Ethan awoke midday in excruciating pain. It felt like each and every bone in his body was going through some merciless metamorphosis akin to growing pains. He was shivering uncontrollably, nauseated and sweating profusely, severe symptoms indicative of fever. During this period of hibernation the elements conspired to take him down for the count. He was certain his soaked, naked body exposed to the cold morning air had combined to invite a debilitating illness. Climbing under the covers he cocooned himself up to the neck and could sense his body temperature rising. It felt like fire, as if his blood was boiling oil. Ethan knew he had to remain underneath the blankets and sweat it out. The dreadful fever needed to break and do so quickly. It took a toll but didn’t take long before he became unconscious. Ethan did not open his eyes again until nightfall. Infection setting in, some insidious disease had made him delirious, staking its claim, fever spiking to a new high.

When he next opened his eyes, Ethan did not know how long he had been gone, if it had been hours or days and he couldn’t have cared less. Happy to be alive, he’d been aware enough to know how close he had come to death at the height of it. Far from out of the woods, he was awakened by his own violent coughing, on the verge of choking, the illness still deeply embedded within his core. Barely able to muster enough energy to lift his head and look through the window before fainting again, “Physician, heal thyself” came to mind. There was no one to help Ethan, no one to do it for him, no appearance made from his friend Time as they had apparently lost track of each other on the journey, parting ways for the time being. During this state of confusion he could not determine how long he had been rendered bedridden and if he received visitors, he never noticed. Ethan was living (and perhaps even dying) in an Olde World where proper medical treatment was unavailable, a time in history when vaccines and antidotes were virtually nonexistent by modern standards. It was an era when it was not uncommon for people to perish from illness readily remedied in the not-so-distant future. He knew from the inception of this project, should such a happenstance occur, it would be a matter of self-preservation. There never was an option to visit that medieval place called a hospital. Not only did he lack the strength to make it over to Whitechapel Road, he would not allow these Neolithic barbarians to touch his body. His trepidation was well-founded. He could go in with influenza and come out as an amputee. There was only one option available to him. Stay put. “No one touches the body of a god, no one but my Maggie.” With that final thought, Ethan again slipped away.

During one of his rare, lucid moments when regaining consciousness, he awoke frighteningly dehydrated. He’d had nothing to drink, no water since falling sick and he had no idea how long that had been. If he didn’t replenish his fluids immediately Ethan knew he could slip further into an illness that may debilitate him to the point of no return. He knew what he had to do. It was either early morning or just before dusk judging by the color of the sky outside his open window. Hoisting up his weak body, he had to force himself to eat and drink something or he’d surely succumb to what ailed him. The closest well was too far for him to manage. Pulling out money from the pocket of the trousers laying at the end of the bed, he struggled to dress in fresh pants and an undershirt then wrapped himself in the blanket to leave the room. He could hear the murmuring of voices downstairs, assessing it was late afternoon or early evening. As Ethan entered the kitchen he found six people dining together.

“Good Lord! You look like death!” One man’s harsh remarks caused the others to look in his direction. “Ya reek, mate...spoilin’ our meal here. Ya need a bath and a doctor...or a trip to the Death House. Be off with you, then.”

Like a pitiful little boy in desperate need of assistance, not knowing who to ask, Ethan held out the money in his trembling hands for all to see.

“I’m willing to pay if someone would be so kind as to fetch me some well water and perhaps a spot of tea and whatever food from the kitchen I can barter. I haven’t eaten for some time and have had nothing to drink.” Forcing his words through the coughing spell those present surely found downright toxic, he wiped his face with the blanket. No one responded to his plea for help. It was obvious they did not want to be contaminated by him and would’ve likely preferred he leave the room entirely. Overcome with weakness, Ethan said nothing more as he dragged a chair out from beneath the table then sat down alone near the hot stove, pulling the blanket around his hunched shoulders. An older woman was sitting with her son. She stood up from the bench, approaching what appeared to be a dejected, decrepit old man.

“Of course, sir. Best you get some food and drink in you. Let me follow you to your room so I may fetch your pitcher.”

“My pitcher?” Ethan knew it was still morbidly stained with the putrid mixture of fluids he could not yet dispose of or expose to anyone else. “Oh, I’ve broken it, I’m afraid, retrieving it from my bedside.” He cunningly covered his tracks as well as he could while in the midst of a raging fever.

“Best not confess that to the manager. The bloke’ll charge ya double the worth.” Apparently the gruff gentleman at the table felt a twinge of guilt for his earlier nasty comments, offering a softened, more sympathetic tone along with his sage advice.

