It took Ethan the better part of a week to fully recuperate. No question about it, he had knocked on death’s door. Remaining diligent in his recovery he took care of himself, continuing to nourish and rehydrate his depleted body. During his first trip to the kitchen since his rescue by a kindly woman, he asked the other tenants about the nurse, wanting to thank her and compensate her further for many self less, caring acts if she would accept it from him but she’d already finished with her classes and had returned to Greenwich. Told by one of the boarders that he’d been leveled, laid waste for a week by that insidious fever, as he regained his strength, any remaining signs of sickness dissipated. Saturday afternoon moved into night, Ethan spent this time returning his focus and efforts to his mission, back on the job again.

The first priority was to regain his chronological bearings. Not having a clue as to what time of the evening it was, he looked to retrieve his pocket watch from the top dresser drawer so to help reset his internal clock by seeing that familiar face, a loyal timepiece that worked in collaboration with his schedule. It was not where he had placed it. He began searching the entire room, each and every crevice where he might have relocated or hidden it during his delirium, no memory of where it went. His money, identification papers, clothing, shoes and medical equipment were still in his room, every possession accounted for, all but his pocket watch. Someone had claimed his precious timepiece. Ethan considered the possibilities. It could not have been the nurse. She could have sold the medical instruments for a far greater profit. If her son had been with her, while his mother’s patient slept, he might have swiped some clothing, as winter was approaching, less likely the watch. No, no. The culprit seemed obvious. Only one person would have taken it.

A week prior, while Ethan was downstairs in the kitchen feeding an ill-prepared pork dinner to the tenants, Abigail had plenty of time to rummage around the room in his absence. She may have always had it in mind to liberate the timepiece from Ethan, seeing him glancing at it from time to time during their earlier liaisons. He figured she took it to sell or she made it a keepsake of their short-lived relationship, albeit one purchased, paid in full. To roam these streets of Whitechapel looking for her would be nothing less than an exercise in futility. Hoping she would first admit to the theft and second, return the watch was sheer folly and he knew he didn’t need to have that much exposure and/or visibility so close to the completion of his work. Reconciled to its loss, he had no choice but to seek a replacement. Everything done in life was contingent upon those three hands and twelve numerals keeping Ethan on a tight leash, in sync with the world around him. There was just no way he could continue, no way to complete his mission without a proper pocket watch. Based on his innate dependency, a need for his companion, Ethan required a reliable, ongoing communication with his punctual partner in crime. Imperative that he maintain the means of a direct correspondence with his accomplice Time, it would be impossible to fulfill his mission without an accessory to the murders. Ethan realized Abby was the likeliest suspect and felt he’d fallen victim to a thief in the night, a con woman, duped by a mere mortal. After all he’d done for her, that ingrate had kidnapped his best friend, no ransom note left in her wake. He felt naked, exposed and vulnerable without it and wanted to punish Abby, to take it back from her but he could not. It was gone with her. Looking all around the room, shaking his head in disgust, Ethan spoke aloud in his quiet space, no tick tock to keep him company.

“More’s the pity.” It was the last trace of humanity, a final expression of caring about anything. He spoke the words softly into raw, damp air he’d breathed with a sigh of regret. Choosing to take both Saturday and Sunday to rest and fully recover, he decided to begin the planning phase on Monday for the final victim. This was a time to reflect. Ethan knew he had to shed stress as its presence would inevitably prolong his recuperative process. No. He refused to perseverate about it. He had to regain his strength, reset his internal bearings. Come Monday, he would refocus all his energy and attention on the mission, his curtain call, the final murder.

***

Journal Entry ˜ 30 October 1888

It’s the day before All Hallows’ Eve. Back at Oxford, I’ll bet there will be some wild weekend costume parties with female students barely dressed and the drunken debauchery of the boys at the school running amuck. But not here. These Christians are afraid of their own shadows nowadays and celebrations in Ireland and Scotland before All Saint’s Day are considered Pagan rituals to most Brits. I am the horror show, the monster they fear more than demons, because I am real. What I’ve done and have yet to do will be more legendary than any creature manifested in the night by religion or writer alike. I exist as fear buried in their hearts, the plague on their minds. I am the story they were told as children, the beast who would come for them if their wicked ways were exposed. My story will be told forever. I am immortal.

