The gently creeping autumn wind seemed to whisper eerie secrets as it drifted in through the open window. Emma wondered what stories the wind had to tell. She sat up, brushing her long, tangled, black hair out of her eyes. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if her fragile limbs could ward off the cold. She peered out of the window, down at the trash-strewn street, which was vacant save the homeless men wrapped in ragged blankets sleeping on the side of the road. Homeless men weren’t uncommon in the impoverished Whitechapel district of London. This was never a cheerful place, but 1888 was proving to be an especially trying year with the string of murders, which had rattled the district for the past few months. Emma felt her heart falling into her stomach in bitter disappointment at the sight of the poor, ordinary men outside of her window. She had been hoping to see someone a little more unusual. She had yearned to catch another glimpse of the man who had called up to her from the street the past three nights.
She felt a chill, which she assured herself was from the wind as she remembered his pale smiling face staring up into her bedroom window. He had called her name softly, still smiling so widely that it didn’t seem quite possible for a human face to do. He had been tall, with tousled blond hair, and somewhat unnaturally sharp looking teeth which were so white they seemed to compete with the moon for the task of illuminating the gloomy street. His eyes had struck her more than anything. They were bright, almost glowing green. She remembered being able to see those strange, enchanting, eyes all the way up from her second story window. Each time he appeared, he had vanished into the night before Emma could reply to his calls, leaving her desperate to see him again.
Ever since seeing the man for the first time, Emma had pondered at why such a clearly upstanding gentleman would ever call out the name of a poor girl like herself. She found herself so consumed with thoughts of the stranger that she didn’t even worry over matters which should have been pressing. She barely thought of the girls who had been killed by ‘the ripper,’ which was what the newspapers called the killer who was stalking Whitechapel. She brushed off her mother’s neurotic talk of the rumors that the murder victims had been seen by locals walking through the streets at night, alive and well if exceptionally pale.
The night didn’t bring much sleep for Emma, as she was haunted with thoughts of the enigmatic figure. The next morning she was disturbed by the sound of her father’s yells. There was a soft creak of the floorboards outside of Emma’s bedroom, and she hurried to let her little sister, Abigail into the room. Abigail was nineteen, only a few years younger than Emma, yet she relied on her older sister to act as a motherly figure. This was possibly because her real mother was incapable of doing so. Emma shook off her thoughts of the mysterious figure, which had kept her awake, and hurried towards the sound of the dispute between her parents.
She was not surprised to see her mother gazing at her from a swollen, purplish black eye. There was blood dripping from her mother’s eye, trickling down into her mouth, nose, and ears. Emma ignored her father, who was standing in the hallway breathing heavily, and wiped her mother’s face and neck with her hand. Emma held her mother’s delicate silver cross necklace between her fingers for a moment before wiping the blood away from the metal. She met her mother’s eyes meaningfully as she did so. The necklace was a family heirloom, passed from mother to daughter through generations, starting when the family had been prosperous enough to buy such a luxurious item. Emma had never said how much she wanted to have the necklace, and she never would. She was sure that it would go to Abigail, the prettier sister, the one with all of the potential suitors. Emma slowly unlocked her fingers around the necklace, and let it fall back onto her mother’s neck. Her father glared at the two women’s exchange.
Emma’s father was a brute of a man, he was tall and strong, and more Ape like then man like. His right eye was big and brown, just like Emma’s and her sister’s, but his right eye was rolled back and pale blue. He had been born blind in that eye. Emma met both of his angry eyes briefly before walking downstairs to prepare a morning meal.
Abigail tiptoed down the stairs for breakfast not long after Emma began clinking the dishes about loudly enough for her sister to hear her upstairs. It was a quiet sort of meal, like many in the Starr family’s house. Emma’s father read the newspaper while her mother repeatedly refilled his coffee. He shook his head slowly as he read the headline.
“There’s been another murder,” he said. “Twenty five year old Mary Jeanette Kelly was found brutally mutilated late last night…Horrible.” His face displayed no emotion, and Emma wondered if he really thought it was horrible at all.
  It proved to be an ordinary sort of day. Emma, her sister, and her mother dusted and scrubbed every surface of the dingy little house while her father went off to work. Abigail and her mother chatted and giggled as they worked, pointing out handsome young men outside the window. They ended up spending much of the day leaning against the walls they were supposed to be cleaning, as Emma worked around them.
The tedium of cleanliness made Emma’s head pound as it did every day. The seconds felt like minutes, and the minutes like hours. The cracked old clock on the side of the living room seemed to mock Emma with its slow, ever steady ticking.
The time did eventually pass, and the sun disappeared beyond the greyish rooftops outside of the window. Emma knew that this meant that her father would be home soon, and she dreaded seeing him and hearing his grievances about the houses’ filthy status as she did every evening. It was never going to be clean enough, no matter how much they scrubbed.