Laying her hands upon his shoulders, Ethan appreciated her gentle touch though the simplest contact pained his skin. Kindness extended by this woman (when most would keep a safe distance) humbled him. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know why she was willing to do this for him and he did not know how close he was to death. Looking up at her face he truly felt her soul through her eyes. Perhaps he was dying, being aided by an angel of mercy coming to take him home. He felt safer than ever before. A calmness came over him in an instant. As his trembling began to subside, Ethan was overcome by an outpouring of tears. He surrendered to her in every way, succumbing to her generosity of spirit. Suddenly, no longer feeling scared or alone, instead, Ethan felt comforted, cared for to such an extent, tears of gratitude poured from his bloodshot eyes.

“I’ll take care of you, sir. We had best get you to your room and back into bed.”

Helping him stand, she tucked her body up into his to stabilize him, holding on tight as they made their way to the stairwell, assisting him every step of the way.

“I’m at the top of the stairs, first room.” Ethan could barely utter the words.

In his weak and vulnerable condition, he possessed the presence of mind to hand her enough to cover any material cost plus a generous compensation for her efforts on his behalf. Once at the door, he motioned for her to allow him to continue alone into his room while she attended to the errands. He could not allow her to enter.

Once inside the door Ethan fought the urge to immediately return to his bed. If the woman was to bring water, tea and food to his room then he needed to take care of the mess of clothing and stains all about the rented space. First order of business was obvious. He’d have to quietly break the porcelain pitcher to validate his excuse. There was no time to clean up dried blood and semen smeared on the floor near the desk underneath the window or spillage from his makeshift bath beside the dresser. With no clean water at his disposal to do so, Ethan’s best and only maneuver in this current condition was to disguise the evidence, placing towels and clothing over the areas, making it appear as if he was a disorganized individual rather than one deeply disturbed. Though aching, staggering, he managed to complete the cover-up though he forgot to break the pitcher before collapsing into bed. The vile stench in the room smelled of death, no covering that up.

Not knowing how long it took the older woman to return, if she had knocked at the door Ethan hadn’t heard it as he once again fell unconscious. He was alerted to her presence only when she attempted to shake him awake, shouting “Sir! Sir!” He was in such bad shape, she feared perhaps he’d passed away in his deathbed.

Ethan opened his eyes. Still in a fog, uncertain of his whereabouts and who the woman was standing over him, once she saw he was conscious, she walked over to the desk, pulling the chair closer to his bed.

“Here we go, sir. Ups-a-daisy.” She spoke as she pulled Ethan upright, guiding him out of bed, propping him upright in the chair. “Sir, we’ve got to get you out of these clothes. I have bartered for some food and have requested new bed coverings from the innkeeper.”

“Thank you, mum.” Ethan could barely articulate the simple statement.

Insipidly struggling with the woman, not in modesty but knowing his body was still laden with the remnants of his deplorable soaking sometime in the recent past, Ethan couldn’t remember how long it had been. Regardless, he’d been embarrassed but wasn’t strong enough to resist her actions as she unbuttoned his shirt.

“Mercy, Lord in Heaven! You’ve gotten sick all over yourself.” Smelling then seeing the residual relics of an illness she’d presumed was physical, she’d likewise presumed he had retched repeatedly in his sleep. Seemingly not in the least repulsed by the fragments of vomit and other assorted bodily fluids, the lady did her job. She continued undressing him then bathed Ethan head-to-toe with care and tenderness, clothing him lightly in clean undergarments when she finished.

“How....I mean what...?” Ethan was coming in and going out of consciousness, lapsing into delirium, crying out for his Maggie. He was burning alive from within. The fever was claiming him but he could not die. Who would kill Mary Kelly? He’d have to fight to stay alive if for no other reason than to fulfill his assigned mission.

“Now, don’t you worry yourself none, sir, I’m a nurse from Greenwich here for some classes in hospital. I’ve seen things that’d make this a day in the sunshine.”

Explaining who she was, the woman never said her name and Ethan did not ask. Had she told him her name he probably would not have remembered. Wrapping his body in the clean blanket helped with the shivering which finally began to subside.

