Dr Tibs time travelled from the year 2026 to Whitechapel 1888.
The woman had been unmade, cavity yawning open, intestines draped like garlands, lungs spread like glistening purple wings through cracked ribs.
The Ripper crouched over her, elbow-deep, harvesting tenderly.
It turned. The host's eyes had burst like grapes, jaw unhinged as black smoke tore itself free, abandoning the collapsing, deflating meat.
It recognised Tibs immediately as unclaimed flesh from outside this era and practically untraceable.
The darkness entered through his screaming mouth and his hands picked up the bloody knife.
He was the latest host of Jack the Ripper.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Rip in Time by Andrew Kurtz"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Tomorrow by B.G. Smith"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Curvature of Space/Time by Lynne Lumsden Green"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Endless Mercy by Richard Lau"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>