He didn’t feel like staying at home. Restlessness crept into his bones. Vladimir was not one to remain long in one place - he wandered the country, chasing cases. But enough time had passed since his last hunt to make idleness feel unnatural, even wrong.
It was around midnight when Vladimir pulled on his heavy, long tweed coat over a dark grey shirt. He stepped into his black trousers and tightened the worn laces of his weathered boots. A thick black scarf wrapped around his neck, and the bowler hat he always wore found its place upon his head. He did not forget his leather gloves, the knuckles of which were reinforced with silver. He took with him his silver knife and two Webley RIC revolvers - one holstered for silver rounds on his left side, and another loaded with standard ammunition on his right. People could be more dangerous than the creatures he hunted. Carrying both was essential. The guns were always loaded, and he needed to react in an instant - be it against a beast or a man. Silver bullets were not for every occasion, either. They were costly and painstaking to craft.
Vladimir inspected the revolver with the silver rounds - the weapon sat heavily in his palm. It was a Webley RIC, matte black steel with a grip of polished walnut, dark from years of use. It bore no ornament, the man disliked such things. He opened the cylinder - six bullets rested in place, each seated with cold precision. They were not ordinary rounds. Molded in a custom die, carefully cast. When he closed the chamber, the mechanism gave a soft click, almost a whisper, as though the weapon itself knew it was about to face something unnatural.
Once prepared, Vladimir stepped out into the night. The air was cold and damp, and the streets lay veiled in fog. Gaslamps burned weakly, their flickering light barely pushing back the gloom. Past ten o’clock, the city quieted in most parts, though in the docklands and crooked alleys there was always movement - vagrants, night merchants, labourers. And then there was the other life, the one outside the law. Brothels and illicit taverns came alive, pickpockets and gangs prowled the shadows, prostitutes and smugglers earned their coin. That was night for the middle and lower classes, while the wealthy lounged in theatres, operas, concerts, and balls. Most gentlemen spent their hours in private clubs, speaking of politics over cigars and brandy.
Vladimir walked with his hands in his pockets, his scarf and hat obscuring much of his face. At a glance, he seemed to pay no mind to those around him, but he remained ever alert, wary of hidden threats. Fear and worry had long since drained from him. Danger no longer troubled him. Since the day his child was stillborn, the world had ceased to turn. His wife's descent into deepening melancholy had been just as crushing. For a time they fought it together, but in the end, the grief claimed her life. He no longer had anything to fear. No one to fear for. He did not welcome death, but he did not shy from it. Perhaps somewhere beyond, his family waited for him. But he would not surrender easily.
"Hey there, sweetheart. Where you rushing off to?" A woman’s voice called to him. A prostitute.
Vladimir glanced at her with little interest. She was young - perhaps eighteen. A smudge of rouge sat clumsily on her cheeks, rubbed on with fingers. Her hair was dyed with cheap henna, and her dark red dress looked old and worn. She wore a faded shawl and a battered coat over it. A cheap cigarette hung from her lips, and her hoarse voice made it clear smoking came only second to her other trade.
‘Dammit…’ Vladimir thought as he passed her by. He hated seeing girls like that forced into such vile work. He hated even more that there were bastards out there willing to take advantage of them.
Before long, he reached his usual tavern - The Old Whistle. It was not a pleasant place, but it was familiar. Many from his trade gathered there. The ceiling hung low, the beams stained black from smoke, and the air reeked of cheap tobacco and soured ale. In the corner by the hearth, two men in leather coats whispered to one another, fixing their eyes on Vladimir the moment he entered. It was not a safe place, but it had its own kind of security.
Vladimir approached the bar, where a tall, broad-chested man with a heavy beard awaited him. The barkeep wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing tattooed arms lined with old scars. His apron hung askew, a towel and a battered corkscrew jutting from its pocket. A low grumble rose beneath his moustache.
"Can’t sleep again?" the barkeep asked.
"No. Just passing through. I'm after rumor, actually." Vladimir removed his hat and loosened the scarf around his neck.
"What sort of rumor?"
"About a werewolf. The old abandoned mansion on Hanbury Street. Anyone say anything about it?"
