Through time; The ripper

*Lily* The underground sings with the rhythm of London. Maybe ‘sings’ is a bit too flowery, but I can’t help it. I’ve always been a sucker for romantic literature, even if the reality of the London Underground is far from poetic. Sometimes it just brightens my mood to spicy up boring every day stuff by thinking of them like they are a part of a romance novel. I squeeze into a packed rush hour carriage at Camden Town station, clutching my worn leather satchel to my chest. It’s a childhood relic, a sturdy companion through school, that now carries my textbooks, scribbled notes, the novel I’m currently lost in, and the occasional crumpled snack wrapper. To be honest, I’d rather be knee-deep in the pages of a romance novel or a classic mystery than wedged between a man in a tailored suit and a woman whose perfume could knock out a rhinoceros. Thankfully, I only have to endure this for a few stations. As the train jolts forward, I find my balance by gripping the metal pole. I glance around at the other passengers, their faces a mosaic of indifference and fatigue. A woman with bright pink hair scrolls through her phone while a businessman buries himself in a newspaper, oblivious to the world around him. The claustrophobic atmosphere feels almost suffocating, and for a moment, I envy the deadpan expressions of my fellow commuters. They seem so unbothered, like they have no fears. But lately, there are more reasons than usual to feel uneasy. The news has been relentless, splashing headlines about two women found dead after late-night train rides. The press has labeled the killer a modern-day Jack the Ripper due to the similarities in the methods. It’s a chilling thought that clings to the back of my mind like the remnants of a bad dream. I often take the underground in the evening, and I try to shake off the anxiety. I refuse to be afraid. After all, the chances of running into him are probably slimmer than getting struck by lightning, right? But this is London, a city steeped in history, and sometimes that history is darker than I care to admit. I can’t help but imagine the killer lurking in the shadows of the streets I walk every day. My heart races every time I spot a strange shape or movement. As the train rattles through the tunnels, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I grimace. My auburn hair has frizzed into wild tendrils, and my glasses slide down my nose. I know I’m not the picture of London chic, but I’m not trying to be. I’m here to study nursing, to help people, and to escape the judgmental whispers of the high school girls who once haunted my life in the northwest. Yet, here I am again, surrounded by a new breed of mean girls… this time dressed in scrubs and armed with condescending smiles. The doors slide open with a hiss, and I step off the train, the fluorescent lights of the station illuminating the path ahead. My heart pounds as I make my way to the exit, the echo of my shoes tapping against the concrete. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, but I try to convince myself it’s just my overactive imagination… a side effect of late-night reading sessions filled with crime novels and romance. As I ascend the stairs, the faint chill of the early evening air greets me like an old friend. Belsize Park is a quaint neighborhood, full of charming townhouses and leafy streets. It’s too expensive for most students, but I’m lucky that my aunt’s cousin has a townhouse here. The small basement flat is cozy, a haven where I can immerse myself in my studies and my literary escapes. Yet, as I walk my familiar route, an unsettling sense of vulnerability creeps over me, a feeling that has become all too familiar in recent days. The shadows stretch longer as the sun dips below the horizon, casting an eerie glow over the quiet streets. I tell myself it’s just my nerves, I mean it is not even dark yes. I mostly love London; it’s always been my dream to live here. Halfway down the block, I spot a figure leaning against a lamppost. My stomach knots as I quicken my pace, eyes darting, searching for signs of danger. The figure shifts, and I catch a glimpse of a face… unremarkable, just a shadow. I can’t help but wonder if he’s simply waiting for a bus or if he’s something more sinister. I remind myself that I’m being paranoid. Then a young woman steps out of the house behind him, and they embrace. Relief washes over me, and I can’t help but smile. The thriller my brain Was brewing on just turned into a love story. I reach my current home and fumble with the keys. The heavy door creaks open, and I step inside, greeted by the comforting smell of home-cooked meals wafting through the air. Evelyn, my aunt’s cousin, is in the kitchen, apron-clad and humming a tune, blissfully unaware of the world outside. I take a moment to breathe, letting the warmth envelop me like a protective blanket. “Lily! How was classes?” she asks, glancing up with her cheerful smile. “Fine,” I reply, forcing a smile despite the unease that still lingers in my chest. “Just the usual.” Evelyn doesn’t seem to notice the tremor in my voice. “I made your favorite for dinner… Spaghetti Bolognese.” She says it like it’s a special occasion, even though she makes it at least once a week. Evelyn is kind, and I’m grateful for her hospitality, but she has an old-fashioned way of looking at me that makes me feel like a character straight out of a Victorian novel. Probably it is due to her relatively high age of seventy three. As I twirl a forkful of pasta, I contemplate my evening. Part of me really wants to curl up in my cozy basement flat with a new book, but I have to meet up with my study group to work on an assignment. After finishing my meal, I hurry downstairs to feed my two kitties, Darcy and Heathcliff, I quickly fill their bowls, apologizing to them for having to leave again so soon. Grabbing my trusty bag, I step outside, trying to shake off the creeping dread that settles over me as I make my way back toward the underground, knowing it’s now dark. The streets feel different under the cloak of night, and I can’t help but feel a sense of urgency as I jog toward the station. The shadows seem to stretch and shift, and with every step, I feel the weight of the city’s history pressing down on me. I remind myself to stay alert, to trust my instincts… but deep down, a whisper of fear lingers, reminding me that in a city like London, anything is possible.