The Slagport Downs Massacre

June 15th, At 11:51 PM, authorities received a call from the Thirsty Yolk Tavern, deep in Slagport Downs. Shortly afterwards, police arrived to find a nightmare had taken place at the inn. Approximately twenty-nine people had been slaughtered in gruesome fashion. A large wooden table had been placed in the center of the inn, next to the bar. Disgustingly, the remains of cannibalized humans laid on the table. This horror was likely arranged to mock Turkey Day, a popular holiday where humans indulge in gluttonous feasts. Of the half eaten humans, many organs were found partially consumed on bloody plates. One young woman, identified as Gwen Sparker, had been stuffed, and held an apple in her mouth. The distress call came from a fisherman, identified as Rod Dennis. Dennis had been seeking to unwind after a long day atop the grey seas, seeking respite in the Thirsty Yolk. What he saw upon entering the inn caused him to faint - allegedly, it was not until fifteen minutes after he regained consciousness that he called local authorities. I was dispatched as deputy detective to the scene after midnight. I collected as many fingerprint dustings, saliva samplings, and blood samples as possible. By the next morning, every deceased individual had been identified. DNA tests matched the collected evidence to frequent patrons of the bar, employees, and the deceased themselves. The ‘Downs’ locale of Slagport was a mining and fishing district. It had a reputation for crime, poverty, and scandalism. The soot-lined streets and rotting wood buildings made the Downs appear a century behind Uptown Slagport. Businesses operated shadily, and theft was frequent due to a lack of surveillance. This made identifying potential suspects nearly impossible. Police detained Rod Dennis, and questioned a number of other Thirsty Yolk patrons. Unfortunately, no valid testimony was gathered, and a civil servant lawyer demanded that we release Dennis from custody. This was acceptable, as interrogation found little to suspect from the man. June 18th, Cawlick’s Grill was the largest restaurant chain across Slagport. The company’s success allowed it to expand across the country in recent years. One location operates in the Downs, approximately five blocks from The Thirsty Yolk tavern. Police were informed of a singular camera facing out from the Grill’s front door. After authorities seized the footage, the borough was left puzzled and frightened. At 11:36 PM, on the night of the Massacre, a mysterious and oddly dressed individual was recorded walking past Cawlick’s Grill. The gender of the suspect was indiscernible, though they were bald. They wore a black feathered coat, covering their entire body from the neck down. The suspect walked with a limp, and was constantly leaned over in a hunch. Attached to the suspect’s face was a long beak resembling a chicken or crow. Forensics specialists were able to enhance the poor quality footage for a detailed look at this perpetrator. What we observed was the most disturbing thing I had ever seen. Rather than wearing a mask, close inspection showed the beak to be surgically attached to the suspect’s face. While many smaller details of the face were still obscure, the eyes were oblong, slanting down into the beak itself. Yellow bile oozed from the deformed eyes and nostrils of the beak. For one harrowing moment, the suspect looked up at the camera, staring into it with malice. We searched the internet for a match on the outfit. No such outfit was found on any online retailer, leading us to believe it was hand crafted. The logistics of the face attachment left biologists answerless. Nonetheless, I was sure this was the person we were looking for. The person who had committed what the news was now calling ‘The Slagport Downs Massacre’. Without providing the footage to the general public, an emergency broadcast alerted the citizens of Slagport to be on the lookout for an individual wearing a black feathered coat, and a beak mask. Not one citizen came forth with valuable information. Rumors spread through the Downs that the isolated scientist Dr. Sunshine was responsible for the hybrid’s creation. Looming on the horizon like a monolith, Sunshine’s laboratory sat alone on a small island. Since Slagport’s founding as a port town, the lab had been a sovereign piece of land, untouchable by conventional law. I was determined to question Dr. Sunshine - I only required the proper warrants to do so. June 25th, Co-Deputy Sarah Sheryl and I arranged a meeting with the general manager of Cawlick’s Grill in The Downs. Since the restaurant’s founding, management roles have been handed down through a dynasty. The current owner, Douglas McGall, offered us complementary burgers and fries upon introduction. Cawlick’s Grill has never been