I’m only noting this for my own recollection as this entry is on the tail end of a week of terrible fever. I say only for me because I’ve thought it through and realized my journal cannot return with me. Nothing can. The embodiment of my experiences during my time here will be returning only as memories. Once I’ve stepped through the portal my account of these events will be presented during the debriefing, given from a very different perspective, an account misrepresented as need be. Everything must be replaced with authentic duplicates of proper vintage. All I brought with me must be destroyed. Any and all remaining evidence will be properly disposed of in due course, as what would never be discovered in this time would certainly become exposed in the future, including this journal, covered in contaminants. There is not enough soap and water in the world to wash it all away.

For two months my knowledge of the past has helped me to save the future. Now it is my knowledge of the future which will aid me in covering my tracks in the past. To fail to do so would mean my own future would be jeopardized, left resting in the hands of others who may not see or might not want to admit that what I have done, what I’ve given of myself is a godly gift, mankind touched by the divine intervention of one wise enough to foresee the outcome without it. There are those who couldn’t possibly fathom the sacrifice I have made, those so jealous and suspicious of a deity they’d sooner lock me away or, I forbid, burn me at the stake as a heretic. Powerful people, woefully misguided souls would be disrespectful of a decision made to carry on, consequently preserving the precious timeline with my unwavering commitment to the Flicker program. Would they rather have me committed to an insane asylum? Could they ever accept that I did this for them? Would they ever accept my sacred role as a humanitarian or would they instead sentence me to death for my perceived infractions as crimes against humanity?

No. I must and will discard every remnant of myself before returning, including this journal and a corresponding persona making these entries, what would be read as a flagrant admission of guilt. They can’t be trusted with the truth, an urgent need to irrevocably alter the project to satisfy the demands of Time. Poor, ignorant souls, those lowly mortals. They know not what they do – or would do if given the chance. No. I cannot risk my work and I will not sacrifice my life to a lack of comprehension.

***

Over the next week Ethan had to have closure on his trails, starting with a few final necessary purchases. His health restored, he embarked on foot then took a few carriage rides in search of an identical medical bag. In addition, he also required a complete duplicate ensemble of the physician’s attire he wore as he stepped through the doorway into the past. Because those donated items were vintage, any forensic examination of the replacements would verify the authenticity. There would be an inspection of all his effects simply to identify and categorize all the microbes of the era that might have hitched a ride, those escaping or immune to the chamber. From those forensic tests The Consortium could possibly document what was truly in the air of old England at that time and compare it with samples of other elements from that period that had been collected and stored for this very purpose. With this kind of expected oversight and dissection of these materials, there had not ever been any consideration by Ethan to return with all the contaminants in his possession. Stains on his clothing and the medical bag would be detected immediately. Although there was no way to identify Ethan as the killer he would be hard-pressed to explain why those body fluids did not match his DNA. Oh sure, he could masterfully manipulate and manifest a story, saying that after every slaying he approached the bodies where he’d knelt down or placed his bag carelessly in the blood but to him it was ludicrous. He was perceived as being too intelligent to make such a novice error in judgment. It was smarter to walk back through the portal untainted, clean as a whistle.

Frustrating as it was, Ethan was finally able to locate and purchase the clothing, journal and doctor’s bag he needed to replace the incriminating evidence he’d worn and used for the duration of his stay. It was necessary to procure a few additions to his attire in preparation for the next act in this play: a soft felt hat, a long coat with an astrakhan collar and sleeves, a red handkerchief, dark spats and light button-over boots. While he was out shopping, his mind wandered as he watched the many men around him, an endless supply of suspects for Scotland Yard to scrutinize in search of a killer. He marveled at how easily he passed among them, how simple it was to hide his identity, to steal the trust of others in an instant. The women of Whitechapel knew it could be any one of these otherwise innocuous men but those who worked the streets knew they may be next, yet they risked life and limb every night to make a living. He reflected on the irony of it while scanning the crowd as he passed them by in a carriage that took him to the front door of a jewelry shop. While inside, he’d located a horse pin tie clip and also acquired a replacement pocket watch. A tad bit gaudy with a big gold chain which had a large seal and a red stone hanging from it, something about the garish timepiece appealed to him. “Ah, Abigail.” Ethan shook his head as he thought about all that had transpired between them. There were parts of history he was absolutely sure were of such a bizarre nature, it was Time setting up the scene, setting the tone, just sitting back in a lawn chair with popcorn saying: “Let’s see if I can get him to wear this!” At times it felt like he was being played.

