So that’s how I die

The fog felt like a curtain drawn over the world, thick and unyielding. It smothered the Whitechapel streets in ghostly shrouds, muting every sound except for the echo of my own hesitant steps. A dog barked somewhere—ragged and distant, swallowed by the mist. The scent of wet stone, pipe smoke, and stale beer clung to the air. As I walked, a shiver slid down my spine, though it had nothing to do with the cold. I should have turned back.

But retreat was impossible. Not tonight. The memories pressed too hard, a suffocating weight I couldn’t bear within the suffocating walls of my family home. Even as I wandered, some part of me knew it was unwise—a lone woman in Whitechapel after dark, seeking solace in streets that held no safety. But solitude felt less dangerous than the ghosts I’d left behind.

I drew my cloak tighter around me, stepping around puddles that reflected the dim flicker of gaslight. The alley I passed narrowed, the shadows twisting into forms that seemed almost alive. There was a heaviness in the air, an unnatural stillness, as though the city itself were holding its breath.

Then, rounding a narrow alley, I saw her.

A woman, garbed in the fine silks of a noble, stumbled forward, clutching her throat. Her gown—a royal green and gold brocade—glimmered in the faint gaslight spilling from the street, yet I could see a dark, wet stain spreading down the front, a grim flower of blood blooming across the silk.

She gasped, dropping to her knees. The flickering lamplight illuminated her features for just a second—features that struck me with an odd, disturbing familiarity. Her wide, terrified eyes met mine, pleading as if to say, Help me. And yet, my feet felt glued to the cobblestones. I stood transfixed, horror twisting inside me, rising from my belly to my throat, too stunned to move.

My mind rebelled against what it was seeing. No… this isn’t real. It can’t be. That face… pale, lifeless. Her face. My face. Blood trickling down, pooling… no. Was this madness? An illusion conjured by exhaustion and grief? But every detail felt too vivid, too cruel to be a dream. I blinked, willing the image away, yet there I was—dead, crumpled, empty-eyed. A scream clawed at my throat, but no sound came out.

A tall, gaunt figure cloaked in black stepped from the shadows, his face hidden beneath a hood, but his build was unmistakable—tall, thin, with a gauntness that made him almost skeletal. He held a knife with a scarlet edge, and before I could cry out, he twisted her head with a sickening crunch, then drove the blade deep into her chest.

I clamped a gloved hand over my mouth, stifling a horrified scream. I wanted to run, but something—some morbid fascination—kept my feet planted, as if the horror itself held me captive.

He stood, satisfied, and wiped the blood from his blade with a chilling reverence, as though the murder were a ritual. The woman’s body slumped forward onto the cobblestones, her head turned at an unnatural angle, eyes open but lifeless, fixed on me.

“So that’s how I die, with an alley for a grave.”

I stumbled backward, the scrape of my boot against stone deafening in the heavy silence. The man tilted his head, his hidden gaze burning through the fog. A chill slithered down my spine, my pulse pounding like a drum in my ears.

The dead woman’s face—my face—stared back at me, pale and slack against the cobblestones. My fingers pressed to my throat, searching for the beat of my pulse, but all I felt was cold air. The sight before me held fast, an unrelenting nightmare.

I’m here, alive, I tried to convince myself. But my own empty eyes mocked me from the ground, blood-smeared and lifeless. My vision blurred, the world spiraling around me. A scream rose in my throat, but no sound emerged—I was already… lost.

I pressed my palm to my cheek; the warmth was faint, slipping through my fingers like the last breath of a cooling corpse. My pulse flickered, fragile as a guttering flame. Was I… already gone?

A heavy silence hung in the air until it shattered with a single word: “Miss?”

A rough, scratchy voice broke through the fog, snapping me back to the moment. The assassin had stopped a few paces from me, still holding his bloodied knife. A grin tugged at his thin lips, a grotesque mockery of civility.

