Chapter 1
From the ages of old, law was created to make order. But when law comes to existence, fuels the flames of crimes that continue to rise even as the years of advancement goes by. Each corner of the world has their bloody history from the hands of man whose greed knows no bounds.
It wasnβt always greed for power and riches, sometimes it can be out of jealousy. Most criminals have motives of killing that ranges from unfairness of life, or because they just love the thrill of killing. Some would even say it was due to their insanity, but who is to be sure if that is true or not
Each country has their infamous serial killers that strike terror of the weak-hearted, most being incarcerated or killed from either death trial or done by their own hands or of old age. Some though, like the infamous Jack the Ripper, have never been caught and would forever be a mystery.
Even to this day, despite improvements in security and laws, criminals are still on the loose and always found a way to be several steps ahead of law enforcement. Such as one killer in question who remains elusive and a mystery.
No identity to be made, and the killings are done far from the eyes and ears of the public where the victims cannot be heard. They covered their tracks very well, often leaving detectives and police very frustrated at the lack of evidence that brings them one step closer.
And when they got one, the killer was already gone to another place to live.
They call the killer βBlack Plagueβ due to the number of kills they have made.
Eerily similar to their predecessor βJack The Ripperβ, they were never caught even with todayβs technology. No fingerprints, no hair or a letter written in blood.
History has repeated itself; now a new killer has invaded Jolly Old London.
Heels click on the pavement of the sidewalks, echoing among the dead of night while making their way down the road in search of a place to settle down. A hum eerily joins along the heel clicks, a tune that sounds like the old nursery rhyme of βLondon Bridgeβ.
The only thing missing would be the fog rolling in, but alas no fog for tonight. Only the dark depressing clouds of a light incoming drizzle.
A childrenβs nursery rhyme used for depravity, sung by the voice of angel yet contains malice intent.
"London Bridge is falling down~ Falling down, falling down~ London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady~"
Unlike their predecessorβs identity, the identity of βBlack Plagueβ is a woman.
Anyone would know itβs a woman by voice, but itβs the fact she conceals her frame and face to remain ambiguous even if it was discovered itβs a woman. She had her hair styled in a bun that is covered by the black fedora hat and wearing a black doctor plague mask. Completely wearing a black trench-coat that hides her body over the black turtleneck, with black jeans and black boots with heels.
She is even wearing black leather gloves, with one of her hands within the pockets of the trench coat.
Just like their predecessor, they love the dramatic flair as they see their killings as some sort of hunting ground and want to look their best. If they are going to be a serial killer might as well have a sense of style, they refuse to be like those brutish brutes with no manners.
Unlike those brutes, at least they have the intelligence to avoid leaving a single trace behind. She adores thinking about the police and detectives being left penniless with nothing to catch her and lock her up. No doubt as the kills piled on, the pressure grew ever heavier in catching them.
Just when those damn self-proclaimed allies of justice thought they finally have a lead, or a clue even, they are always several steps ahead of them. Fleeing state to state is rather tiresome, having the money would have been an issue if they were not well-off.
Distant slurred voices and giggling made them pause and glances ahead to see what looks like a drunken sleazy looking businessman with an equally drunken woman who dresses up like a prostitute making their way down the opposite way towards them.
They didnβt bother to move out of the way while walking in opposite directions on the same sidewalk, and purposely bumped into the drunk man.
That alerted the drunken man. βWatch it, you clumsy bastard! Canβt you see Iβm busy?!β he sneered not realizing he was signing his own death warrant.
That made the killer stop, but didnβt bother to turn around. With alcohol running rampant in his veins, he is ticked off even more seeing that the person in black didnβt bother to look at him.
βHey, Iβm talking to you! You turn around when someone is addressing you!β The man says, approaching to put a hand on the shoulder and whirl them around. Any more words he prepared to say were instantly blocked by sheer cold metal suddenly struck deep in the jugular.
He croaked in shock, blood gathering in his throat before he coughed them out much to the horror of the woman he was with. The killer just stands there, gazing at him as he struggles to breath and choking as she twists the knife making it more painful.