my preference of food - the greasy burgers and hot dogs provided no real nutrition. The entire place was caked with grease, and served nothing but meat. Depictions of pigs, cows, and chickens lined the walls. Sarah Sheryl accepted Douglas’ offer for free food. Given the man’s grease stained shirt and oily forehead, I couldn’t understand her decision. Douglas was unable to provide us with tangible information. The suspect, who we appellated ‘The Crow of the Downs’, had never been seen near the location until that fateful night. Douglas was willing to let us examine archived security footage to find further sightings of the Crow. Sarah laid out a manilla folder containing fingerprint dustings - two of which matched employees of that specific restaurant. One of them was Douglas’ son, Chester McGall. In response, Douglas explained that both he and Chester were frequent customers at The Thirsty Yolk. The smoggy conditions of Cawlick’s Grill often drove employees to seek solace in alcohol after a shift. Our first lead provided itself during that meeting. Not from Douglas, but from a woman eating a couple tables away from us. As we arranged a meeting with Douglas’ son, Laura Gainesburgh began vomiting profusely onto the floor. This drew the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Her illness worsened rapidly. The vomiting was interminable, and as her face turned a sickly green, we deemed emergency medical aid a necessity. As Laura was hauled into an ambulance, Sarah Sheryl fell victim to the same stomach convulsions. She intensely vomited all over the sidewalk, losing control of her bodily functions. Sheryl was taken to the hospital in the same ambulance as Laura. I was notified that after having their stomachs pumped, both women narrowly survived. June 26th, I filed for a warrant to raid Cawlick’s Grill. Douglas McGall did not resist our intrusion, as if he anticipated the search. The Food and Health department seized multiple samples of meat from the restaurant. The samples were shipped to Dr. Sunshine’s laboratory, who corresponded with us by mail. His findings were almost immediate, and quite disturbing. Dr. Sunshine found several traces of human organs amalgamated with the meat. DNA testing showed that the remains of three victims from The Massacre had been in the meat. Several organs that were missing from the cannibalized victims had been identified as well - a missing liver, a missing heart, and a victim’s torn throat. After documenting the horror, Douglas McGall, and several employees from Cawlick’s Grill were detained and held for questioning. Intense interrogation and lie detector tests revealed no evidence from McGall’s testimony. His employees were equally as confused. They all claimed to know nothing of the contamination. Instead, they turned the blame on their supplier, Cowley’s Farms. Later that day, several reports of a similar food-borne illness emerged from Uptown Slagport. Thirteen new cases of life-threatening food poisoning were reported. Each sick individual had been currently eating at a Cawlick’s Grill, or had eaten at one earlier in the day. This time, no warrant was needed - the food and health department immediately raided every Cawlick’s Grill location in Slagport, shipping all of their meat samples to Dr. Sunshine’s laboratory. Every Cawlick’s Grill location was indefinitely shut down. Every week, missing people are reported in Slagport, in both the Uptown and the Downs. Sunshine correlated more victims of The Massacre to the contaminated meat samples, as well as several instances of missing persons. These findings were reported to the Central Protection Agency, who declared that a large-scale conspiracy was occurring in Slagport. There were still no further sightings of The Crow. Cowley’s Farms had been listed as a suspect, though we lacked the proper evidence to search their premises at the time. July 2nd, At 3:24 AM, police received a distress call from a senior citizen, Elaine Gordon. Gordon had been asleep in her Slagport Downs apartment, when an injured woman began screaming and banging at her front door. Upon answering the door, Gordon found that the woman had been stabbed multiple times in the stomach, and was bleeding profusely. Emergency medical services arrived just in time to save the woman’s life. The victim was identified as local sketch artist and painter, Barbara Candy. Candy would spend the next five days in a coma, leaving me hungry for information. I suspected that The Crow had attempted to murder Candy, and harvest her organs. Once she came to her senses, I sought to question her ruthlessly. Unfortunately, we were unable to obtain camera footage of the stabbing. No further instances of contaminated meat were found throughout Slagport. Once every Cawlick’s Grill location closed, reported