Page 1 of From Hell

PROLOGUE

One Year Earlier

Aletter from Hell.

It stands out against the white stone–flecked concrete porch steps of my family home, hidden among the spray of blooms. The paper is a thick, creamy white. Bold and beautiful cursive slopes across the front. Just like before…

A letter from my murderer.

My chest tightens, and fear unfurls like a ghost, kissing up my spine and clawing through me until my skin is ice and my vision blurs. Hands shaking, I snatch up the envelope, ripping the end to take in his words—him telling me how special I am.

My heart falters, and spots dance over my eyes.

It’s hard to breathe.

I force myself to look past his creepy message and scour for clues, but there’s nothing.

Nothing to tell me who he is.

What did I expect? He’s always been so careful. Despite feeling luxurious, the paper is a standard bond that’s available in any stationery shop. The handwriting has never been a match for any suspect. Even the flowers he leaves give nothing away—a mix of white lilies and red orchids, which are available from any florist. They're laid carefully with no wrapping, and instead have a single brown string that bites into the stems, keeping the bouquet together.

How did he find me?

I scan the neighborhood for any shadows still lurking. Anxiety strokes over every nerve, erupting goosebumps over my bare legs and arms, and even under the summer dress I dragged on this morning. It’s an hour past sunrise, the sharp rays of early morning making me squint. My mum is still upstairs in bed, having worked a late shift. Mr. Farris, from two doors down, is stretching, preparing for his before-work jog. Mrs. Coles is collecting her milk bottles from her doorstep. She waves, a smile catching her face when she sees the flowers at my feet. I lift my palm reluctantly, then pull myself together.

I refuse to be a victim any longer.

Plucking the ghastly bouquet from its resting place, I grip it tight, knuckles white against the early morning chill. Then I toss it in the nearest trash can on my way out of the house—much to the horror of Mrs. Coles, but I don’t care.

It’s tempting to crumple the letter and throw it away, but I won’t. I’ll keep it and painstakingly compare it to the others, knowing I won’t find anything different. Knowing the police can do nothing.

When the first letter arrived, eight years ago, the police were all over it. I wasn’t able to look at it properly until they’d processed it in their labs. Now, they hardly care. The case has long grown cold, dead, and buried, feeding worms and weeds, mirroring what my life had become. Even if I were to call them and tell them there’s another one, they won’t bother to send someone out. Or if they do, it’ll be that annoying Detective Carmel and his patronizing sad smile. The police think it’s a prank, unrelated to the Ripper since I’m the only one with a serial-killer pen pal.

They don’t believe I’m a victim of the Ripper. They ignore the fact that other women were killed around the same time I got the first letter.

The authorities told me that the killer took junkies on the streets, the homeless—the ones that society wouldn’t miss. They didn’t get letters. They got cold, dark graves instead. The police even asked me what I think makes me so special.

What makes me so special?

I would have agreed with their analysis before I was attacked. I saw the case as just another media-hyped horror story designed to scare us, stopping women from living their lives. Too busy studying for my exams, I didn’t pay attention. Until I saw what I shouldn’t have seen, and he went after me.

I survived.

I was lucky.

But no one believed me when I said that the Ripper was slaughtering girls for fun, slicing them into pieces just because he could. Taking their organs and carving a calling card onto their skin like a bathroom cubicle wall, wanting everyone to know he’d been there, done that, and got the fucking serial-killer t-shirt.

I am the only survivor. The police swore to protect me, keeping my name out of the papers and watching our London apartment day and night. The newspapers barely mentioned the other brutal murders, however, because of who they were—the lost girls that society wanted to forget. They were just faceless Ripper victims with barely a name and an age in print. I was the only one with a loving home and no drug use. The lack of similarities was ultimately how the police convinced my parents that my case was unrelated; maybe I was attacked by a snubbed ex-boyfriend who took things too far. They didn’t want to link my survival to the other killings, even when I shoved the evidence in their faces.

They said the letters were fake.

But they started taking over my life, haunting me into the early grave I’d escaped, suffocating me… until my family moved away to the city, and they stopped.

Or so I thought.

My parents told me there were no more. They told me it was over. But it’s not. He’s still out there, looking for me, waiting for me. I can only imagine he does this to piss me off. To taunt me. His way of telling me he’s still there… untouchable. I’m just glad Mum didn’t find it. It’s why I always wake up early and can’t sleep. It was only a matter of time before he found me.

Watching, stalking.