Imagine, if you will, a quiet little town on an island off the coast of England, Cumbria to be exact. It was a quaint little town, boasting only a church with a tall, 15th century spiral slightly aside of the main building to guide ships through the only safe channel on this part of the island. However, this situation would be violently upended one day in the winter of 1860.
It was a blisteringly cold February evening in the town of Brendam, and Peter Ironsides was returning home from his shop. Mr. Ironsides was a blacksmith of high renown in the town of Brendam, mostly for his craftsmanship and skill. If you asked the townsfolk, he was the most capable blacksmith on the Island, and possibly the whole of England. Peter was quite content with this, as he had honed his passion from the age of 15. Now, at the ripe old age of 56, he was still at it, although as he stepped along the cobblestone streets, he was reminded of how stiff his joints had become these past two decades. The locals did not fear him though, as he was a friendly and helpful man. Nevertheless, he was still a quite intimidating man, a 5 foot 7 inch tall, 205-pound man; he was not one to be trifled with. He scratched his bearded chin, wondering about recent news he had heard from America. He had heard about a conflict between some people who the papers called abolitionists and slave owners. Why fight over a trivial matter like that, he wondered, surely, they had better things to worry abo—.
He stopped dead in his tracks and looked to his left. He had turned down an alley by this point. In the dim light of the moon and streetlamps, he saw what appeared to be an object. He went to take a closer look. What lay before him was a grizzly sight. It was a man, at least, what was once a man. His eyes were missing entirely. His jaw was no where to be seen. From what Peter could see, his face was frozen in sheer agony, terror, and sorrow all at once. But the worst thing was his torso. His torso appeared to have been ripped open by an animal. Blood coated the walls of the alley. Worst of all, his guts appeared to have been eaten.
Peter felt as if his entire stomach had been torn out, much like the corpse in front of him. It was a good 40 seconds before he took off, as fast as his old legs could carry him, right into the Brendam Constabulary office. It was 8:05 when Peter barged through the door, scaring the secretary senseless. “I- I- I-I-I h-h-hav-v-e So-mm-thing to r-r-report”, stammered Peter, eyes wide as dinnerplates, and pupils the size of needle points.
It did not take long for the police to reach the scene, as it was only about 3 blocks away from the station. Alongside the body, the police found traces of something else. Iron shavings, on the ground nearby. It almost looked like they had been there for hours beforehand. The police questioned Peter, who denied any involvement other than the body’s discovery. A thorough investigation ensued as the police tried to determine the culprit and the victim’s identity.
It had been 4 days since Peter found that corpse in the alley, and he had not shaken it from his mind. What sick monster could have done something that grotesque to another man, he thought. This thought lingered with him on his walk home, but he couldn’t explain why.
Later that evening, Peter got a knock on the door from the local constables. The moment he opened the door, he was handcuffed and wrestled to the ground by the constable. When he looked at the doorway of his home, he could see a figure standing in the light. A dark shadowy figure. A figure very like his own. It grinned at him sadistically and spoke a sentence that chilled Peter to the bone, “They will never know.” Peter looked down at his hands. They were drenched in a deep red blood.