“Are you… lost?” he asked, sounding almost amused. His words echoed in the fog, distorted and warped, as if we stood in a hall of mirrors.

“I—no… no,” I stammered, my voice barely more than a whisper. I staggered back, pressing into the rough, damp bricks, the chill biting through my cloak, down to my bones. He tilted his head, seeming to appraise me with a dark curiosity. “Funny… you look like you’ve lost something precious.”

My gaze darted from him to the body sprawled on the ground—my body. “This… can’t be happening…” I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips.

‘Come,’ he murmured, sliding the blood-streaked knife back into his coat with a casualness that made my skin crawl. ‘I know a place. Somewhere… warm.’

Heart pounding, I turned and ran, the cobblestones slick beneath my feet, the fog swallowing every desperate step.

“Help!” I gasped, my voice thin and desperate, swallowed by the suffocating fog. “Someone, please!”

My words hung in the air, unanswered, until they withered into silence. I whirled around, half-expecting to see a constable emerge from the mist, a friendly hand reaching out to pull me from this waking nightmare. But there was only more fog, thick and unmoving, pressing against me like unseen hands. My pulse raced; I felt like prey trapped in a hunter’s snare.

The scrape of a boot behind me sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, and there he was—the assassin, emerging from the shadows like a specter. His hooded gaze found me, pinned me in place, and the knife glinted in his hand, its crimson edge still dripping. My blood ran cold.

“Running will do you no good, Eleanor,” he said, his voice smooth, almost pitying. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, savoring my fear. I pressed back against the stone wall. Why does he know my name? I wondered, heart pounding.

“Go ahead,” he continued, voice like a rusted hinge. “Run again. Scream louder, if you think it will matter.”

The assassin’s gaze didn’t waver, but his next words cut deeper than any blade. “If you want to end up like her”—his gloved hand gestured to the alley, to my lifeless body—“you’re welcome to refuse my offer.”

Panic surged, warring with something darker—a compulsion, a pull I couldn't name. “No,” I said, my voice a hollow echo in the fog.

“Ah, Eleanor.” His tone turned almost wistful. “Some things refuse to be forgotten—especially you.” He took a step closer, his tone hardening. ‘Come. Let’s share a drink.’”

I tried to summon courage, to fight, but my limbs felt leaden. A sickening pull gripped my chest, as if unseen chains wrapped around my heart, binding me in place. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. It was as if the fog itself willed me to stay, binding me to the spot. Panic surged in my veins. Why couldn’t I move? Was this death’s grasp, dragging me down into oblivion?

The assassin stepped closer, until only a breath of space separated us. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his words a cold caress. “The pull. You cannot escape what you are.”

His words struck me like a physical blow. What I am? I wanted to scream, to deny whatever twisted reality he spoke of, but his eyes held me captive, and a terrible certainty crept in: this was not just fear keeping me here. Something deeper, older, and far more insidious had bound me to this moment.

I shuddered, pressing a hand to my chest. Beneath my palm, my heartbeat was faint and fragile, like the flutter of a dying bird. Am I even alive? My breath quickened, and I fought the urge to collapse. No. This was madness. I was here. I had to be. I needed answers.

The assassin tilted his head, a hint of amusement in the twist of his lips. “Curiosity brought you to this moment, Eleanor. It won’t spare you.” He sheathed his knife with slow precision, then extended a gloved hand. “But come. I can offer you answers—if you have the courage to face them.”

Every instinct roared in protest. I should run, fight, anything but take that hand. But the pull was still there, deep and irresistible. What choice did I have? I needed to know—why my death, why my face, why this impossible horror. Even if it meant stepping closer to the abyss.

With trembling fingers, I reached out and let him guide me from the alley. Cold seeped into my bones as we moved, every step a surrender to the unknown. A quiet dread coiled in my gut—I knew this path would lead me far from safety, deeper into shadows that would devour me. Whatever answers awaited, they would demand a price I wasn’t ready to pay. But it was too late. My fate had already taken hold.