The Charlatan of Whitechapel

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2026-06-15 10:45:00 -

The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow and smelling of coal smoke and human waste. Ezekiel Morrow stood on his usual corner of Whitechapel Road with a hand-drawn sign and a voice trained by years of shouting over the din of hansom cabs and street vendors. Spirit communications, sir. Dead speak to the living. Five shillings for a message from beyond. He was...

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