The Night of the Ripper

While working as a “searcher” for the police in the autumn of 1888, an aspiring detective sets out to catch the infamous killer, Jack the Ripper, who’s been terrorizing the women of Whitechapel, London.

Created & Produced by Samuel Weston Evans

Written & Directed by Samuel Weston Evans

Sound Designed & Edited by Samuel Weston Evans

Vocal Performances by:

Bee Haynes as Polly

Samuel Weston Evans as The Keeper

Cover Art Illustrated by Mongemanuk.std

Website: https://aloneintheattic.buzzsprout.com/

Instagram: @_aloneintheattic

Transcript

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Hello, old friend.

Welcome back to the Attic. It’s good to have you here again. When last we spoke, I told you of my brother and bade you to leave before he returned. To appease your curiosity, I will explain the circumstances to you further, but first we must use what little time we have for the more pressing matter at hand. Are you ready to listen to another story and to set a spirit free?

I’m glad to hear. Right this way then.

Which object’s ghost will call to you tonight?

Oh, yes. The walking cane you hold in your hands belonged to Polly Atkins, a “searcher” in pursuit of a murderer, who found herself on the other side of the chase. I call this tale...“The Night of the Ripper.”

You remember the steps: close your eyes, open your ears, and journey back to that frightful evening.

It was late October 1888 in Whitechapel, London. During the previous month, four women had been brutally murdered in the area by an anonymous killer known as “Jack the Ripper.”

The name quickly became infamous, and there was not a single person throughout the whole of London who did not know of the Whitechapel murders. Illustrations and descriptions of the gruesome events appeared on the front page of every paper in the city. It was an all- consuming case which held the population in its grasp. The macabre nature of the murders filled people with horror, but the air of mystery around the true identity of the killer kept many enthralled.

Over the previous few years, literary tales of criminal investigation had begun to capture the imaginations of many throughout Britain. One of the most popular novels was Arthur Conan Doyle’s “A Study in Scarlet,” which featured a highly intriguing detective character called Sherlock Holmes. On paper, the Whitechapel murders sounded similar in nature to something that might appear in these shocking works of fiction...only this story was indeed true; the victims were dead and the killer was still on the loose.

The murderer had sent multiple letters to the Central News Agency, gloating about his gruesome work and taunting the police for not catching him. He wrote in blood-red ink, signing the letters, “Jack the Ripper.” The most recent note, signed simply, “from Hell,” contained half a kidney from his latest victim, Catherine Eddowes.

Miss Eddowes and the three other victims, Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, and Elizabeth Stride, were all “ladies of the evening” who had been working in the East End of London. The killer had a thirst for blood and was specifically targeting prostitutes in the rough, impoverished district of Whitechapel. It also appeared that the assailant had anatomical knowledge, for the women were all found with their throats cut and most were disemboweled with medical precision.

Now, the reason for my keen interest and extensive knowledge of these events is because I was working at the Commercial Street Police Station, in the heart of the area where the crimes took place. Inspector Frederick Abberline, the lead investigator of the murders, was based at the same station, so I was privy to much of the information and evidence obtained by him.

Like Abberline, I too longed to solve this case most ardently. However, due to my womanhood, I was not allowed to become a detective and could only serve the police as a “searcher.” Since male officers could not frisk female suspects with propriety, women with familial ties to the police, such as myself, were brought in to conduct these searches. We were also deployed to observe criminals and gather evidence in locations men did not have access to, or public areas where we could be less conspicuous than the male officers.

In the case of the Whitechapel Murders, however, we were deemed unfit to participate in the investigation due to the nature of the attacks. This was sheer nonsense to me since the men had made almost no progress in finding the murderer, and I believed they would benefit from our natural ability to move with greater stealth under these circumstances. In last week’s paper, Frances Power Cobbe, the Irish writer and suffragette, publicly expressed this need for female detectives, suggesting that we would be better suited and more successful in catching the killer. But this idea was met with criticism, and it appeared no change would be happening any time soon. So instead of waiting around for the men to let another attack occur, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

Over the previous few weeks, I had been exploring Whitechapel often, studying the streets where each murder took place and observing the routine of its inhabitants. I would eavesdrop on gossip and converse with the ladies who worked in the area, attempting to gain any information about who the killer might be. I became closely acquainted with many of the local women and they began to confide in me, sharing their fears and seeking my help. Most of them could not afford food or lodging without their work, so they continued to meet with men at night, despite the grave risk. This only increased my determination to protect these women and catch the killer, so I joined them on the treacherous streets of Whitechapel, in spite of my own fears.

