The Autumn of Terror, Whitechapel, 1888.

An evil shadow walks the murky, fog-covered streets in search of hi next victim.

The lane is silent. Only the whistling of the wind forms any sound. Without warning, it ceases. An ominous chill invades the dark lane as fog creeps in and dances over the damp cobblestones beneath my feet. I am alone. Or a I?

Beneath a gas-li street lamp, no more than ten yards from where I stand, he waits. I turn to run: however, my legs fail to move. I look back into the street. He is gone. A momentary wave of relief washes over me, until from the shaows, his warm breath sweeps along the back of my neck, and a steel blade presses to my throat. There is no Escape.

The year is 1954. After 66 long, tormented years, the truth will be revealed.

An old man sits in his musty flat, scribbling his inner monologue, divulging the very memories that will finally set the truth free, once and for all, answer history's greatest ridde. The riddle that has baffled the world for more than half a century; who was Jack the Ripper?