cases ceased. This led me to believe that the restaurant chain was exclusively involved in the massacre, and the poisonings. I will admit that I increasingly resorted to liquor to ease my nerves at night. My relationship with my family was deteriorating. To preserve their safety, I will not disclose the names of my family members. My wife was growing increasingly weary of my paranoia. Every night I looked out the window, scanning the streets for The Crow. I could only remember that one solemn frame of the Crow, glancing at the camera. I would never forget that inhuman creature. A premonition led me to abolish all consumption of meat in my house. This was met with reproach by my family, but I was unwilling to take risks. Though we never ate at Cawlick’s Grill, it was not out of the question to think that other sources of meat would be contaminated next. July 9th, Barbara Candy finally stirred from her coma. I was the first face she saw - before her family, and before the doctors. Candy was hysterical in regards to the stabbing, giving bits and pieces of information through sobs. The account I was able to obtain tied together like such: At 3 AM, Candy had clocked out from her night shift at Steamers - an upper class seafood lounge, located just outside of Slagport Downs. Candy, who emerged from her shift to find her tires slashed, resorted to walking home. While it is never advised to walk through the Downs at such a time of night, Candy figured the fifteen minute stroll would be harmless. She had not been aware that someone had intentionally slashed her tires. She had not realized that someone was following her. Once she crossed into the deserted fish market, her stalker revealed itself. By the time she saw the creature, it was too late. Grabbing her arms, tackling her to the ground, the assailant gutted Candy’s stomach with a rusted fish hook. The man wore a long, brown trench coat that reeked of dead fish. His head was that of a giant mackerel. According to Candy, this was not a mask - the eyes radiated malignance, and the mouth was lined with razor sharp teeth. The mackerel head was attached at the neck, fusing with the torso. She was able to free herself after obtaining her pepper spray and weaponizing it. The Mackerel reeled backwards, granting Candy an opportunity to escape. As Candy fled, screaming for help, her assailant pursued her. Once she found the apartment of Elaine Gordon, The Mackerel disappeared through the dark alleyways of Slagport Downs. Candy beckoned me for a sketchpad and pencil, which I provided her with immediately. The sketch she produced would become notorious across Slagport, branding the city’s history with fish-eye evil. The sketch depicted exactly what she had described - A malicious, mackerel-headed man. I was unable to withhold this image from the press. By the afternoon, news broadcasts had planted the depiction in every citizen's mind. Mass fear took root in Slagport. The existence of both The Crow and The Mackerel indicated that the Massacre was undeniably an organized effort. Sleep evaded me that night. In a drunken stupor, I experienced a nervous breakdown. My inane ramblings were repeated to me by my wife the next morning. Apparently, I raved that nature was rising up against us, taking revenge for centuries of abuse - animals versus mankind. I repeatedly pointed towards Dr Sunshine’s Island on the horizon, claiming it was the oculus of our doom. When I recovered from my hangover, my wife had already packed my belongings. She told me to leave her and the children until the case had been concluded. I left without protest, as I could see the horror in my children’s eyes. The fear of what their father had become. I rented a small motel room in Slagport Downs. From the window of my room, I could see the site of The Massacre. July 26th, After weeks of silence, when we had thought the case was going cold, a new wave of illnesses surged. Far larger than the initial onslaught, thousands of citizens across Slagport were hospitalized with a mysterious food borne illness. Likely, The Crow and The Mackerel were sending us a message. The hospitals were exceeding capacity. The sick were being held at food shelters and elementary schools instead. About a quarter of the infected did not survive. For the entire week, Slagport smelled of rotting corpses. The food and health department obtained meat samples from every restaurant and grocer in Slagport. If the business provided meat in any shape or form, it was searched. Over half of the quarantined locations contained traces of poisoned human remains in their meat. Every single grocer had been providing the public with cannibalized human corpses in their burger patties. What was worse, is that the remains were no longer coming from only Slagport individuals. As we provided