When Jack the Ripper terrorised London in 1888, he would spark a mystery when he disappeared and his string of violent and horrific murders ended as quickly as they began, leaving one of the worlds oldest unsolved crimes in his wake.
Now, in 1907, biographer Charles Hapgood is about to be visited a man with astonishing claims that he was the famous Ripper and wishes to tell his tale before his coming death. Sceptical at first, Hapgood agrees to hear his story, only to soon be shown undisputable proof that his visitor speaks the truth and is who he claims to be.
As Hapgood listens to the man’s tale, he is drawn into a world of pain, cruelty, horror and sadness as he discovers how an innocent child grew into the greatest living monster the world has ever seen.
As the story unfolds he begins to fear for his own safety as the man once known as Jack The Ripper tells his story in his own words, a tale which goes far beyond the known timeline of his horrific crimes and reaches new depths of terror and depravity that Hapgood could never have imagined.
I ama full time professional author / screnwriter who has been making a living from my book income for the last two years. My titles consistently rank in the top 200 for the horror / thriller genre and my previous foreign translations he started to sell well. (the german language edition of funhouse sold over 1000 units in July 2017)
Whitechapel District
London, England 1907
The man kept his eyes fixed on the ground as he turned onto Union Street, head lowered against the chilly December winds which were bitter with the threat of snow. The homes here were clean and tidy, the streets free of the urchins and scum who frequented the slums which were less than a mile to his back. Even these homes paled in comparison to the ornate stonework and brass door knockers of Westminster, however, his journey would not go so far as that. It was here, in the middle classes that was to be his ultimate destination. Twice since he set out that evening he had considered turning back, and yet the fire that burned within him had compelled him to continue the journey. He turned left, making his way to Mountford Street and noticed another change in his surroundings. Here the homes were larger, two-floor affairs, set aside in twin rows on either side of the streets. His eyes darted from door to door, window to window and once again he considered abandoning the entire journey and returning to his lodgings. He slowed the pace of his brisk walk to better see the numbers of the buildings, searching for the one given to him in the letter he received.
The man came to a halt a third of the way down the street, taking a moment to pull his coat closer against the chill bite of the wind and sleet which blasted his face with each gust. He regarded the building. It's unremarkable facade was of grey stone, and the windows were dark and featureless, save one on the lower floor, which was alive with the orange glow of firelight. A short pathway led to three stone steps, and the door, its lion head knocker swaying under the assault of the wind. It was as unwelcoming as it was impressive.
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Luisa Ercolano
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by JOSE CARCAGNOLO NETO
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Jorge Ledezma
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