It was Monday, November 5th when Ethan finally had everything needed for his encounter with Mary Kelly, a woman who seemed to have the world at one point. Only twenty-five years of age, she was considered to be an attractive woman with blonde hair. By this time her relationship with Joseph Barnett was on the rocks and another prostitute, Maria Harvey was staying with Mary in a small room she rented at 13 Millers Court, or 26 Dorset Street, depending on the research. Regardless, it was the same room, the same physical address, through a small alcove off of Dorset Street overlooking Miller’s Court. It merely depended upon the perspective of the witness statements and records. Ethan would wait until the following night to travel to that section of Whitechapel again to hopefully get a glimpse of a living, breathing Mary Jane Kelly. To try and pluck her from the street would be all but impossible, the proverbial needle in a haystack. Ethan had never seen any other photographs of her besides crime scene images which would not help him, as the mutilation done, what would be done to her left no identifying facial features. In that bizarre dream he had as his fever broke he had recognized the woman straddling him then stabbing him to be Mary Kelly only by intuition, a self-manifestation of appearance, a stand-in for the role. By positioning himself near her current residence he might possibly capture a glimpse of her to insure the timeline would succeed beyond theory in the early hours of November 9th. Of course it would. It must. Time was still on his side.

For over two weeks Ethan had not shaved. His hair, moustache and beard were fairly well-developed. It was not laziness or even illness that kept him from keeping up with it. Instead, it was part of the plan, part of the character role based on witness descriptions surrounding the death of Mary Kelly. All that hair was itchy and Ethan was unaccustomed to being ungroomed. Once again standing before his reflection, the mirror belied his actual persona. He appeared as someone or something else. As he peered into the looking glass, he suddenly felt an irrational anger toward Mary. Perhaps it was the dream. He was not pleased with her actions, gutting him during an unconscious event when he was most vulnerable. What had he ever done to her? This was not supposed to be personal. He was only preserving history. Why should she attack him when he had never provoked her? It was selfish on her part, a blatant attempt to corrupt his work. For that reason alone she made him angry. He wouldn’t make his work personal as far as what was to be done but that did not guarantee he would not take some measure of personal pleasure in what he needed to do to her. Would his mission transform into an act of divine retribution? Time would tell. He scratched his itchy cheeks and chin then abandoned the mirror for the time being.

Monday night was the first night in weeks Ethan laid his head down on the bed without feeling exhausted. Tasked to play catch up, having lost almost a full week to fever, instead he stared at the ceiling for most of the night but he wasn’t thinking of coming events, nothing about what he was going to say or portray himself as to Mary Jane Kelly during their forthcoming encounter, undoubtedly the hardest, most intricate “job” he had to do. All Ethan focused on was listening to the voices outside his window on the street below, listening intently for the voice of Abigail. For the life of him he had no expectations of reacquiring his watch, but still, he wanted to see her, his Whitechapel Maggie. If in the middle of the night he was awakened by a knock at the door he’d probably tumble onto the floor from shock and excitement. Abby was the embodiment of young Maggie (if young Maggie had been into his sexual perversions) yet, only Abigail knew them and still loved him in spite of it, kissing him, though bruised and battered due to his proclivities. Stealing his pocket watch was akin to claiming him as her territory. Her remembrance, the treasure she would hold onto and cherish for the rest of her days. That knock at the door never came and he never heard her voice again.

It was critical for the next two days for Ethan to scout the area of Mary Kelly’s residence, to finally get a firsthand sighting, a visual recognition of what she looked like alive. His research had only provided a written description of her appearance. The autopsy photographs were useless. Without question, he’d need to identify her in person before Friday morning arrived. A long, heavy coat would be a necessity for their fateful early morning encounter as the temperatures would plummet, near freezing. He would dress warmly for tonight and tomorrow’s surveillance certainly, as Ethan could risk wearing the heaviest of overcoats, even though it was far more easily identifiable than most garments of its kind. After all, there were never any witnesses describing a man in a long coat prior to the morning of the ninth. He felt safe enough, shrouded in the secrecy of Time’s protective covering. However, there was the testimony of one Mr. Thomas Bowyer who saw Mary with a man of dressier appearance resembling the one seen with Elizabeth Stride, no doubt the shorter man who shouted anti-Semitic remarks before disappearing into the night. There were several testimonies transcribed, witnesses who reported seeing different men with the victims near the time of death, of various degrees of height and dress, many of them in the five and a half foot range. It seemed he would need to play the waiting game and make his first introduction to her at the time history had recorded.

