Accidents happen. It's a fact of life. No matter what you do or how vigilant you are, Fate likes to stick out her leg and trip you up. To see you go flying and sprawl out in the spillage or fragments of whatever you were holding. To scare the animal to make it run in front of your car and cause you to swerve. She feels for the tree you hit, but finds it difficult to particularly care. She's had her fun. She doesn't get much. Accidents are her playtime before she has to return to helping the world turn.

A weighty responsibility.

I had responsibility weighing on my shoulders too, so I empathised.

Slipping on the old, discarded newspaper, unnoticed in the dim light of the gloomy attic, my foot hit the wooden wall, breaking the aged timber. My back slammed down on the floor, knocking the breath from my lungs to tango with the thick cloud of dust which leapt into the air at my impact. I lay there, winded, hurting and stunned for a long moment while the haze of neglect threatened to clog my lungs and induce a violent coughing fit. My foot remained jammed into a hole in the boarding lining the loft, changing it from a cold, spooky space to a cold, spooky room.

I swore. Loudly. Pulling my foot free, I swore again as my shoe came off and I heard it drop with a dull, flat, thud. The stark winter outside was seeping through gaps in the roofing and caressing me with its icy fingers. I shivered, a movement which encompassed the tremble of a shudder at the prospect of having to put my hand into the void and rummage around in the untouched darkness behind the wall.

Closing my eyes against the grimace on my face, I reached in and down. Thankfully, I didn't have to probe too far before I found my shoe and attempted to pull it out.

Something crawled across my hand.

I recoiled, dropping my shoe and scraping my hand against the splintered edge. I swore. It was the third time in as many minutes. Perhaps the shadow soaked attic was unnerving me. A single bulb hung bare from the middle of the ceiling, a newborn Sauron's eye, not yet mature enough for greater luminescence, watching me closely. Mocking me.

Breathe. Spiders are just little creatures with long legs. We aren't like Australia and the like, where spiders are little creatures with long legs and venom. We had the unarmed type, happy to scare you but unable to follow up on any threat. I gritted my teeth and reached back in.

Nothing ran across my hand this time but, instead, I felt something bulky. It wasn't my shoe. The discovery appeared to be a container of some kind, a box. Very old and faded, with a tiny latch on the front. On the top was carved an ornate 'J'.

My initial. J for Jack. Had belonged to my grandfather? I bore his name, after a fashion. He had been Joseph, and my parents didn't like the fact it would be abbreviated to Joe so called me Jack.

It was also tribute to the ludicrous allegations against my grandfather. Murderer. As if. From what my father told me, even though our lineage wasn't well known - having apparently sprung forth from the loins of a notorious serial killer wasn't something you advertised - his brief memories, however distant, of Joseph Barnett were pleasant.

Of course, not a scrap of proof existed, though that didn't stop the allegations and intimidation. These were nothing more than stories to me. A childhood tale from my father to chill me at night. I didn't know if it were true. I didn't care. It had no bearing on who I was. It had no hand in moulding me and my sensibilities. Part of me believed my father to be a storyteller eager to frighten his son - not vindictively, but in the spirit of on-the-edge-of-acceptable bedtime entertainment and hiding behind pillows. Part of me thought it would be cool if it were true. I mean, my grandfather, Jack the Ripper...?

The real attraction of the Ripper legend was the fact that it had never been proven. So many theories aroused imaginations over the years, the decades were resplendent with the foliage of fools who thought they could trim back the forest to get to the seeds of truth. The chance that my grandfather really had been the killer was slim, and probably that was a good thing.

I used my thumb nail to pop the latch. There was a small lock but it seemed not to be engaged. The metal of the latch was corroded and left a tiny residue beneath my nail. I removed it under the influence of my OCD before lifting the lid. I felt like Christmas had come a week early and I was opening my first gift. My hands tingled with anticipation.

The box was larger inside than I expected. A threadbare layer of material blanketed the innards, clinging to the top edge as if attempting to climb out. A wisp of trapped air escaped and seemed to lunge at my nose, desperate to be inhaled after being imprisoned for so long. It was dry and tasted of age. I licked my lips and was surprised by the slight coppery flavour, as if I'd bitten my lip and had bled without knowing.

The contents of the box were arranged neatly. They were packed in a precise manner, ensuring even though it had been moved, the items therein didn't. They weren't jammed in, but placed in such a way that they were fixed between each other. And everything was wrapped in what appeared to be cotton handkerchiefs.

Carefully, for the box and objects seemed to warrant prudence rather than the unbridled enthusiasm of a child, I emptied the box piece by mysterious piece. Excitement coursed through me, bringing with it a torrent of feelings I did not recognise. I was momentarily dizzy and had to support myself by leaning forward and placing my hands on the dusty floor. The sensation passed rapidly and I sat back, brushing my hands to clean them.

I thought to contemplate the buzz that made me pause in my examination and seemed to take me away from myself but, instead, ignored it. It was simply the thrill of a lost treasure. I was Quartermain with his mines. Indiana with his Arc. Jack with his... Well, I needed to find out.

I picked up the first treasure. It felt, ensconced within the handkerchief, to be material, flopping in my hand like a swooning maiden. I peeled back the covering and discovered a pair of gloves. They were once white but were tarnished with age and streaked dark brown. Old blood? Rather than feeling shocked, I found myself slipping them on. They fitted like the proverbial items they were. I balled my fists to stretch them around my fingers. They were warm. Snug. It was a pleasant sensation.