Dr. Sunshine with evidence faster than he could analyze, he found that missing persons from across the country were now being consumed in Slagport. An emergency broadcast alerted the country. Truckloads of infested meat arrived in Slagport, all put on a ship to Dr. Sunshine’s island. I could tell the Dr. was under great duress - his symptoms of stress mimicked my own. His correspondences grew brusque, and even cryptic. His cooperation waned, until we stopped hearing from him altogether. July 30th, The borough was apprehensive to warrant a search on Dr. Sunshine’s laboratory. The Doctor’s forensic work was invaluable to our agency, but his history of animal experiments was undeniable. When officials found that genetically mutated remains were being shuffled into the city’s meat supply, Dr. Sunshine immediately came up as a suspect. His sovereignty provided him the isolation required to enact such a monstrosity. Our attempts to obtain a warrant were shot down by the court, and half of the borough resented our efforts. It was obvious that Sunshine’s services would be redacted once we’ve raided his island. When The Doctor went silent, we obtained the grounds to conduct a welfare check. Me and a team of investigators sailed to his island on the morning of the 30th. Only The Doctor had ever inhabited the island. The lab resembled a prison, derelict and overgrown with vines. Upon arrival, we found signs of breaking and entering. As we searched the laboratory, mutated animals wandered freely through the grounds. A two-headed pig wandered past us, with a snout covered in gore. What we discovered was equally terrifying to the Slagport Downs Massacre. In a bedroom, mutated animals feasted on the corpse of Dr. Sunshine. The herd was rife with abominations - A monkey that had shed its skin like a reptile. Rabbits covered in a devouring fungus. The mad scientist’s death left far more questions than answers. Analysts determined that the liberation of his subjects was the act of an outside force. The Doctor had not willingly let those animals devour him. Someone, or something, had sought the Doctor’s death - and their execution had been a success. My theories were unpopular among my colleagues, but I had suspected Slagport’s recent villains. I would never know if Dr. Sunshine was responsible for the creation of The Crow and The Mackerel. While his creations were deformed, there was no evidence that Sunshine had succeeded in fusing an animal with a human body. Crossing the doctor off our list of suspects, Cowley Farms now stood as our sole lead. Assembling a small team of specialized detectives, I obtained permission to raid the entire farm. August 1st, Cowley Farms, established a century prior to the Massacre, held an ill reputation across the country. ‘Efficiency’ was the company’s longstanding motto - but this efficiency entailed ruthless cruelty. As a result, many people called them ‘The Cowley Murder Farms’. Slagport was almost five hundred miles north of Cowley Farms, which operated in one of the most arable states: Jeksylvar. We drove an unmarked van to Cowley Farms, to avoid alerting anyone to the presence of a helicopter. Just like Douglas McGall, the company’s president was expecting our visit. He was an older man, nearly one hundred years old - leaning on a cane, with excess skin hanging below his eyes. Garrett Brotsworth, who had operated the profitable business for over fifty years, gave us a tour of the farms. I still have nightmares of the squalid conditions the animals lived in. A thick odor of feces choked every inch of the air within a five mile radius. All eight-hundred acres of land were lined with rotting coops, barns, and greenhouses - many of which were literally falling apart. During my tour, a roof panel fell from a coop, nearly hitting me. When asked about Slagport’s main supply of beef and pork, Brotsworth showed us to a crowded barn. From the outside, the screeching of pigs was deafening. Brotsworth was apprehensive to show us the interior of the building, but I insisted on entering. A narrow lane comprised the walkway between pens, which were overflowing with pigs. Five pigs occupied the living space that was appropriate for only one. The animals were stacked on top of each other, squirming, and trampling the heads of their penmates. As they pressed tightly against their cells, their fat squeezed through the bars. The squealing was hellacious, like a nuclear explosion. Each animal wailed in agonizing pain, without so much as an inch to writhe in suffering. As we walked through the barn, Brotsworth reeled in embarrassment. It was genuine embarrassment, like having guests at a dirty home. There were no cunning diversions, and no furtive mishaps. It seemed that Brotsworth had nothing to hide. As we walked between pens, the barn’s fetid odor intensified. In the loneliest cage was the largest pig I had ever seen. Its torso was the size of a four door car, with a head and limbs that were miniscule in comparison. Brotsworth spoke of this pig as his prize. She would fetch him the most money a single animal had ever made. In acknowledgment of this fate, the pig squealed deeply. Turning her eyes to me, she revealed cloudy grey pupils. I have never believed in telepathy of any sort. But at that moment, I truly thought I could hear that pig’s thoughts in my own mind. ‘Kill me,’ she said, her body convulsing as she lifted her head. ‘Kill me now. Please do it. Take the gun from your waist, and put a bullet in my head.’ Sheer disgust twisted my face. My cohort questioned me, asking if I was sane. Contempt for the Murder Farms filled me with intense anger, and I could no longer bear that scene of torture. I retreated from the barn, and began to vomit on the ground outside. We stayed at a secluded motel in Jeksylvar for the next week. Every day we returned to the Murder Farms, sampling their supplies, and observing their procedures. We met with every employee and every supplier, leaving no stone unturned. As the week came to an end, I wanted to pull my hair from my head. Not a shred of evidence had been found. How badly I wanted to find one speck of blood, or one microscopic piece of human organ. But my intuition had known from the very first day that Garrett Brotsworth was innocent. August 12th, Three days after my return to Slagport, a young child by the name of Mark Yarnell was reported missing. His mother Nancy phoned local authorities after her son did not return from his afternoon walk on the 11th. On the evening of the 12th, Mark was found at the edge of an outfall pipe. His condition was critical; he was barely breathing. Flesh had been ripped from several portions of his stomach. An entire kidney was missing, leaving the boy in excruciating pain. Medics knew there was nothing that could be done to save his life- he was going to die within minutes. I arrived barely thirty seconds before Mark’s passing, just in time to hear his haunting testimonial. Mark spoke with the fervor of a prophet predicting the apocalypse. In bouts of screaming and prayer, Mark claimed that a demon with the head of a deer had dragged him into the sewers. Mark wailed, flailing his fists as he recalled that blood had been dripping from the demon’s antlers. In the darkest depths of the sewers, the deer headed man and his brethren feasted on Mark’s organs. Mark exhaled his final breath, bleeding into the Slagport canal. As the news spread, Slagport broke into a frenzy. People boarded their doors and started riots in the streets. Restaurants and grocers were looted and burned to the ground. Knowing that something unspeakable resided in the sewers, I grew desperate to organize a search. The entirety of our police force was occupied with quelling riots, and the police chief denied my proposition. My consciousness was burning with vengeance and a need for retribution. My drinking habits leaked into the daytime, causing me to act irrationally as I dealt with rioters. Off the clock, several peers supported my plan to search the sewers. We formed a heavily armed squadron of six vigilantes, and ventured into the sewers on the night of the 12th. This operation was conducted entirely under the radar of the police chief. August 13th, After midnight, we discovered a gore-wrought feast, deep in the sewers. Not one victim was left alive, and there were no signs of the creatures Mark had described. The crime scene was redolent of the original Massacre. Several corpses were later identified as missing persons from months past. They had been gutted, gored, and feasted upon. Limbs, heads, and organs littered the sewer system. We searched every dark corner and pit, ensuring no one went unseen. But the monsters had evaded us completely - they were always one step ahead of us. A dissenter from our search party informed the police chief of our search, to save their own career. As a result, me and the other four officers were dismissed from our positions. As I handed in my gun and badge, I felt my life crumbling like an ancient castle. Throughout my walk home, I shook with a craving for liquor. Grim thoughts of an ancient evil swarmed my mind. The Deer’s rage was primal, and it detested our society of human innovation. As I laid in my bedroom, deep in a bottle of liquor, I thought of the Murder farms. I thought of Cawlick’s Grill, and the burger Sheryl had eaten before falling ill. Since the start of the epidemic, I had lost twenty pounds. My face was gaunt, and my ribs were protruding. I craved a feast - a hearty meal of chicken, pork, and steak. But every time I went to take the first bite, images of that pig disturbed my mind. I