Handing him a cup of fresh water, the man sucked it down instantly. Once he’d finished, the nurse reclaimed the cup, filling it with hot broth, suggesting he take it in slowly so not to upset his dreadfully empty stomach. As Ethan sipped at the lip of the cup the nurse turned her attention to soiled sheets, stripping the bed in much the same way she had done with her patient. Switching out the sweat-soaked linens with a fresh set, she tossed all of the contaminated fabric in a corner by the door for removal then redressed the bed as Ethan sat silently drinking the delicious broth.

Once she’d finished with the task at hand she refilled the cup, this time with tea. Ethan raised his head and though he did not speak, his eyes were filled with genuine gratitude as she carefully redressed the injury to his arm. She did not ask questions. Once the bandage was secured, she lifted him from the chair and laid him back onto the bed. Tucking him in like a mother would her child, she gathered up soiled linens, wrapping them in a blanket then placing the bundle outside the door. Crossing back to his bed, she placed her hand on his forehead then closed her eyes. He could see her lips moving while she stood quite still. This nurse was praying for her patient. Touched by the gesture, Ethan began weeping again, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. Kneeling at death’s door, he trusted that she wouldn’t let him die alone.

“There’s bread on the desk when you’re ready to eat. I will be back later tonight. Keep your spirits up.” With that, his angel of mercy quietly departed.

Languishing beneath the covers, Ethan stared at the ceiling for a few moments, restless thoughts rambling through his mind, awash with emotions. He felt pathetic, disgraceful. Why had she been so kind and sympathetic? She prayed for him! Had she cured him? Do gods look after one another? Had one worked his magic through her healing hands, giving him a new lease on life, sending him an angel from above? Had she been a savior sent to him just in time? She loved him. She must want him to complete his task so she saved his life. The fever spiked. Ethan passed out cold.

No way of knowing how many more times the nurse checked in on him, it could have been three, maybe four visits before Ethan regained consciousness. She would bring more water in a pail and food to help him restore his strength. Those were the times he was conscious so she may have come more frequently. He didn’t know. It came to his notice on one such occasion as he rose from the bed, relieving himself in the empty bucket. She’d discovered the pitcher intact, cleaning it out thoroughly before adding fresh water for his use. Yes, she knew he’d lied but understood why.

As Ethan slept he dreamed of the room he was in: The nurse was speaking too softly for him to understand what she was saying while she was mopping the floor. It was covered in blood and she was using the mop to drain it into a crimson bucket, already full to brimming with blood. Suddenly she halted the chore, scrutinizing it. Peering down into the vessel it came to her attention that it was occupied. Leaning in more closely she detected something bobbing slightly near the surface. The nurse plunged her bare hands into the murky mix, tangling her fingers in saturated hair, struggling to confiscate the severed head of Polly Nichols. “Well, what have we got here?” She twisted the head, facing her toward Ethan. “Say hello, Polly.” It opened its eyes, staring directly at him. Ethan had that moment many have described in a sleep state when they try to scream and nothing came out. He was frozen in fear as, to him, this was real. Those eyes had not changed a bit since her death. They were immortal. The rest of the head was dripping with bloody scum water but those eyes were perfectly clear. The severed head of Polly Nichols began to speak. “So, feelin’ a bit under the weather, are we? Well, physician, heal thyself, Doctor Bridgeman. Ya look like hell, ya do.”

It seemed to him that his own eyes were open. Ethan was alert in his mind, wide awake yet he could not reconcile what he was observing. It had to be hallucinations:

As the nurse stood there holding Polly’s talking head, two arms reached through a nearby wall, taking it from her hands, the remainder of a decapitated torso stepping through the adjacent wall. Clutching the head, grasping it firmly; the arms held it up as it spoke again. “Oh! There I am!” Placing the head upon the neck, the hands adjusted it, completing their reunion. “There...I’ve pulled myself together, I ‘ave!” The arms were attached to a body fully visible. Indeed, this was Miss Polly Nichols. The exposed abdominal cavity was still seeping through the white buttoned blouse, blood steadily dripping on the floor. The nurse was not impressed by the presence. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake! I just cleaned that part of the floor! Step aside now, lass. I’ve work to do.” Polly obliged the nurse who continued with her chores while Polly took the opportunity to make herself more presentable, smoothing out the wrinkles on her skirts with her newfound hands. “Yes that’s much better.” She exclaimed in delight. Blood dripping from the hem of her skirt, she crossed the room toward him, dragging a trail, streaking the floor behind her. The nurse paused for a moment to place both hands on her hips, shaking her head in disgust. A body bleeding out on the rug, it would be impossible to remove the stains. She kept on scrubbing in spite of the futility of a thankless task. Polly approached Ethan slowly and deliberately.