Dressing the part, preparing to meet the elements head on, Ethan left his room just past midnight, now Tuesday. The air was cool. It rained earlier in the evening, kicking up a plethora of odors, the damp atmosphere absorbing them like a sponge. The stench of the city traveled through his nasal passages, something he’d become so accustomed to it wasn’t much of a hindrance anymore. Activity on the city streets of Whitechapel seemed fairly light, as many might have expected the precipitation to continue through the night, right into morning. For the moment there was a break. Ethan was hoping for his own break as he hung around Dorset Street, nearby the archway leading into Millers Court. Mary Harvey was rooming with his next target but would move out tomorrow, finding new lodgings. Ethan would be observant of two women exiting that small archway together. Still not having any way other than her hair color and Irish accent to identify who, if any woman emerging from that dark passageway, might be Mary Kelly.

Ethan thought he had made a poor judgment call, having taken an unavoidable but necessary calculated risk. As the night wore on he began to tremble, shaking from a decided chill in the air. At least he was counting on this mitigating factor and not a relapse. Perhaps Time was letting him know he was wasting it along with precious energy. No one matching her description had appeared in the night. He checked his gaudy pocket watch. Pushing two in the morning, it was a fifteen minute hike back to his lodging on Bakers Row. He thought better of his decision to linger in the cold air any longer. It was time to give up the ghost. Best to make a fresh start of it again tomorrow night, Wednesday night. As Ethan journeyed back toward his room, he’d been solicited a half a dozen times by the women of ill repute working his route of return, expecting one of those faces approaching him would belong to Abigail. No. Finally arriving, sniffles and a mild cough told him he’d made the right decision to rest before relapsing, yet, as he got undressed he threw each item of clothing on the bed in a fit of disgust, frustrated that his body hadn’t yet accepted (as his mind had) that he was a true deity. The God of Fate, still plagued by a mortal shell. Climbing in bed, relief came as his chills subsided, a comforting notion as he fell asleep. His body was not failing him again, just letting him know it was cold. As Ethan drifted off his mind laid out the plan for the next day, knowing from his research he’d stand a good chance of seeing Mary Kelly in person, finally acquiring positive identity of the last woman the “job” required him to kill.

Morning came quickly with a sound sleep and no nightmares to disturb it. There was an air of amusement for Ethan about this entire experience. Had he not become the main focus of these murders and the history, legends and folklore that followed, this may have been quite boring. If, in the shadows of that alleyway on Bucks Row he had never come to the conclusion of his true role, or the role was indeed played by someone else of this era, the entire nearly ten weeks of his stay would have been nothing more than that of a stealthy sleuth working from the vantage point of dark corners, laboriously logging in the lurid details of his eyewitness accounts into his journal. He would have spent the majority of his time here in the solemn, redundant recounting of the adventures of another man from an objective perspective. Instead, it was entirely subjective and HE was the subject! Being the focus of this research far exceeded any imaginable scenario or expectation he and The Consortium could have ever conceived. His insight into how a serial murderer thinks would have been a tremendous asset in debriefing, used for the purpose of future study in sociopathic reasoning and actions, possessing intrinsic value beyond measure. Ethan had gone above and beyond the call of duty albeit for the betterment of recorded history with true and accurate firsthand testimony.

“Firsthand.” Ethan chuckled as his thoughts this Tuesday morning directed toward the end of his mission, the foreseeable future, when he would return from whence he came. He was working diligently to keep the mindset that he remained disconnected to the work needing to be done for the “job”. There were men even in the 21st Century who were paid to slaughter countless defenseless creatures for the creature comforts of mankind providing food, clothing and many other needs of his species. It was expected of them to perform their jobs without regard to the morality of it, disallowing any sympathy for the living beings that needed to perish.