thought about this animal every night, more than I thought about my wife and children. It was the very symbol of my depression, and my burning need for vengeance. How I wished I could forget everything. August 20th, Reported illnesses had reached peak numbers. Multiple businesses had been razed in the riots. I was participating in these riots now, starved and sleep deprived, throwing rocks through windows. I was too drunk to tell right from wrong, and I treated other rioters like they were my lifelong friends and family. On the night of the 20th, I broke down into tears, sobbing with my face in the pavement. I screamed into the smokey night sky, lamenting the pig who had asked me to end her life. I couldn’t release her from eternal suffering, and now she laid in ceaseless agony. Fortunately, I was not alone in my resentment of the Murder Farms. Though they were proven innocent by every means of the law, many still suspected their involvement in the murders. I stared deeply at a fallen sketch of the Mackerel. My companions comforted me, bringing me back to my feet. At that moment, I conceived a malicious idea. We formed a small group - like the squadron that had searched the sewers - and embarked on a pilgrimage to the Muder Farms. August 21st, As the moon watched us from the sky, we set the Cowley Murder Farms ablaze. Wearing ski masks and bags over our heads, we restrained every worker we could find, and released the suffering animals. Pigs ran wild, accompanied by chickens and cows, disappearing into the wilderness of Jeksylvar. Years later, they would still find these escaped animals. They had gone feral, and assimilated with nature. I freed all the pigs from the barn I had toured weeks before. Many of them were already dead, decomposing within their pens. Splashing gasoline on the floor and walls, I walked to the back of the barn, where the mother pig had rested. Her eyes were closed, and I could not hear her thoughts. She had experienced a miserable fate - dying slowly in a pile of infested hay. I ran my trembling hand over her skin. As I did, images of The Crow flashed through my mind. I felt like the Mackerel, stabbing Barbara Candy in the fish market. Saying farewell to the mother pig, I walked into the night with a delirious smile. Outside, I threw a lit match at the barn, creating a glorious explosion. Every night from then, I could still feel the heat on my face as I watched the Cowley Murder Farms perish in a raging inferno. October 1st. It had been over a month since me and a group of brave vigilantes incinerated the Murder Farms. The mysterious food borne illness had disappeared since that fateful night. The riots had calmed down, and by mid-September, businesses were operating normally. The rate of disappearances reverted to its normal pace. There were no more sightings of deranged animal-human hybrids. But images of the Mackerel could still be found in forgotten street corners, as if they were watching us from the shadows. When my wife found out I had lost my job, she filed for a divorce. For months, I wandered meaninglessly through the Downs, turning into a local drunkard. I would stop people as they walked, tell them of the burning of the Murder Farms, and how I was there that night. Eventually, I ran out of money, and depression torched my soul. I obtained a job as a simple gas station clerk. Every now and then I would see my old peers from the station, who would mock the man I had become. I was awoken one night in my room. Three figures stood around my bed, obscured by shadows. Each of them bore an animal head - The crow with its oozing yellow eyes. The Mackerel radiating its decaying odor. The Deer with intestines hanging from its antlers. I would not attempt to defy fate. I laid still, allowing them to enact their will. Yet, they only watched me as I shivered under the blanket. They walked out of my bedroom, and into the dark streets of Slagport Downs. Quickly, I ran to my window. Like a dark troupe, they climbed down a manhole, one by one - first The Deer, then The Mackerel, and finally The Crow. But before its beaked head went underground, the Crow looked through my window - just like it had looked at the camera, when it all began. They were beckoning me. All three of them. I couldn’t stand to watch them. I didn’t want to comprehend their message. Crawling back into bed, I covered my head with a pillow. No one would ever truly understand the Slagport Downs Massacre. No one would ever know the intent behind those three creatures. But I knew better than anyone else. I knew why they had fed their victims into our stomachs. Cawlick’s Grill could not stay afloat when it re-opened. The entire chain went out of business. Less people had been eating meat in the city of Slagport. I myself would never consume another animal again.