NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 7, 2026
Witness: Zero
Witness: Zero
November 12, 1888
The late nineteenth century in London is not a pleasant place or time to live in.
As the 1880s come to an end, danger is at my doorstep.
A series of murders following five females, Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine
Eddows, and Mary Jane Kelly has stirred chaos among the locals of London.
This may seem off topic, but my name, “Fannie,” comes from the Latin word, Franciscus, meaning free one or
freedom. So, I have taken it upon myself to figure out who is responsible for these brutal murders. Although I’m
not the sharpest tool in the shed, my determination itself is enough to drive me deep into this case until I can set
these people free or the fear that consumes them.
November 15, 1888
I suppose I have vastly overestimated myself. My factual knowledge is quite little, if I do say so myself. Today is
the day that I got to know that this notorious serial killer is known as “Jack the Ripper.” I find this name mediocre,
for “Jack” is too simple to fit someone who has the ability to commit such horrifying crimes.
I am beginning to think that I should keep a journal to remind myself of each and every fact that I have gathered so
far. “Frances, come down for dinner,” my mother’s voice slices through the silence, snapping me out of my enigma
of thoughts. I set my ideas aside for a moment, for I have all the time in the world to solve this case.
November 17, 1888
I don’t have all the time in the world to solve this case. It is now that the realization has dawned on me that Jack the
Ripper could strike anytime. So far, I have visited the house of Mary Ann and Elizabeth Stride’s parents, simply to
question them about where their daughters went before they were met with tragic circumstances.
A similarity that I have noticed between both of their stories is that they occurred during the evening, which I could
have assumed, but confirmation helps solidify this. My current plan is to go out around 6 p.m., generally with a
weapon for self-defense, and record my observations, noting any specific people
that we see frequently. It may be a vague plan, but I have to try to do whatever I can to save lives.
November 25, 1888
Surprisingly, in the past few days, a new murder was committed. My observations have been dry, and I haven’t
noticed anything unusual. Perhaps all of this is over, and I’m simply chasing ghosts. I do believe that a person this
cruel deserves to be punished, but I won’t be the one wasting my life away just to punish him. If the police can find
out who it is, then I’m happy, but this is the end of my investigation.
December 25, 1888
On this delightful December evening, I glance down the alleyway as I make my way through the thin passage.
Something shifts in less than a second. Red splatters as the scene unfolds in front of my eyes. There lies the body
of a woman, coated in crimson, taking her last breaths. I think I know who the man beside her is, a powerful figure,
and I can’t do anything. So I do the only thing I can do. I run.
January 1, 1889
I can’t live knowing what I’ve done, acknowledging my cowardice. The irony is suffocating me, for I found just
who I was looking for, and I let him get away with it. I can’t, I won’t live this façade, I don’t deserve to. What if he
kills more women, ruins more lives? So, I take a leap of faith, as my mind fades to black, thinking of what I could
have done, and what I should have done.
