Jill the Ripper

Jill the Ripper, written by Nicole Autumn. Images licensed through Shutterstock

"Rosalie, have you heard the news?" Woodrow asks as he closes the front door behind him.

"No? What is it?" Woodrow rarely feels the need to tell me gossip, so when he does, I listen carefully.

"There's word that there's a serial killer in the city. Do you believe that? Men, dropping dead in the middle of the night."

I suck in a sharp breath. "Men? You mean to tell me there is a serial killer out there killing just men?" I ask, concerned for my brother's sake.

"That's not even the craziest thing. There are whispers that the killer is a woman!"

I gasp in horror. "A woman?"

"I know. Imagine my horror as I'm walking through town, unarmed, and the full moon isn't for another five days. I'm vulnerable to being murdered!"

My brother unbuttons his coat, placing it on the coat rack, then he pushes back his chestnut hair. His amber eyes find mine, and he's visibly shaken.

"Don't worry, dear brother, you're safe as long as you stay in the forest," I say.

"I don't know, Rosalie." He rubs his hands on his waistcoat nervously. "I have to go into town for work."

"Woodrow, you've been working at the printing press for three years now. Take some time off if you're that concerned," I say as I sharpen my kitchen knife.

"Ugh, that's just irresponsible," he huffs. He places his hands on his hips before sighing. "Maybe I'm just overreacting." There's another brief pause. "I'm going to go check our traps for dinner."

Woodrow leaves the small cottage we've made for ourselves and enters the enchanted forest. The wildlife is plentiful, but so are the monsters. One would say we're the monsters in the forest, but there are things much darker and more sinister than us werewolves. We get one night a month, unless it's a blue moon, to let our beasts out. Woodrow and I have made sure that when we change, we go deeper into the forest and stay far away from town, but there are still people who wander too far into the dark.

Those who lead others out, who will do terrible things when they think no one is watching. But I'm always watching.

Every full moon, I've found that men will lead unsuspecting women out to the edge of the forest to do god-forsaken things to them. I watched them, fighting my beast from ripping them to shreds. Most often, the woman gets away, but when they struggle, I let out a howl and a snarl, and they scatter like bugs.

Even dumb men know to run when a predator is near. But I take note of who they are, and I find them later. I guess I've made headlines as of late. Granted, my late-night activities haven't been exactly a secret among women. When I first started, I wasn't exactly the best at what I do, and I made mistakes. Thankfully, it was a woman who stumbled upon me, and they had intimate knowledge of the man on the other side of my knife. She was happy to see him gone.

Word got around, and letters were passed from woman to woman with the names of men and their crimes. Of course, I checked to ensure the men were worthy of my services, and unsurprisingly, they were.

"Good news, Rosalie. We're having rabbit for dinner!"

"How wonderful. I just sharpened my knife."

---

Colter Sloane

Adulterer, Abuser, Gambler, tried selling his wife to another man for opium.

I fold the letter and place it back in the envelope I had received it in, then tuck it into my skirt pocket. I stand in the dark alleyway across from the brothel and wait for Colter to stumble out. As if right on time, he trips over his own feet, drunk and belligerently yelling that his money is just as good as anyone else's.

He must've been exceedingly vile tonight for the brothel to turn him away. He sways as he walks down the dark alley next to the brothel and toward the forest. That will make it easier to kill him — fewer eyes and ears to hear his screams.

I stroll casually behind, keeping him in my sights but not close enough to draw alarm. As I follow, he stops to relieve himself on a tree. My nose wrinkles in disgust as the smell of urine permeates the warm night air. Much to my surprise, he doesn't keep walking down the road; he stumbles past the tree, deeper into the undergrowth of the wild forest.

He just made my night far easier, but the disappointment that it will take longer for the body to be found twinges in my chest. That's how most women know that I've completed my job for them—they'll read all about it in the headlines of the morning paper.

Colter trips over his own feet, catching himself on the tree. We're deep enough into the woods that I finally make my move.

"You may want to be careful coming into my forest, Colter," I growl. We're only a day away from the full moon, and my beast is dangerously close to the surface.

The man spins on his heels, nearly falling over again. His eyes go wider than narrow on me as he believes I'm not a threat. "A pretty lady like you shouldn't be out this late at night." The way he slurs his words and the look in his eye betray the words of caution. He doesn't care if I'm safe, because he realizes he's the one who will try to harm me.

"And a vile man like you should've gone home. You should've been a better husband," I hiss at him.

His brows pinch together. "You little wench." He leaps for me, but I catch him by the throat. His eyes widen as he realizes he's not the one at an advantage in this scenario. My knife drops into my hand from its hiding place in my sleeve.

"Rosalie! What on earth?" Woodrow's voice comes from behind me. I tense and quickly slice Colter's throat. I couldn't let him get away. I couldn't let Woodrow distract me. "God! Rosalie! You just killed that man."

"Yes, dear brother, I did." Dropping the body, I slip the envelope into his hand, then wipe the knife off with my handkerchief. He takes the letter and reads it.

"Well. I was not expecting that." He peers around me to the body now slumped on the floor. "You could've gotten more creative with the murder, you know."

"Woodrow, if I had known you were going to sneak up on me, I would have done things differently. I don't normally do a quick murder." I tuck my knife in my pocket, and he crosses his arms, staring down at the scene.

"Rosalie, I will not pretend to know what you're up to, but please, the next time you decide to become a serial killer, do let me know. I was worried sick for my well-being." He grabs the legs of Colter and starts dragging him back toward the street.

"Will do, but what do you think you're doing?" I ask as I follow behind him.

"Well, we can't leave him there. They'll start looking in the woods and find our house. I don't want anyone snooping. Who knows what ungodly manner of things you have lying about that I may not have noticed."

I shrug and lift Colter's arms. Granted, there's already a trail of blood; at least there will be a break long enough that they don't go looking any further.

"Just out of curiosity, were all the murdered men yours?" Woodrow asks.

"Yes. I promise they all deserved it. You were always safe, unless you're doing unsavory things to women I didn't know about." I lift a brow at him, and he scoffs.

"Sister, how dare you insinuate such a thing?"

"Just making my stance clear."

When we reach the street, we both drop Colter on his backside, not caring whether his head hits the stone hard enough to crack it like a melon.

"Well then. Ready to go home and have a late-night snack of rabbit stew?" Woodrow asks.

"Oh, I can warm up some of the bread from earlier as well," I add.

Woodrow holds out an elbow, and I place my hand on his arm. We walk back home, leaving Colter's body for someone to find and another headline to be written about Jill the Ripper.