Every evening I would quietly roam the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for any suspicious looking figures or activity. For protection, I carried a cane with me, which concealed a long thin blade within. I kept my appearance and manner inconspicuous, and hid my face whenever I passed by any of the male officers from the station. Despite the risk of my covert venture, I continued the charge each day. It had been four weeks since the last murder and I had not witnessed any unusual or unsettling events while carrying out my nightly patrols...but this evening felt different, like there was something sinister in the air.

It was a cold, bleak night and a murky fog consumed Whitechapel. Once darkness had descended upon the district, I began wandering the long stretch of Commercial Street. Through the haze, sparsely placed gas lamps dimly illuminated the cobblestone thoroughfare. But the alleyways off the main road had no source of light, making them perfect areas for criminal activity.

This is where most of the attacks occurred, concealed in the shadows and out of earshot. While some of the ladies did their work in brothels, others met their clients at pubs and took them to nearby alleyways for a quicker transaction. I kept an eye out for these secluded meetings since the women were most at risk of being murdered when isolated like this.

On my stroll, I arrived at the Ten Bells Pub, where many of the local women, including some of the victims, often frequented and found their customers. I went in and made my way to the corner of the bar so I could discreetly observe the bustle of its evening patrons. Their voices filled the place with a lively din, and the musty smell of sweat, ale, and tobacco smoke pervaded the air.

I watched as many of the women engaged in flirtatious conversation with all sorts of inebriated men. The pub held quite a cast of characters that night, but I paid close attention to those who matched the descriptions obtained at each murder site. There were various eye-witness accounts of the possible killer, but the most consistent traits painted him in his mid-thirties, being of average height and build, with dark clothes, a felt hat, and a black moustache.

There were many moustached men at the pub who fit the age and figure descriptions, but I was drawn to one who was heading toward the door with a young woman I knew. On their way out, he threw on a dark coat and a black felt hat.

I quickly moved through the crowd to follow them, dodging flailing limbs and flying drinks. When I finally emerged from that den of heat out onto the cold street, a horse-drawn carriage raced by, nearly running me over.

I was stunned for a moment and lost which way the pair had gone. I looked to my right to see if they had travelled up Commercial Street, but there were too many people to spot them. It was the same when I looked to my left, but I thought I saw the tail of a dark cloak turn into an alleyway, so I headed in that direction. When I got to the mouth of the shadowy corridor, I recognized the sound of the young woman’s laugh coming from within. I summoned my courage, clutched my cane, and entered the narrow opening.

It was difficult to see ahead of me, and when I arrived at a divergence in the passageway, I lost track of which way they had gone. I stopped and listened for a moment until I heard two faint voices conversing down the alley to the right.

I continued my pursuit, quickening my pace in that direction. But the voices soon fell silent and I lost them once more at another split in the path. I listened again, but there was nothing.

Suddenly, I heard a scream to my left. I turned and ran toward it as fast as I could. Further down the corridor I found the man holding the young woman against the wall. I charged from the side and hit him upon the top of his head with my cane, knocking him to the ground. He yelled in pain and I went to attack him again, but the young woman stepped between us and told me to stop.

“Are you alright? Why did you scream?” I asked her.

Shocked, she replied that the man’s hands were cold, which caused her to gasp in surprise when he touched her skin. She made it clear that she was not in any harm or pain.

The man was rightfully displeased, hurling scornful insults at me. And though the young woman tried to convince him to stay, he rebuffed her and left in a huff. I apologized to my acquaintance, but she hurried off down the dark corridor in an attempt to win her client back. As her pleas faded to silence, I was left alone in the dim, soundless passageway.

