowes. He had meant to flay her face off, but the lure of those slippery bits inside had distracted him. Jack took a kidney and part of the birth chamber, adding these items to his growing collection.

A pair of singing drunkards brushed past him, startling Jack out of his reverie. He checked the oilskin package in his pocket, to be sure nothing had been disturbed. His fingers came away clean. Mary Jane had not given Jack her heart - he'd taken it as his reward for an excellent night's Work.

The evening was fairly cool. Jack buttoned up his wool coat and wound a scarf around his throat. It was time to return home. He walked along the dark streets, boot heels clicking on the cobblestones, with the supreme confidence of a man who knows the night holds no terrors greater than himself. Men-Things stood in the shadows with beefy arms crossed over their chests, bulldog jaws champing on cigarette ends and pipes. They withdrew deeper into their private conversations when he passed them by, one predator recognizing a superior sort and taking discretion as the better part of valor.

Whore-Things in shawls and bonnets sat gossiping and drinking in the doorways of gloomy pubs. Shops were closed. Somewhere, a baby wailed. A couple argued, glass shattered, and there were screams.

Jack inhaled deeply, savoring the stale, musky scent of Whitechapel. Spoiled cabbage, urine, stench of unwashed humanity, effluvia from overflowing gutters... it was a perfume that wafted straight from Hell.

That was when he saw them, just as he was about to cross the road.

There were two of them, standing with studied nonchalance beneath a flickering, hissing street lamp. Pale light cast strange shadows on their dresses. The women wore no hats or bonnets and Jack was able to see their faces clearly.

The taller of the two had dark hair, lightly tanned cheeks and intense blue eyes. He could feel her measuring glance, sense the coolness as she evaluated him. She was rather beautiful, but Jack wasn't interested in physical appearances. She seemed solidly fleshed and much younger, fresher than the Things he usually encountered in Whitechapel.

Her partner was somewhat smaller but in superb health. Strawberry blonde, my favorite flavor, Jack thought to himself with a mental giggle. This Thing was pretty, with flashing emerald eyes and a dress that matched.

Could he do it? Three in one night? Of course, he wouldn't be able to take the same care of them as he had with Mary Jane Kelly. That Work was special, and he hoped to repeat the experience soon. If he took these two, he'd have to be quick. Still, his palms began itching, and a special voice inside his head started urging him to try. The knife was in his coat pocket, all gleaming and clean except for a lovely crustiness where the blade met the hilt.

His mind was quite made up. Saucy Jacky was gone a-hunting. Whistling softly beneath his breath, Jack approached the Things that were about to become Works of Art. His knife would make certain of that, as long as he wasn't interrupted.

Behind them was a dark alley. Jack liked the festering, oily blackness that squeezed against his eyeballs and slithered down his throat. He would not be able to see the blood, but he could feel its warmth against his hands... the same hands that would explore the contours of a Thing's body, seeking the soft bits that made him feel very naughty, indeed. There would be just enough light for him to make out the flesh, and collect the memories that would comfort him later, when the voices shouted in his brain.

The smaller Thing nudged her partner and said something he couldn't quite catch. When he came nearer, the taller Thing smiled. "Good evening," she said, head cocked to one side. Her blue eyes (oh, wouldn't they make a wonderful trophy! Only he thought the color might fade) examined him from top to toe.

"I wonder if I might offer you lovely ladies a drink?" Jack said. His fingers closed around the knife in his pocket. He might be saucy on occasion, but Jack could be very charming when he needed to be. "You seem lonely and craving for company."

"Judith and I are busy," the taller Thing said. Her voice had gone flat and commanding, as if she had just made a decision. "I suggest you go home, sir. The streets are dangerous at night."

"I'm not too worried about that." Jack swallowed a mouthful of saliva. The knife hilt was searing his palm.

"You should be." This was the smaller Thing, the one called Judith. "I smell blood on him, Polly. He's the one."

"I smell it, too." Polly shifted her stance. "What was her name, then? The one you killed."

"I haven't killed anybody," Jack said, thoroughly nonplused. "You must be mad to suggest such a thing."

Judith growled. The sound was shocking, a pure animalistic vibration rising up from her throat. "You're not a hunter. Just a common murderer."

Jack took an involuntary step backwards. Suddenly, he drew his knife. The blade was long and narrow, ground down to a sharp edge. Beads of sweat pearled on his brow. "Get into that alley!" he commanded, desperate to take control again. "Go on! You're just meat, the both of you. Hot meat! I can smell it on you, no matter how much you try to cover it up with perfumes and powders. Meat! Hot meat!"

Polly shrugged. "He's mad. And a murderer."

"Yesssss," Judith hissed. The light caught her face. It had changed, becoming all angles and spears of bone, jaw lengthening and narrowing. Her red-gold hair had escaped its confines, writhing about on her shoulders. Polly calmly reached over and pulled something on the back of Judith's dress. The green gown fell away, revealing white skin that was twisting, muscles and sinews forced into new positions. A silken rustling, and dense fur sprouted from every pore, covering her in a swift moving wave. Judith fell on all fours, transformation complete.

The huge wolf looked at Jack with emerald eyes. Her muzzle split open, revealing a smile like a mouthful of razor blades. Claws raked the cobblestones, drawing sparks.

Polly smiled, too. Dainty fangs glinted.

Jack's knife clattered unnoticed to the ground.

"It's a perfect arrangement," Polly said. She raised a hand, and his feet were rooted to the spot. "I take some blood... and she gets the rest. Or, at least, as much as she can eat. And Judith has quite an appetite. We aren't all bad, though." She leaned closer, so close he could smell the rank, coppery stench of her breath. "We're very choosy about our prey."

The cords in Jack's throat tightened. His eyes rolled about, seeking help, a policeman, anybody! But there was no one there. A sudden warm feeling in his trousers told him that he'd lost control of his bladder.

Polly said, "We were here first. You came hunting on our grounds without permission, wasting prey, killing for the sake of killing rather that to survive. That's despicable."

Impossibly, Judith-the-wolf said in a somewhat oddly choked voice, "That's human."

"Not for long." Polly caressed the side of Jack's face. He had never noticed that her fingernails were long and pointed. "Do you know what happens when a predator goes insane?"

He couldn't shake his head. He couldn't move at all. All he could do was make whimpering noises.

"The other predators put him down." Tiny pinpoints of flame twisted in Polly's pupils. "Without mercy. Without considering mitigating circumstances. Without hesitation."

Suddenly, she wrapped herself around him, hot mouth buried in his throat. He cried out once. "Mother! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." A harsh, bubbling gasp, and the Artist was silenced forever.

Polly lowered the silent figure to the ground and dragged it into the alley. She was followed by the wolf.

Somewhat later, they emerged carrying a small bundle of clothing that was dripping. Judith changed and put her dress back on. Polly wiped her lips with a cambric handkerchief, and pointed out a smear on her partner's chin. The bundle was heaved into the Thames. Satiated, bloated with satisfaction and fulfilled, they went home just as dawn was twinkling on the horizon.

What was left of Jack the Ripper sank down into the muddy river bottom. After a few weeks, when the murders ceased, Whitechapel began to breathe freely again.

Polly and Judith chose their prey very, very carefully.

It was a perfect arrangement, after all.

THE END

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