In whispered tales of blood and dread,
One name stands tall among the dead.
A phantom born from London’s night,
Whose shadow swallowed gaslamp light.
He killed in ways that chilled the bone,
Yet left no reason, truth unknown.
No motive penned, no public plea—
Just carnage veiled in mystery.
But once, he chose to break his spell,
And sent a message “straight from Hell.”
A chilling note, a morbid jest—
A taunt delivered to the best.
On October’s twelfth, in ’88,
George Lusk returned through iron gate.
A businessman, with noble aim,
Whose district bled from death and shame.
He grabbed his mail laid by the door—
Invites, letters, nothing more.
But at the bottom lay a card,
Its ink like scars, its tone unmarred.
For months now, women met their fate
In alleys cold and narrow late.
Four deaths in two months stained the ground,
The killer free—still never found.
Just weeks before, a woman’s cries
Were stilled beneath the London skies.
Her corpse, defiled in savage spree,
Was found without a kidney—missing, free.
And now George held a written threat,
From he-who-hunted silhouettes.
“I see your watchers. I don’t care.
I kill at will—beware, beware.
Tomorrow night, I strike again,
Two victims more than I have slain.”
George fled his house in terror’s flame,
To show police this note of blame.
And though authorities agreed
It felt authentic in its creed,
They shrugged and said, “We cannot know—
Stay home, stay safe, don’t wander so.”
Days crawled by with anxious breath,
No double murder, no new death.
George told himself the note was lies,
A prank beneath September skies.
But then—on October’s sixteenth night—
He found a package, small and light.
Wrapped in paper, plain and brown,
A silent gift from somewhere dark in town.
Inside—a letter placed on top,
Its opening words enough to stop
A beating heart, a pulse to quell:
Two words carved bold—
“FROM HELL.”
Beneath it lay a gruesome prize,
A halved organ before his eyes.
A kidney severed, cold and raw—
A piece of death no man should saw.
The letter claimed the other half
Was eaten whole, with wicked laugh.
And this remaining grisly part
Was gifted straight to George’s heart.
To this day scholars still debate
If these were words of killer’s fate.
But many claim, with whispered breath,
Those notes were truly Jack of Death.
For all we have, no more, no less,
Are letters sealed in blood and stress.
A killer silent, save one spell—
A message carved…
Straight from Hell.