Every moment was hell. Emma wished that she could freeze herself in time, and let the clock keep on ticking and leave her behind in a separate sort of reality. She would have sold her soul to have her wish.
“Are there any young suitors in your life, Emma?” asked her mother, sitting down on the tattered little sofa.
“No,” Emma said. Her mother sighed as if in the deepest disappointment, and leaned her head farther back against the sofa.
“None at all?” she asked.
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Emma replied respectfully. She turned away so that her mother did not see her wrinkled nose, but her sister saw it, and looked at Emma knowingly. What was she supposed to do? She had no desire to live the life her mother did, constantly fearing the fists of her spouse, trapped in a miserable and pathetic existence with company she secretively despised.
Emma embraced the chill of the November night, which trickled through the cracks in the wall after she finished helping wash the dishes. She hurried up to her bedroom window and peered out in anticipation. The strange man was not there again.
She sighed, and made her way over to her closet to retrieve her nightgown. Despite her physically exhausting day, and the comfort that her blankets brought against the cold, she couldn’t truly sleep. She found herself drifting through a slumber in which while she knew that she was lying still in her bed, yet she was also dreaming.
In her dream she heard a soft, steady knocking on the door. At first she thought that the sound was that of the clock in the living room downstairs. She realized after a moment that the sound of the incessantly ticking clock was for once, silent. No, the sound she heard was someone knocking on the door.
Emma made her way to the door in her dream, and opened it to find the mysterious man who had called to her from the streets, standing on the threshold. In his hands, he held a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. She smiled, and took them, inviting the stranger in graciously.
He came through the door for only a moment before beckoning her to join him outside. His bright green eyes reminded Emma of a snake, they were so hypnotic. She followed him outside, and they walked through the streets, laughing, and talking of nothing.
He bought her a dress more elegant then any of the richest ladies in Whitechapel owned, and shoes that Emma imagined the Queen would gladly wear. They danced in the most exclusive pubs, and drank the finest champagnes.
Even as they danced and laughed, Emma was almost certain that none of it was real. Despite the excitement of the night, she was always thinking, in the back of her mind, that it was only a dream. As the early hours of the morning approached, he walked her to her front door.
“You never told me your name,” she said, turning before walking inside.
“It’s Jack,” was all he said as he vanished into the night. Of course, it was only a dream. She had been in her bed the entire night. It was a mystery why, when she awoke, her legs felt tired from dancing, and her mouth still tasted of last night’s champagne.
It might have been another tiring day, but Emma was barely aware of the passing time. She cleaned and listened to her mother and her sister’s banter without truly being there. She felt as if she were still dreaming. She didn’t even notice the sound of the obnoxious clock.
She hurried to her room when the sun set, but she didn’t even go to her bed. She waited beside the window, gazing out onto the street for the enigmatic stranger. She didn’t have any idea how long she waited. It may have been several hours, or it may have been only minutes, or even seconds. The cold wind drifted in the bedroom window, seeming to murmur invitingly into her ears.
  Jack appeared in the street again, and this time, Emma was certain that he wasn’t a dream. She felt as if the old wooden floor beneath her feet was less real then him. She was certain that it was her mother and father and sister who were figments of her imagination, and not this man who she suddenly no longer wanted to call a stranger.
He called out to her, and she came. He no longer had to knock at the door. Emma was by his side without any memory of going down the stairs. She was certain that there was something off about the evening and after a moment’s thought she realized that the wind didn’t feel cold against her skin as she walked through the streets with him.
The evening went by in a blur. It was as if time had frozen around the two of them, and continued outside of their private existence. All that Emma knew was that she was having a marvelous time.
Eventually, time seemed to slow again, and Emma was somehow aware that the sun would soon rise. The idea was oddly unsettling to her. She wanted to stay in the dark forever. She didn’t remember much of her activities throughout the night, there were only blurred ideas. She was certain that there had been a lot of the color red. She thought that perhaps she had worn a red dress, although she didn’t think that was it. She also remembered that they had dined on something fantastic, although she didn’t remember what.
“The sun will rise soon,” Jack said.
“Yes,” Emma replied. She realized that she was walking past her home, although it somehow didn’t feel so much like home.
“Do you want to go back?” Jack asked, gesturing to the house. Emma didn’t reply. She was walking towards the door in a trancelike state. She knocked very softly. It was Abigail who answered the door.
“Emma?” she asked yawning. Emma simply smiled at her sister, very widely. “You look so pretty. Where did you get such nice, red, lipstick?” Emma didn’t answer. She could feel the breeze moving her hair, but she no longer felt its chill. She didn’t wonder what stories the wind had to tell.  “Won’t you come in?” Abigail asked, opening the door widely.
Emma hesitated at the doorway. She felt the odd desire to run away, to never come back. She felt as if her heart should be pumping at breakneck speed, yet she couldn’t seem to feel her pulse moving. She took a step inside.