Strange.
She shook it carefully, to see if it rattled.
Nothing.
She read the name on the envelope: Teresa Miller. It was definitely meant for her, no mistake about that. Balancing her bag of doughnuts on top of the hat box, Terri opened the door awkwardly and stepped inside. She pushed the door closed with the back of her heel and kicked off her wet shoes.
She headed straight for the kitchen and prepared a strong cup of coffee to wash the jam doughnuts down with. While the percolator warmed up, she drew the kitchen and living room blinds. Sheet lightning illuminated the night sky above her apartment, followed almost instantly by an almighty crash of thunder that caused the double-glazed patio to rattle. She realised that the centre of the storm must be directly overhead and hoped it would pass quickly; she hated weather like this.
Once the coffee was made, she returned to the living room and sat down, putting the mysterious box on the coffee table next to her armchair.
Opening the envelope, she read the enclosed note:
My dearest Teresa,
I hope you find my little present interesting.
There are some pretty pictures too. I’ll be in touch soon.
Enjoy.
P.S. I know you must be wondering who I am. Well, my true identity must remain a mystery, but for ease of reference I’ve chosen the name, Jack. That’s how I want to be referred to from now on.
Frowning, she read the weird note again. What was this? Was someone with a perverse sense of humour trying to freak her out as a post-Halloween wind-up, or had a mentally defective oddball taken to stalking her? And how had he got into the building without a passkey?
She should probably call the cops. But first, she wanted to see what he’d sent her.
Was it chocolates?
Clothing?
What?
Suppressing a yawn, Terri put the letter down and started fiddling with the knot in the string that was wrapped around the mysterious item. She removed the lid and looked inside. It contained a blue cool bag, the sort of thing people used to keep their lunch fresh in hot weather. She unzipped it, peered inside cautiously, and immediately turned her nose up. “What the hell?”
Meat!
Someone had sent her a bag of fresh meat. Did the creep work in a butcher’s shop?
Typical!
Why couldn’t it be jewellery or flowers?
Putting the cool bag down next to her chair, she looked in the bottom of the box. The note had said something about photographs. There were three, and each one was wrapped in cling-film, presumably to make sure they didn’t get any meat juice on them. Grimacing, Terri reached inside and gingerly picked them up. She might as well have a look at them before throwing the whole lot in the bin. She sipped her coffee appreciatively as she raised the first Polaroid.
Her eyes widened in horror. “Sweet Jesus!” she gasped, spilling her drink. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? She examined the next shot. It was as revolting as the first, unbelievably vile in fact, and they both appeared genuine, not faked.
Surely not!
Even if they were real, why would anyone send something like that to her? She wasn’t a crime reporter. She looked on the back of the photographs. Two of them had names written in red paint – at least she hoped it was paint.
One said: Geraldine. The other read: Natasha. The third was of a house, which was boarded up and looked derelict.
There was no way of telling if the grotesque figures featured in these pictures were authentic.
Terri Miller almost jumped out of her skin as the telephone rang, shattering the silence of her flat. “Shit!” She raised a hand to her chest, experiencing palpitations.
As she crossed the room, her mind full of morbid thoughts, she wondered who the hell could be calling her at this time of night. Perhaps it was Julie, just to say she had arrived home safely. Terri’s hands were shaking as she fumbled for the receiver; she couldn’t take her eyes off the grisly party bag just across the room.
“Hello?”
“Did you get my present?” The voice was a haunting whisper, devoid of feeling.
A chill ran down Teri’s spine. “Who is this? I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“It’s the right number. We both know that, Teresa. As for who I am, I told you, you can call me Jack.”
“I don’t know anyone called Jack.” As she spoke her eyes flew to the note she had just received.
“You do now, Teresa.” The disembodied voice was too close for comfort, like he was calling from a mobile outside her front door.
Oh my God! Terri couldn’t recall bolting the front door. Security had never been an issue before. Wait! She had kicked it shut because her hands were full, but she hadn’t checked to see that it had closed properly. What if she had left it ajar and he was already inside the apartment…?
She leaned across her desk and tried to peer into the hallway, but the phone cord wouldn’t stretch that far. She craned her neck until the muscles ached, but she still couldn’t see.
Outside, the storm was easing off a little. There were a full thirty seconds between lightning and thunder.
She knew the sensible thing to do was hang up and call the police, but professional curiosity got the better of her. “What do you want?” Terri demanded, trying a little too hard to sound calm.
“What does anybody want?” the sinister voice mocked. “I want what is rightfully mine, and you are going to help me get it,”
Terri scoffed, but it was pure bravado. “How could I possibly help you?”
“By doing your job. I’ve decided that you should have the privilege of telling my story.”
“What makes you think I want to tell your story?”
“Most reporters would cut off their arm to get an interview with the man who is going to purge Whitechapel. You should be flattered that I’ve chosen to give you the exclusive.”
Terri shook her head.