Ethan simply laid there in bed wrestling with the uncertainty of their encounter. Was it a dream sequence? A delusion? He wondered as he watched her come closer. Was he dangling on the edge of insanity or the precipice of death? Was Polly the Angel of Death encroaching, coming to claim him? Ethan was not mortified by the vision. In fact, he welcomed the company but he was quite astonished by the image of his victim seemingly reassembling herself without a begrudging notion toward her murderer. It was gracious of Polly. She was always so congenial and courteous.

Then, yet another vision: A familiar apparition emerged from the wall. It was Annie Chapman, head intact. She, too, bore the wounds of her attack with a blood-covered exterior, her disheveled clothing doused in her own bodily fluids. A gaping opening at her throat did not seem to hinder her ability for speech. Actually, as uninhibited as usual, her first remark said it all. “Bloody hell, I need a drink.” Saying the words as she noticed Ethan on the bed, Polly interjected. “Cor, now yer speakin’ me language, Annie.” Miss Chapman’s next comment was directed at Ethan. “There you are. Been meanin’ to ask ya, I cannot seem to find me rings. Ya wouldn’t happened to have taken them off when ya butchered me, now did ya, sir?” Ethan stuttered out his response: “No...I...no, ma’am.” He was in shock, he presumed, unable to begin to articulate. Annie interrupted. “I expected not. The way you slit me throat? Well, it didn’t seem like a robbery, not that I’m favorin’ one over the other, mind ya.” An incredible scene in this act currently playing out either in his room or in his mind, it left him dumbfounded, speechless, breathless. He watched while the helpful nurse kept moving around the periphery of the room behind the apparitions, frantically trying to keep up with the clean up behind them, the bloody mess emanating from their necks and torsos, pouring down their thighs through the open wounds beneath their skirts. They seemed fine in spite of it. As they both moved to opposite sides of the bed, two more sets of arms emerged from the wall. They were extended with more purpose, both blindly feeling their way into the room. It became so clear, the reason why they were grasping at air. When the two figures attached to these arms breached the wall entering his quarters neither of them had retained facial features. Only in the ill-logic of his fever and the parade of players already on stage standing in front of him did Ethan discern these faceless women to be Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. Apparently they had been traveling together since the “Double Event”. It appeared as if, because Ethan never saw their faces, they were condemned to roam the netherworld for eternity without the benefit of eyes, a nose or a mouth. Their visible wounds were also the identifying marks of his handiwork as murders committed under duress during a time-restricted evening when he mutilated both without ever seeing their faces, looking into their eyes. It was still a disappointment. Crossing the room in tandem, settling at the foot of his bed, they surely intended to coldly stare at him, had they possessed eyes with which to do so. The wounds of his work on both women seemingly fresh, they’d been bleeding down onto the wooden footboard and onto the bottom of the fresh sheets the nurse had recently redressed the bed with, so it was no real surprise when the kind older woman became visibly perturbed. “This won’t do. You will all have to move.” As stern as any schoolmarm, they followed her directions. Four ladies of the evening backed away from Ethan’s bed as she approached him. “This is all your doing, sir. Don’t think I can’t see it.” The nurse, in frustration, was remarking more of the extra work he’d made for her and far less about the women he killed visiting him. Ethan responded to her, hoping to calm down his only helper as he pleadingly asked: “But how is it even possible?” He began to question the lack of logic and reason regarding what he was witnessing when, in unison, all of the women in the room turned their attention to the door, the only entrance. Even the two women with no eyes were instinctively facing whoever was entering. As if flames from a raging fire were consuming the entryway, all of them began to back away, cowering into the farthest corner of the room. The light emitting from the open door was not orange or red, nor was there any heat or the smell of smoke. It was a cool bluish hue growing ever brighter. Ethan could slowly make out from his peripheral vision the two figures entering from within the light, floating alongside his bed. At first their images were blurred, unfocused but rapidly it became clear that they had the blindingly white wings of angels. Both forms were adorned in white and had an essence of the divine, the Almighty. Still unclear as to their identity as the light surrounding them obscured his eyesight, one of the two glided along the footboard of the bed then around to his left. As they repositioned themselves on each side of him, they hovered overhead, revealing themselves to be young Maggie and Abigail, both appearing to be ambassadors from the next life, having come to escort Ethan from his inevitable flu-driven demise to a place of pure love, forgiveness and soulful fortune. “Are....are you here to take me to Heaven?” Ethan meekly queried of the angelic apparitions, the ethereal creatures he knew by name. “Heaven?” Abigail asked him with a puzzled expression, cocking her head. “You’re already in Heaven, darling.” Maggie clarified. “You have us now, both of us, to do with as you please, whatever you wish...no matter how much it hurts us.”