Wordlessly, she pulls it out and lets the man crumble to the ground to bleed out to death. The prostitute steps back with a terrified face, about to let out a scream when suddenly a hand clamped over her mouth.
βYou should have run.β the killer murmurs to the terrified woman, suddenly in front of her and very close.
The prostitute suddenly knee jerked them in the midsection, and the killer grunt in pain as she took off running screaming bloody murder.
βSomeone help me, please someone help me!β She called out sobbing with tears running down her face, her mascara leaking and her lipstick smudged.
She runs as fast as her legs could carry her despite being in high-heels. She hopes she ran into someone, anyone that she could care less as long as they could help her. Even the police on night patrol would be even better.
But then one of her heels broke from the constant stomping, making her fall to the ground with a shriek. She scrambles to get back up, only to wail from feeling a heeled foot slamming her down on the back to the ground hard.
β10 seconds of running. How disappointing.β the killer muses, making the woman freeze in fright wondering how on earth did they catch up to her so fast.
Did that mean they were right behind her this whole time?
βOh well.β
Then she felt the dagger plunge into the back of her neck, and the world blackened instantly after feeling the bones of her spine snap. The killer was unfazed, relishing in the lovely sounds of flesh torn by the sharpness of her dagger and the bones that cracked and snapped from brute force.
βI have to admit, she put up quite the fight but it was never enough to get away.β The Killer says with a sadistic grin after having her fill. The sadist left, leaving the poor woman bleeding to death with a frozen look of fear before taking their last breath.
The echoes of the tune βLondon Bridgeβ travels through the cold air, as though leaving behind the eerie message of death.
The discovery of two dead bodies didnβt take long to be broadcasted in the morning soon after they were found. Two fatal stab wounds in the necks in different areas, while the woman has a black-purplish bruise on her back.
Cause of death were the stab wounds and being bled out. No traces of footprints or even a fingerprint around. It was as though the killer came and went.
The killer returns to their apartment, they take off the mask and fedora revealing waves of bright copper hair. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings of their killings as if it was a collage, they even have newspaper clippings of βJack The Ripperβ.
βWhat a welcoming gift for me, indeed.β She says with a grin formed on her black-painted lips, while removing her trench coat after taking out the bloody dagger. She goes to grab some rubbing alcohol to clean the blood off the dagger with a cloth.
A few good rubs after dowsing it in isopropyl alcohol and the blade is clean that would leave no traces. She holds it up, seeing her own reflection as her crimson eyes glinted with satisfaction at her handiwork.
βGood.β she giggles, seeing the blade still in good shape.
She turns on the tv to look at the news excited with glee to hear her crimes being talked about.
The usual thing to hear from the news. The news anchor stated facts about the findings of the bodies, with police giving their statements and intending to find who is responsible for it. It makes her laugh seeing how determined they are to catch her.
Good luck with that, they donβt even have a single thing that would expose her. She always made sure of it.
She moves to clean her guise before she puts them away in the large storage box and slides in the far corner of her closet. It will remain there for the entire day until night comes again, making her rounds of kills and for Britain to slowly realize a killer is on the loose.
She giggles at the thrill, not only does she have the whole town scared but the police scattering around looking for her. And also five individuals have become a fan of hers as they have a fetish for serial killers.
She just doesnβt know it yet.
She moves across her apartment to fix herself something to eat, humming her favorite creepy rhyme song along the way.
Beaulieu is a lovely town in the borders of Hampshire. The perfect-picture of rural atmosphere that would be ideal for many to visit here for a getaway from the stressful and suffocating urban life. Itβs quite lovely, but sometimes the quaint and peacefulness of it can be boring to some people.
So they try to find ways to conquer their mundane routines, certain individuals although have a deep secret. They are obsessed with true crime stories and have a fetish for serial killers, especially towards the current serial killer of their generation βBlack Plagueβ, comparing them to their predecessor the Infamous βJack the Ripperβ. They knew it was wrong to be attracted towards someone so dangerous but they couldnβt help it.
They never knew how exactly the obsession began, they just donβt know why and how exactly. They at first thought it was normal in their early years, until they were told how disturbing it is to fantasize a killer. Hell they tried to go therapy to quell their fetish.