Ethan killed four women so far and had only one more to go. The question was, could he be held accountable for enjoying his work? Didn’t the saying: “Always do what you love” apply to him just as well? He was torn about what gave him a greater pleasure. The stalking? Looking into their eyes as life left them or the accuracy and detail required in the mutilation to the exact specifications of history. He took pride in his work, in the discipline, following through with his own version of perversion, executing the non-interference directive with precision. He took joy in it. Ethan had the sense of great accomplishment. Pondering the fate of slaughtered animals made him hungry. He began thinking of having bangers and mash, one more time, before heading back to his lodging. Soon after the skies opened and the night was drenched by heavy rainfall. Though dismal was the weather, Ethan’s spirits were high, energy returning, excitement brewing, the day dragged on into the night. Ethan chose wisdom over bravery. He thought it best to stay in and continue concocting adventures in mockery he would scribe in the new journal, telling a tall tale. It did not take long for him to begin fancying himself a famous fiction writer. By the fifth hour, he was engrossed with his fabrication, losing both time and himself in the pages. He suddenly realized the lateness of the hour and pulled himself away from the journal and into bed. Ethan’s morning alarm came by way of some quarrel in the street below his window. His late to bed, late to rise new motto remained intact as, checking his timepiece, it was almost noon. Returning to the journal, he wanted to complete the thought he’d abandoned in the early morning hours due to fatigue. The one thought soon became ten more and before he realized it, over three hours had passed. He hadn’t eaten a thing or even had a cup of coffee, something he needed to do to keep his strength up for tonight’s excursion.

Setting out a little earlier that Wednesday night for his walk back over to Dorset Street, this time he extracted from his memory the recorded events of this day as to Mary’s whereabouts including a nighttime rendezvous with a man with bright white sleeves and an oversized white collar. Ethan needed only to position himself nearby the local candle shop where she’d been seen, there to purchase a half penny candle. Once acquiring a visual of her he could return to his room before the night air grew any chillier. To his advantage, strategy paid off with dividends yet unknown to him. Arriving outside the candle shop he discovered a woman who appeared to be in her twenties with light-colored hair. She was already inside speaking to the shopkeeper. He could not be completely sure it was her. From his vantage point, the shelves full of candles were obstructions, his view obscured. He’d have to patiently wait for her to leave and hopefully affirm that it was, indeed, Mary Jane Kelly. By walking close enough to discern the Irish accent indicative of her origins, she need only speak for him to know. She shopped for a few minutes before returning to Dorset Street.

Stepping over the threshold, not paying any attention to the muddy cobblestone, she slipped and fell to the ground. Ethan instantly stepped forward to take her arm, assisting the lady to her feet. It was then, the moment when Ethan truly believed he had become a part of some elaborate hoax at the hands of Time or the Universe. As she stood then turned to Ethan, he shuddered in disbelief, as yet another immediate shock wave from the cosmos struck him. A fresh face splattered and speckled with mud, she was also identical to young Maggie. It was as if they were coming off an assembly line, first Abigail and now Mary Kelly, both passing for replicates of Ms. Daley. It was a stunning revelation. That expression of disgust with her plight took Ethan back to The Valley and time trials fit for a princess, to the night he and Colin watched in amusement as Maggie failed miserably to navigate the mucky quagmire that left her in much the same condition as the woman Ethan was holding onto while she, too, regained her balance.

“Oh, manky!” She spouted. “Thank you, kind sir.” She spoke with a distinctly Irish accent as she began wiping off her coat and skirt with now dirty hands, making matters worse. Looking up into Ethan’s eyes, the man stared at her in astonishment, apparently in the midst of a powerful flashback.

“You may let go of me now, sir. I’m fine.” Mary directed, glancing at his hand cupped around her delicate elbow.

Ethan followed her focus then realized he was still holding onto her arm. As he released her from his grasp, he continued staring at the lass. She peered at him with curiosity because his gaze spoke of recognition from somewhere. What Mary didn’t know and couldn’t know, their cosmic connection was Ethan’s secret alone. The “look” wasn’t about some place but rather, from some “time”. He smiled knowingly as he thought: “It’s like plucking a needle from a haystack! Time, you are such a prick!”