"Mmhm. The lads were talking about it here. They’re fairly sure something's in there - might be a werewolf, might not. But in the end, everyone went their own way. Took other jobs, other cities. You thinking of going?"
Vladimir gave a slow nod. This tavern was good for one thing - you could tell whether a story was worth chasing, whether a rumor was smoke or substance. He didn’t like wasting time.
"Thanks." Volkov pulled four pennies from his pocket and slid them across the bar. It was the price of a middling glass of whisky. He wasn’t in the mood to drink, not really, but he didn’t want the barkeep’s time to go unpaid. Consistent coin kept the flow of reliable information steady, just as it always had.
The building loomed like a shadow over its neglected grounds - a two-story Victorian house, once proud, now fractured and sagging under the weight of time.
The facade was overgrown with mildew and climbing ivy, the vines snaking up the walls like rotting veins. The windows, some shattered, others boarded up, gaped like blind eyes.
The front door stood slightly ajar, creaking at the slightest breath of wind. Above it, a weatherworn pediment split by years of rain and rot. The walls inside were stained and patched, the peeling wallpaper hanging like old skin.
The parlor, once alive with music and dance across polished floors, now lay buried beneath dust, shards of glass and animal tracks. What little furniture remained stood crooked, blackened at the edges, as if the house had tried to burn itself down and failed.
Up the staircase, the carpet lay torn and fraying, footprints scattered along its length - not quite human, but not wholly beast either.
The air was thick and stale, laced with the scent of moldering wood, ash, and old blood.
And somewhere above, a faint creak echoed, as if something still moved within the dark shell.
Vladimir had drawn his revolver with the silver rounds and now studied the tracks along the stairs, trying to discern what exactly had left them behind.
It was around midnight when Vladimir pulled on his heavy, long tweed coat over a dark grey shirt. He stepped into his black trousers and tightened the worn laces of his weathered boots. A thick black scarf wrapped around his neck, and the bowler hat he always wore found its place upon his head. He did not forget his leather gloves, the knuckles of which were reinforced with silver. He took with him his silver knife and two Webley RIC revolvers - one holstered for silver rounds on his left side, and another loaded with standard ammunition on his right. People could be more dangerous than the creatures he hunted. Carrying both was essential. The guns were always loaded, and he needed to react in an instant - be it against a beast or a man. Silver bullets were not for every occasion, either. They were costly and painstaking to craft.
Vladimir inspected the revolver with the silver rounds - the weapon sat heavily in his palm. It was a Webley RIC, matte black steel with a grip of polished walnut, dark from years of use. It bore no ornament, the man disliked such things. He opened the cylinder - six bullets rested in place, each seated with cold precision. They were not ordinary rounds. Molded in a custom die, carefully cast. When he closed the chamber, the mechanism gave a soft click, almost a whisper, as though the weapon itself knew it was about to face something unnatural.
Once prepared, Vladimir stepped out into the night. The air was cold and damp, and the streets lay veiled in fog. Gaslamps burned weakly, their flickering light barely pushing back the gloom. Past ten o’clock, the city quieted in most parts, though in the docklands and crooked alleys there was always movement - vagrants, night merchants, labourers. And then there was the other life, the one outside the law. Brothels and illicit taverns came alive, pickpockets and gangs prowled the shadows, prostitutes and smugglers earned their coin. That was night for the middle and lower classes, while the wealthy lounged in theatres, operas, concerts, and balls. Most gentlemen spent their hours in private clubs, speaking of politics over cigars and brandy.
Vladimir walked with his hands in his pockets, his scarf and hat obscuring much of his face. At a glance, he seemed to pay no mind to those around him, but he remained ever alert, wary of hidden threats. Fear and worry had long since drained from him. Danger no longer troubled him. Since the day his child was stillborn, the world had ceased to turn. His wife's descent into deepening melancholy had been just as crushing. For a time they fought it together, but in the end, the grief claimed her life. He no longer had anything to fear. No one to fear for. He did not welcome death, but he did not shy from it. Perhaps somewhere beyond, his family waited for him. But he would not surrender easily.
"Hey there, sweetheart. Where you rushing off to?" A woman’s voice called to him. A prostitute.
