The Autumn of Terror

by Orkus

Rating: teen
Tags: Mystery, Horror, Drama, Dark, Thriller
Length: 1297

A monstrous serial killer simply going by the name of "Jack the Ripper" roams around the streets of Trottingham at night, preying on the innocent and random. Only three investigators may hold the key to stopping this monster before it's too late.

In the chilly fall night, a grim figure wielding a knife that simply goes by the name of "Jack the Ripper" strikes down the unwary who wander the cobblestone streets of Trottingham, and makes sure to display what's left of them in the most heinously gruesome way imaginable. The city is in a panic. Whoever has attempted to track him down has either ended up another victim, or disappeared entirely.

The fate of Trottingham's peace and tranquility may very well now rest in the hooves of the only three fully willing to continue their search for the killer: the somewhat pontifical, but goodhearted Chief Inspector Hoarfrost, the short, but stubborn Constable Small Fry, and the burly, aloof Detective Leather Apron. Together they venture out into the darkness, determined to show this monster that there is still a few who have bravery in their hearts…

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-03-02 17:50:01 UTC

Prologue

The earth pony Pinchpenny trotted alone through the cold, damp, dreary streets of southern Trottingham. Night had long fallen, and the frigid downpour of rain had finally ended not several minutes before. The entire road was as empty of life as a graveyard, and the only source of light seemed to be from the tall lamps lining the equally-desolate sidewalks, some of which were flickering.

Much had crossed Pinchpenny's mind in just the last five hours. He had uncovered many secrets. Many, many secrets a wealthy miser like himself knew were too private to be carefree with. Every second he looked over his shoulder in a paranoid manner, hoping everything good in this world that nopony was following him, but still sensing that someone was somehow watching him.

He was just going to get home, write what he found on a note to the police, and then mail it to them when he had the chance. He couldn't go to the police right off, that much he knew. The serial killer that had been terrorizing Trottingham; named by the media as simply "The Ripper," was stalking the streets he walked upon. If he went to the station now, there was a chance he would be caught. Just thinking about it made him shudder.

Heading down an alleyway with a quick turn, Pinchpenny could see his house soon come into view; the place looked sturdy and clean despite its surroundings, and connected to another building. Brushing a hoof through the dark brown mane that went over his gray-furred body, he let out a relieved sigh and unlocked the door, opening it with a squeak. Quickly entering the abode, he first closed the entrance and locked it again, and then took a box of matches out and lit the candles.

With that task now done and over with, he quietly made his way to his desk. Under the faint light of the candleshine, he took out a scrap of paper, dipped his feather pen in the inkwell, and began to write on it after adjusting his glasses. He stopped a minute later as a sudden, loud sound ahead of where he sat startled him in the most terrible way he could imagine.

A knocking went out against the other side of his door. It was not some mild rasp, but a loud thump, as if someone was trying to bust in. Pinchpenny was just getting up from his seat when another, tremendous bang of hoof-on-wood went out against the entrance, breaking the hinges and locks completely with an extraordinarily powerful force. The door fell to the ground with a plopping noise, and revealed the giant figure that stood behind it.

He was dressed in a black coat with a high collar, and wore an aged, rugged top hat over his head. Fully covering his face and head was a dirty, white-gray, stitched-together burlap sack with a pair of eyeholes cut out to see through, as well as what must have been another pair for two, long ears to stick out of from the back of his head; showing he was either a donkey, a hinny, or a mule. Either way, he was tall and hefty-looking, though his thick jacket may have had a part to play in that as well.

"You thought you could run, you li'l snitch..." the tall figure began in a deep and guttural growl. "You thought you could prance away an' tell someone about me! Well, heh... I 'ave a few words to say about that, I do..."

As the visibly-fearful and heavily-breathing Pinchpenny tried to back up, tripping in the process, the strange figure crept closer to the pony, violently and effortlessly tossing his desk aside and against the wall upon reaching it, splitting some of its wood with a loud clatter and scattering its papery contents everywhere on the ground.

"Now, Jack listen... w-we can talk about this, right?" Pinchpenny stuttered his name, placing himself as far against the wall behind him as he could. "I haven't told a soul, honest! Your secret's safe with me, I swear it!"

The character stopped moving, causing the pony to let out silent sigh of relief. The stranger then looked to the ground and scooped up a piece of paper into his hoof, the one Pinchpenny realized, to his horror, was the one he was previously writing on.

"'Dear chief inspector of the police,'" he began to read in a slightly lighter voice, clearly done to halfheartedly imitate the pony that wrote it. "'I have accrued some valuable information you may want to 'ear about. It has to deal with the identity of the one and only "Jack" the Ripper...'"

He crumpled the paper up and stuffed it into his pocket. "You silly sod," he chuckled in a sinister tone, taking more steps toward his quarry. "You silly, li'l idiot. Oh, hoh... you're mind just isn't clever enough to keep up with your mouth, is it?"

Before Pinchpenny could react, the Ripper was upon him. He tried to fight back; which amassed to nothing more than a pathetic flailing of the limbs, and was promptly defeated as Jack unleashed a viscous blow in his unguarded stomach, forcing him to keel over as the wind left his lungs. His glasses fell from the face and shattered on the ground after impacting on it. Grabbing his gasping shape by the scruff of his neck in a hoof, the being lifted him from the ground with incredible strength, and used his three remaining legs to walk to the broken door before throwing him onto the wet streets outside.

Coughing, the pony tried to lift his head from the murky, filthy ground when he felt a searing pain go out through his left side, and then another, and another; each from what he instantly realized was a knife. Letting out a pained yelp, Pinchpenny found himself being turned over as the masked figure kicked him onto his back.

"I did warn you to stay away... I warned you keep your grimy nose out of my business, an' look what you've gone and force me to do..." the killer continued, as he fixed his top hat to a better position on his long-snouted head; the silvery, bloodstained sheen of his serrated knife gleaming in the partially-concealed moonlight.

"N-no... no, please!" Pinchpenny choked out in a cry, between the blood that ran through his gritted teeth, and into a stream on the other side of his face, forming a puddle of crimson that filled the air with its sickeningly thick, metallic stench. "I-I'll p-p-pay you anything! P-please, don't kill me! Please! Please, for the love of Celestia, please..."

"It's too late for that now, me old mucker. It's far too late to beg..." Jack spoke, as he knelt his much bigger form over the prone, puling equine and aimed the knife over his stomach, readying himself to savor what was to come next. "But you're still free to scream. All. You. Like. There's no officers for miles around, especially in this area of the city, so the only thing that's gonna 'ear you is the rats and street scum you so generously helped to populate our city with."

He gently poked the weapon into the soft flesh of Pinchpenny's belly, letting it cut just deep enough to expose blood and listening attentively as his prey let out a shrill cry. Slowly, he pulled the weapon out and raised it overhead in the wrists of his hooves, readying to start the actual thing. "You brought this upon yourself, mate," he spoke a final time, staring at the bleeding Pinchpenny with a crazed gleam shining in his eye from the hole in his sack-mask.

And then he rapidly plunged the knife downward.