Therapy did nothing to help them, not even the slightest bit and seeing the best psychiatrist was no good either. Nothing helped, nothing that they were instructed to do failed and now they had to be stuck with the unhealthy obsession of being secretly crazy over serial killers. Mainly towards the βBlack Plagueβ.
It definitely interfered with their dating life, not being interested in anyone at all and even if they did cave in to date someone, theyβd be bored instantly and dump them after only one week or two of dating.
They wanted to have a normal and healthy relationship, live a normal life but they couldnβt because of their fetish. Despite that they never wrote any letters towards serial killers. Yeah they have a fetish but they have boundaries unlike those βfansβ.
At this time, a woman is at the cafΓ© with her phone out, looking up the latest news article about two people being killed just last night.
Instead of being horrified, a blush forms on her face. She should feel ashamed but instead she doesnβt. She has blond hair with red eyes and pale skin. She was wearing a golden yellow dress showing off her figure and showing the appropriate amount of cleavage, and she also wore black heeled sandals.
βThe knife work on those bodies... Itβs how the Black Plague kills off the victims...β the woman mumbles to herself, so no one would catch on to her admiring the kills.
βDoes this mean... the Black Plague is here in England?β she adds. Last she checked, the killer was believed to be in Brazil due to the unusually high numbers of people gone missing and were found dead.
She got a text from her friend. βDid you see the news? Is it the Black Plague?β they asked her.
βIt seems like it. The wounds are very precise to make a swift kill. No one else but the Black Plague can pull it off.β she responds to her friend, her fingers moving fast on the screen of her phone.
βSo then, does that mean the Black Plague is here in England now?β the friend responds.
βItβs possible.β she says to them.
βI feel so bad for being attracted to a serial killer...β they meekly responded to the woman.
βDonβt we all? Sometimes Iβd think someone wired our brains to have questionable tastes.β she comments. She began playing with her hair using her other hand, twirling the strands while looking back to the article.
βThe kills were done in London. Quite ironic given that is where the infamous Jack the Ripper made his debut.β she adds.
β²I think they may be playing tribute to them, given that Jack The Ripper has never been caught. What if we tried to find them?β² They suggested.
βWhy try to find them? Thatβs like literally asking to die.β the woman questioned. Even though the sensible part of her finds this a terrible idea to preserve her own life, her darker other side on the other hand was intrigued.
βI know but this is our only chance. I will admit, I am scared since we are trying to find a serial killer but donβt you find it exciting?β They asked her.
Sometimes she questions her friend as this is literally going to be the death of them just to find a dangerous killer. But she hates to admit that the thought of it gets her blood pumping with excitement in tracking the killer down.
The mystery around the killer with no survivors that live to tell the tale. An ambiguous figure whether the killer is a man or woman. Most would always think itβs a man, but even women can be serial killers as well.
βI hate that you got me there.β the woman messages back with a huff.
β²I know I have been conflicted about this as well, but I canβt help it. I tried to be in denial but that won out, Gelda.β² they stated to her.
They werenβt the only ones having tried to deny their issues. It was hard to even accept it, no matter how much they all tried to undo it.
But it was persistent, like a leech stuck to them. Itβs something they have to live with.
Gelda just sighed heavily. βDid the others think the same about tracking the killer down?β She messaged.
βKnowing the guys, theyβd try to talk it out. If weβre going to find them, we have to at least outsmart them at their own game.β² they suggested to her.
βOkay, but what are we trying to accomplish here? βshe questioned.
Finding the serial killer is one thing, but what is the end goal here? Just trying to figure out who is beneath the mask or what?
β²I donβt know, outside of curing a selfish fetish.β² they replied.
That... sounds reasonable. But still a rather outrageous way to consider finding the serial killer to get rid of the fetish.
βThat is the craziest thing to cure ourselves.β Gelda comments.
βMeet up at my place as usual that way we could come up with a plan?β They asked
No point in talking this out, she thinks to herself. βYeah, the usual. Iβll be there in ten minutes.β Gelda responds and after a few seconds she got a thumbs-up emoji as a reply. She went ahead to get her order, which is a cup of latte on the go.
She gets her cup, and makes her way out of the cafΓ© to her friendβs place.