Embarrassed, she brushed off her hands on her skirt then smiled at Ethan before turning to walk away from him, heading toward Commercial Street. Astounded, he could barely wrap his facile mind around the notion. To find her at all was amazing but then to find her with such ease, to discover that she was young Maggie’s second clone was at least mindboggling. He had no choice but to pause and reflect upon a cosmos capable of mockery and manipulation. Perhaps a little taller and a bit more buxom, according to her facial features she was none other than the sweet, innocent intern he had grown to love and miss in his absence. He watched as she plucked an inside pocket for a handkerchief to swab her face clean.

Keeping his distance, Ethan followed her. She walked along speaking to others on the street in passing. There was an immediate knowledge that she was Mary Jane Kelly. His curiosity sated, he could’ve confidently returned to his lodging and done so long before the cold night set into his bones, yet he found himself fixated on the impossibility of another identical vision. Ethan felt so connected with her he had to follow her, as if he had no choice in the matter because she was towing him along. Blending into the crowd, she returned to her small room just off the narrow passage on Dorset Street leading to Millers Court then she reemerged after a few minutes, apparently stopping in only to drop off the candle. Then, entering the courtyard, she was approached by a man of decent tailored clothing whom she spoke to for a long time, giving Ethan a chance to hear more of her lovely, lilting Irish accent. He must have been the man Thomas Bowyer witnessed Mary talking with at this time. Ethan scanned the yard to see if there was anybody else focused on the couple chatting. It reminded him once more of a play. Standing there and looking on, right on cue was the obvious character of Thomas Bowyer. He had paused in passing to watch Mary Kelly converse with the man for a trice before crossing through the courtyard.

Ethan’s main fixation most certainly remained on Mary Kelly. He was no longer listening to the accent. He simply couldn’t stop looking at her. The first four women he’d killed were in their forties, drunken and haggard, beaten down by a rough life on the streets. Mary still possessed a certain innocent quality in her life, the life that now belonged to him, a life and subsequent death he’d known of in the 21st Century. The grand finale of this play had him revisiting imagery that would make something which was not supposed to be personal, very personal. For Ethan, it would become the pièce de résistance of the closing scene, his curtain call.

Returning just past midnight, it was a cold, light rain beginning to fall. As Ethan stepped inside he removed his hat and coat, shaking them vigorously to rid them of any residual moisture then he laid them aside, peeling off other layers of clothing. Down to pants and undershirt, Ethan had to stop for a moment. He’d felt something building inside, a feeling he could not label as anger or hatred or even nervousness. It was an anxiety-based emotion with no defining origins. Something primal, it kept crawling beneath his skin. He felt the oppressive weight of what clothing remained on his body and couldn’t wait to shed it but stood there instead, wondering if it was the anticipation of killing his next victim, Mary Kelly. Was this emotion filled with a fear that Time kept toying with him, constantly sending him reminders of Maggie Daley? Fear that he was going to have to cross that fine line to murder the one thing in his future / past that he clung to for sheer sanity? Or was he angry at the girl who, through no fault of her own, so remarkably resembled the Flicker intern?

Ethan once again sought answers from the reflection in the mirror, staring at the unshaved, unkempt face directly in front of him. He grasped the edge of the dresser top tightly, bracing for the one time that son of a bitch spoke back and told him all the answers to his questions regarding his actions, regarding his feelings. It became, for a while, nothing less than a bona fide stare down. Who would blink first? Ethan won the competition as the man looking at him cracked a crooked smile.

“What are you laughing at?” Ethan asked as the spirit mocked him by mouthing the same words, no sound. “You’re the one causing me these emotions, aren’t you?” A broad smile returned to the face opposite Ethan’s in confirmation of the question posed. A demon in the looking glass was a true reflection of himself, of the demon within him, planting thoughts and visions, placing ideas in his mind to keep Ethan unbalanced regarding his reasoning for any actions taken during the most important mission of his life. There was an incessant whispering in his head, a voice trying to persuade him to listen to the voice above and beyond his own logic, an evil torment in the night willing him to do its bidding. Having made it through these many weeks and also completing his missions made him question whether or not the whispers were a better guide than his own judgment. Ethan leaned in toward the mirror and the reflection engaged identically. Nearly eye-to-eye with his alter ego, Ethan spoke truth to power.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” No truer words ever spoken, off to bed he went.