I took a breath to calm my nerves from the frenzy, and then began walking back the same way I had come. It was a brick and cobblestone maze in there; one could easily become lost. After carefully retracing my steps, I could hear the hum of Commercial Street getting closer. But when I arrived at the main alleyway where I had first entered, there was now the silhouette of a man standing in the opening. I stopped in my tracks and studied the figure. The first thing I noticed was his dark hat. Only it wasn’t a felt top hat...it was the familiar cap of a policeman. I was unable to tell which officer it was, so I knew he could not identify me in the dark from that distance either.

Since I did not wish to be reprimanded for taking matters into my own hands, I ducked back down the pathway. But this evasion alarmed the officer, so he shouted “stop!” and ran after me. I turned into another narrow corridor that I swiftly traversed, but it led to a dead end. I did not have time to go back, so I crouched down and hid in the shadowed corner. I briefly waited in silence and then saw him run past the recess where I concealed myself. Once the echoes of his footsteps had dissipated, I lifted myself back up and prepared to exit the alcove.

But I quickly froze when I heard footsteps approaching once again. The tread was heavy and the pace was slow. It sounded different from the officer’s gait. I listened more closely and noticed a dreadful sound accompanying each step. It was the screeching of a metal blade dragging along the brick wall.

My heart began to race, but I could not make a sound. I was stuck in that hellish hall, listening to those eerie sounds creeping closer and closer. As quietly as I could, I took hold of my cane and slowly withdrew the blade from within. Now armed with a weapon, I waited in the shadows for the person to appear.

The footsteps and scratching got louder and louder until finally...they stopped. A dark figure had emerged from around the corner and was standing in the opening at the end of the corridor. I could only see his silhouette, but he wore a dark cloak and top hat, and I could see that he was holding a long knife. His face was veiled in shadow, but for a moment the moonlight caught his eye, which appeared grey and lifeless.

I didn’t think he could see me, but he stared straight into the black alleyway where I hid. I held my breath, desperately trying not to make a sound. We both stayed still and silent, staring at each other through the darkness.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally turned and continued beyond the opening of the alley. I stayed frozen for a while longer, still clutching my weapon. Once his footsteps were long gone, I began to tiptoe forward to escape that cursed alcove.

But before emerging to the main alleyway, I stopped and listened. I did not hear any lingering steps on the cobblestone pathway. The only sound I heard was the soft din of street life down the way. It came from my left, where the alley eventually opened out to Commercial Street.

I carefully peeked my head around the corner, first checking to the right, in the direction the dark figure had gone. There was no sight of him.

Then I turned to look—

Polly Atkins disappeared that night and her body was never found; Another victim of the Whitechapel Murders, unknown to the public. But now you have heard her tale and set her spirit free.

The hour is getting late and we haven’t much time, but as we agreed, I will tell you more about the secrets of the Attic.

Long ago, by the light of a bonfire beneath the night sky, the very first ghost story was uttered by spirits to the ears of a human soul, hungry for horror. Their transcendental communion opened up a spiritual plane between the living and the dead, bringing the Attic into existence as a home for haunting tales. Along with the birth of this new dwelling place, I was created within its walls to serve as a keeper. Only I was not put here alone. Another was created simultaneously, who I have already told you is my brother. Together we work to keep the Attic alive. But despite our similar origins, the two of us are quite different from each other. And while I enjoy your company, my brother is not very keen on guests, which is why it’s for the best that you don’t cross paths.

This is all I have time to tell you now, since he will soon be arriving home. But if you continue to return and help set the spirits free, I will satisfy your curiosity and reveal more information upon each visit.

Be ready, for I shall open the Attic for you again soon. The ghosts and I thank you for your time.

Stay safe out there...and don’t explore any dark alleys alone.

Thank you for listening to Alone in the Attic. Tonight's episode was written, directed, and edited by Samuel Weston Evans, with vocal performances by Bee Haynes as Polly and Samuel Weston Evans as The Keeper.

Join us next week to hear the haunting account of “Buried in the Snow.” While traveling north from Alaska to Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush in the spring of 1898, a prospector and his dog make a bone-chilling discovery in the wake of an avalanche along the frozen trail.

Find out next time...Alone in the Attic.