The constant shrieks-each syllable overlapping one another, aiding to the utter horror of which their eyes have seen. A stream of red trickles down that lowly alleyway. And the victim still, who's eyes have seen all things, keeps her secrets well in death. And the blood! The blood itself has an empty accusing stare at the very assailant standing idly by within the crowd. I do not see his face, though a man stands beside me with his collar upright and his brim pulled well over his brows, keeping his secrets in the lining of his pockets,  twixt the stitches in the seams. The man is gone without a trace leaving only a letter behind without so much washing the blood from his hands, his skin stained with his own heinous misdeed. It seems this Jack has vanished into the night, a prowling beast who stalks its prey. Is he man or devil? Is he? Are they?