Vladimir glanced at her with little interest. She was young - perhaps eighteen. A smudge of rouge sat clumsily on her cheeks, rubbed on with fingers. Her hair was dyed with cheap henna, and her dark red dress looked old and worn. She wore a faded shawl and a battered coat over it. A cheap cigarette hung from her lips, and her hoarse voice made it clear smoking came only second to her other trade.
‘Dammit…’ Vladimir thought as he passed her by. He hated seeing girls like that forced into such vile work. He hated even more that there were bastards out there willing to take advantage of them.
Before long, he reached his usual tavern - The Old Whistle. It was not a pleasant place, but it was familiar. Many from his trade gathered there. The ceiling hung low, the beams stained black from smoke, and the air reeked of cheap tobacco and soured ale. In the corner by the hearth, two men in leather coats whispered to one another, fixing their eyes on Vladimir the moment he entered. It was not a safe place, but it had its own kind of security.
Vladimir approached the bar, where a tall, broad-chested man with a heavy beard awaited him. The barkeep wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing tattooed arms lined with old scars. His apron hung askew, a towel and a battered corkscrew jutting from its pocket. A low grumble rose beneath his moustache.
"Can’t sleep again?" the barkeep asked.
"No. Just passing through. I'm after rumor, actually." Vladimir removed his hat and loosened the scarf around his neck.
"What sort of rumor?"
"About a werewolf. The old abandoned mansion on Hanbury Street. Anyone say anything about it?"
"Mmhm. The lads were talking about it here. They’re fairly sure something's in there - might be a werewolf, might not. But in the end, everyone went their own way. Took other jobs, other cities. You thinking of going?"
Vladimir gave a slow nod. This tavern was good for one thing - you could tell whether a story was worth chasing, whether a rumor was smoke or substance. He didn’t like wasting time.
"Thanks." Volkov pulled four pennies from his pocket and slid them across the bar. It was the price of a middling glass of whisky. He wasn’t in the mood to drink, not really, but he didn’t want the barkeep’s time to go unpaid. Consistent coin kept the flow of reliable information steady, just as it always had.
***
The building loomed like a shadow over its neglected grounds - a two-story Victorian house, once proud, now fractured and sagging under the weight of time.
The facade was overgrown with mildew and climbing ivy, the vines snaking up the walls like rotting veins. The windows, some shattered, others boarded up, gaped like blind eyes.
The front door stood slightly ajar, creaking at the slightest breath of wind. Above it, a weatherworn pediment split by years of rain and rot. The walls inside were stained and patched, the peeling wallpaper hanging like old skin.
The parlor, once alive with music and dance across polished floors, now lay buried beneath dust, shards of glass and animal tracks. What little furniture remained stood crooked, blackened at the edges, as if the house had tried to burn itself down and failed.
Up the staircase, the carpet lay torn and fraying, footprints scattered along its length - not quite human, but not wholly beast either.
The air was thick and stale, laced with the scent of moldering wood, ash, and old blood.
And somewhere above, a faint creak echoed, as if something still moved within the dark shell.
Vladimir had drawn his revolver with the silver rounds and now studied the tracks along the stairs, trying to discern what exactly had left them behind.
Sometimes it was fun, being part of a world where you could pretend monsters didn’t exist. Where you spent your evenings, dancing under the candlelight of different ballrooms, wearing extravagant gowns and jewels. Of course everyone you danced with knew that hideous creatures lurked outside, hiding in the foliage, creeping in the shadows. But they were a problem for hunters, not socialites. They were only a problem when the sound of a scream interrupted the crescendo of a violin, and even though those moments had become more frequent, the civilians of London were excellent at acting ignorant when they weren’t involved directly.
But what was fun for one young woman living in London, was hideously boring for another.
Willabeth had spent her evening the same way she had spent most evenings, since becoming engaged to Bertram Cavendish.
“I do hope this Mr Ripper gets caught soon,” Clara Kinglsey lounged in the large living room of the Kingsley Estate. There were two living rooms in this property, but this was her favourite – the champagne coloured loveseat and matching chairs were comfortable enough that you simply did not want to move once you sunk into them. Littering the round table, were pieces of parchment covered in a scrawled handwriting. “If he keeps on murdering people, we will have no one to invite to the wedding.”