Both of the winged women climbed into bed with Ethan and laid down on each side of him, climbing into his arms which he wrapped securely around soft shoulders as they both nuzzled their faces into each side of his neck. He must’ve been dying and this was his Heaven, both of these women worshipping him for eternity. He felt one of each of their hands maneuvering onto his chest when he looked down to see them unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t recall having a dress shirt on, only the undershirt the nurse had put him in but maybe, in Heaven there’s a dress code. It didn’t matter. He closed his eyes and simply felt the adoration of the two loving, angelic bookends.

His eyes closed, Ethan felt a third presence mounting him over the hips and groin. It was not either of the women lying beside him, as they were firmly weighing down his arms. Opening his eyes, he saw a third worshipper straddling him while holding his medical bag. It was Mary Kelly. Although his only contact with her to date was in historical records, her autopsy photographs, he knew instantly who she was and why she was there. “Hello, Doctor.” Mary said, smiling coyly as she rested the bag on his lower abdomen. The leather was dripping with blood. Not the worshipper he was hoping for, Ethan sensed a threat. Attempting to wiggle free, both arms beneath the angels lying beside him, the man could not move. He looked to the left then right of him to discover that both had transformed into albino serpents, boa constrictors who were coiled from his shoulders to his wrists, tightening their grip while holding them down to the bed. He was pinned, immobilized and helpless, no one coming to his assistance as he saw the nurse continuing to scour the floor in the background, seemingly oblivious to his plight. The last one on the list, the only victim yet to make his acquaintance was now poised below his belly. Wearing an evil grin, apparently amused by the terrified expression on his face, Mary began cackling as she reached into the medical bag, retrieving the knife, the infamous weapon of choice for Ethan, the one and only Jack the Ripper. She held the eight-inch-long surgical blade with both hands, examining the fresh blood and remnants of skin, inspecting the entrails and tendons and muscle still clinging to its metal serrations, as if admiring all those tendrils obviously belonging to four prior women who had fallen under its evil spell. In that moment she held tightly to the brunt of a handle once wielded by him. Then, speaking her piece, shaking the knife at him in a scolding manner, Mary made her intentions known. “No, sir. You’ll not be havin’ it with me the way you did with the others, love. I’m to make sure of that right now.” Mary Kelly spoke in a convincing tone as she took the knife by the handle with both hands. Raising it above her head, taking dead aim for Ethan’s chest and abdomen, he cried out for mercy. “No, please wait! Let me explain!” His pleading fell on deaf ears as Mary applied all her weight to the first thrust of the knife, gouging it into his stomach. Over and over again, she plunged the blade deeply into his exposed torso, making a series of cutting motions after each stab, laughing hysterically as the brutal attack became yet more frenzied. He looked down to see the blade tearing him apart, ripping back flesh as a sequence of his organs began spilling out through the sprays of blood, drenching the bed, the white serpents and Miss Mary Kelly. He could not eradicate the image of what was happening to him, along with the anguished pain caused by grave wounds inflicted with forethought and malice. “Heaven? So you think you’re in Heaven?” The blade went into his sternum, penetrating the bone to his heart. He could feel the life blood pouring into his rib cage, warm, softly flowing through the wound, creating a pond on the bed. “Heaven? I condemn you to hell. I condemn you to live! Live!” As Mary sunk the blade into his stomach with the force of a man, Ethan screamed in agony. Hurling her thoughts through the cosmos, she ranted and raved while decimating his body. “I want ya t’ live out ya days knowin’ what ya done, who ya hurt. Killer!” Gutting him like a lifeless fish on a dock, he could no longer feel any pain. Using the tip of the shiny steel blade, Mary smeared his blood around her mouth as if she was applying lipstick. Blood bubbled in his mouth, causing him to gurgle the fluid.

Turning on his side, Ethan began vomiting violently which, in turn, woke him up abruptly. The fever had broken, his body purging whatever remained of the illness on the floor beside his bed. He was weak, shaking, stirred to the core from a nightmare but he knew he had made it through and was going to live. As Ethan laid prone, bathed in sweat, struggling to breathe the putrid stench in the air, he opened his eyes. He was alone. All alone but alive.