The next item was long and stiff. A pen, perchance? No. It wasn't a pen. It was a scalpel. Age had yet to leave a blemish on its polished surface and I examined the blade. It was as clean as the shaft, with no hint of use, but there was a vague aroma reminiscent of the coppery taste which had flavoured my lips.

For a moment, I was lost in its precision, a compulsion overtaking me. I removed the glove from my left hand and, without taking a cautionary breath, pressed the blade against my palm. It slid into my flesh as if being made welcome, the skin and muscle embracing the steel. There was no pain. Only a little blood. When I pulled the blade free, it was clear, showing me nothing but my own reflection. My pallor paled. My eyes bearing darker circles than the healthy sleep I normally achieved should have warranted.

I sucked on the wound I'd made. The blood began to flow more freely and the metallic tang was strangely invigorating. Still, for some reason, there was no pain. I looked at the cut, licking away the blood that had begun to slow. As I watched, the cut closed until there was nothing to indicate any damage had occurred.

I licked my hand clean, tempted to use the scalpel once more. The taste was addictive. The energy was a lure within me.

With no small effort, I placed the blade on its handkerchief next to the box and retrieved the next object. It was had an odd sponginess to it. When unwrapped, it resembled a pear in shape, with tubes extending either side. It was deep red, verging on black. Revulsion should have overcome me, but my responses were distinctly affected. At first, I was unsure of what the entity was. Could it be some form of fruit, withered and rotten from the years of storage?

Then I understood. It wasn't a fruit. It bore fruit. Fruit of the loins.

I held a uterus.

I could not help but turn it in my gloved hands. A small piece of the thicker body became detached and dropped. I caught it and held it to my nose, smelling it. My stomach grumbled. My tongue licked. My stomach grumbled again, voicing some unnatural urge. With a faint slurp, I sucked the morsel into my mouth, allowing it to settle for a moment on my tongue's bed of taste buds before swallowing. My stomach seemed to sigh, a sound somewhere between pleasure and desire.

Rather than simply lay the uterus down, I wrapped it carefully back up, allowing it the reverence it deserved.

The next item was longer and thicker. Like the scalpel, it was a cylinder and was hard, resistant to the pressure I applied. I removed the handkerchief and held a cigar tube. It felt out of place. The gloves, blade and uterus were of a similar tone and I could imagine them to be linked to each other. The gloved hands held the knife which removed the woman's womb. What part did the cigar play in the theatre of murder?

I pulled the cap off and shook the tube into my hand. A rolled up sheet of paper, wax sealed with an emblem no longer recognisable, slid free. I broke the seal with a satisfying snap, crumbs falling onto my lap. I swept them away, not realising I was doing so until the act was complete.

The paper unrolled easily, appearing as fresh as if it had only recently been secreted away. The hand which had written the words had been steady. Precise. The words conveyed an air of arrogance and I could sense the sharp smile cutting the author's face as easily as the scalpel had my hand. He was carving them into the paper, etching them in ink as he had with blade and blood during his eviscerations.

Dear Boss

They never caught me. I knew they wouldn't. I loved my work and I couldn't stop. It weren't just for jolly, it was for need. I needed to do this grand work. She had my child and gave it away. No asking. No wondering. No getting rid so she could ply her trade. So she gave me reason to come down on whores. I never thought I'd be the sort to play these funny little games, but when I wear the gloves and open the box I found with the handkerchiefs in, what I used to wrap my toys, I couldn't help myself. And I didn't want to. I don't know who might read this once I'm gone but mayhap you'll follow on my game.

Yours truly

Jack

It appeared the allegations were no longer the taint of excrement smeared upon his memory. The letter told, in phrasing reminiscent of the fabled note to the police, of my grandfather's guilt. I felt relief rather than disgust. The mystery was solved. The fact the man I was descended from was the culprit was... empowering? Why did I feel energised by the knowledge? Why did I know I would keep this revelation to myself?

Because I was proud?

'She.' Mary Jane Kelly, it had to be. The Ripper's final victim. Did he save her for last? Did he let her become more terrified of her potential fate? Prostitutes of the time were living in fear thanks to the trail of victims my grandfather left. Perhaps he deliberately let that trail lead to her. The most deserving.

She had, after all, given my father up. If she, as the letter suggested, aborted the pregnancy, then I wouldn't be living myself. Still, she had abandoned my grandfather's son. Not given him the chance to enjoy the blessings of fatherhood with the woman he loved.

Eagerly, I picked up the final object in the box. I could tell immediately what precious token the handkerchief held within its warm embrace. A bottle. I could surmise, without looking, what bottle that might be. Ginger beer, I'd wager.

I took the material shroud away and gazed in wonder. The bottle mentioned in Jack the Ripper's other Dear Boss letter. Labelled ginger beer, yet containing a thick, glue-like liquid that once was intended to be used as ink. I unscrewed the cap and sniffed, inhaling the fumes as I would the smell of fresh baked bread or newly trimmed grass on a fresh summer's day.

I had to. I just had to tip it and pour a drop of the contents onto my tongue. I savoured its essence. Rolled its meaty volume, thickened by time, around my mouth. It coated my throat in a warm blanket which held the winter air at bay. I was no longer cold. The late December chill was banished. I felt heat. Passion.

I replaced the cap, set the bottle down and pulled on the glove I'd removed. I picked up the scalpel and drew it down in a straight line before me, slicing the dust that floated like an audience dancing with expectancy. I turned my attention to my original reason for venturing into the attic's hidden depths. The old Christmas tree, huddled in its battered, taped box.

I could imagine decorations more agreeable than tinsel and baubles.

Entrails and ears. Eyeballs

I had some grand work to do.