Willabeth, who had taken refuge in one of the chairs, slowly lifted her gaze from the Arthur Conan Doyle novel she was reading, “Mother, did you even know the victim? I didn’t think so. And if my wedding gets called off because there is no one left on the planet… well, then I hardly think it’s a controversy.” This was a conversation that had been repeated on multiple occasions, but the truth was that Willabeth did not care who the victim was, but how they had died. She did not for one moment believe any of the newspapers about ‘Jack the Ripper,’ and she scoffed at the stupidity of those that did.
It was not long after this conversation, that she found herself pacing the floors of her ornate bedroom. Jack the Ripper, what a laughable name that the Government had created. Soon, the rest of the house became quiet, and her usual nighttime routine could begin. Willabeth changed out of her nightdress, and pulled out the pair of mens trousers from the trunk beneath her bed. Paried with a shirt and jacket, she quickly dressed in her disguise. Finally, she opened the drawer beside her bed, and pulled out her knives. She knew most hunters had guns for weapons, but everything that she owned and knew she had come by on her own. Being a woman in 1891, could only get you so far. Stashing the knives upon herself, she quietly snuck out of her home.
Willabeth had been following this rumour for a couple of days now, listening to the whispers of those around her, and speaking to her confidants that she had created connections with. There was something, odd and unusual about this particular creature that she couldn’t put her finger on. Some thought a vampire lived in this house, others thought a werewolf, and few simply thought it was empty. But why did they all believe something different? That had never happened before, and it only made her all the more curious. Her true goal was to find the creature that had ended the life of her father, and the only way she was going to do that, was to hunt and torture every monster who stepped into her path.
As she approached the house, she moved behind a crooked tree. It couldn’t be…not another hunter here? To beat her to her prey? Slowly, Willabeth unsheathed her weapons – holding a knife in each hand. She waited until the stranger entered the building, before making her own way inside.
But what was fun for one young woman living in London, was hideously boring for another.
Willabeth had spent her evening the same way she had spent most evenings, since becoming engaged to Bertram Cavendish.
“I do hope this Mr Ripper gets caught soon,” Clara Kinglsey lounged in the large living room of the Kingsley Estate. There were two living rooms in this property, but this was her favourite – the champagne coloured loveseat and matching chairs were comfortable enough that you simply did not want to move once you sunk into them. Littering the round table, were pieces of parchment covered in a scrawled handwriting. “If he keeps on murdering people, we will have no one to invite to the wedding.”
Willabeth, who had taken refuge in one of the chairs, slowly lifted her gaze from the Arthur Conan Doyle novel she was reading, “Mother, did you even know the victim? I didn’t think so. And if my wedding gets called off because there is no one left on the planet… well, then I hardly think it’s a controversy.” This was a conversation that had been repeated on multiple occasions, but the truth was that Willabeth did not care who the victim was, but how they had died. She did not for one moment believe any of the newspapers about ‘Jack the Ripper,’ and she scoffed at the stupidity of those that did.
It was not long after this conversation, that she found herself pacing the floors of her ornate bedroom. Jack the Ripper, what a laughable name that the Government had created. Soon, the rest of the house became quiet, and her usual nighttime routine could begin. Willabeth changed out of her nightdress, and pulled out the pair of mens trousers from the trunk beneath her bed. Paried with a shirt and jacket, she quickly dressed in her disguise. Finally, she opened the drawer beside her bed, and pulled out her knives. She knew most hunters had guns for weapons, but everything that she owned and knew she had come by on her own. Being a woman in 1891, could only get you so far. Stashing the knives upon herself, she quietly snuck out of her home.
***
Willabeth had been following this rumour for a couple of days now, listening to the whispers of those around her, and speaking to her confidants that she had created connections with. There was something, odd and unusual about this particular creature that she couldn’t put her finger on. Some thought a vampire lived in this house, others thought a werewolf, and few simply thought it was empty. But why did they all believe something different? That had never happened before, and it only made her all the more curious. Her true goal was to find the creature that had ended the life of her father, and the only way she was going to do that, was to hunt and torture every monster who stepped into her path.
As she approached the house, she moved behind a crooked tree. It couldn’t be…not another hunter here? To beat her to her prey? Slowly, Willabeth unsheathed her weapons – holding a knife in each hand. She waited until the stranger entered the building, before making her own way inside.
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