The kitchen felt warm and inviting after the chill that had fallen over me in the study. Perhaps that was an illusion created by my mind as a result of being surrounded by the ordinariness of kettle, fridge, and the implements of day to day life. As I sat in the fireside chair, hugging a steaming hot cup of coffee, (laced with a shot of whisky), to my chest I tried to rationalise the last few minutes in the study, to bring myself back to a sense of reality, and escape from the surreal and imagined terrors that were taking hold of my conscious mind.
For the umpteenth time I told myself that Jack the Ripper had been dead for around a hundred years, and that it was impossible for his soul, or his spirit, call it what you will, to have survived in some form by investing itself into the pages
