Chapter Text
[BEEP]
[SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS]
PEARL
-Six tonight then, yeah?
GRIAN
Sounds good to me. Send me a message when you’re nearby so I know it’s you.
PEARL
Will do. Now I’ll leave you to do your recordings. [Laugh] See you later!
[SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS RETREATING]
GRIAN
Bye, Pearl.
[PAUSE]
[BEEP]
[CLICK]
GRIAN
Statement of ...Kazmer Rallis, regarding the new owner of the butcher shop. Original statement transcribed 17th July, 1983, audio recording by Grian Watcher, Head Archivist of the V.O.I.D. Institute, London. Statement begins.
GRIAN (STATEMENT)
I will admit, I'm a little confused as to exactly how to start this. While the main incident, so to speak, only happened recently, there is months and months of context. You haven’t really given me much to work off of in terms of length.
I have decided that I will give a little background information, just so you understand the oddness of everything. None of the events are too bad when they’re just by themselves, but when they’re all put together, it makes a strange enough picture that I think it was worth coming to see you.
Well, most of the events aren’t too bad. There were multiple murders after all. Those were very bad.
It started back in December of last year. It wasn’t very cold for the season, and it stayed warm through most of the spring as well, so I was walking outside a lot. There is a reason I mention it, and I will come back to that.
I live very close to the nearest butcher shop. So close that it is on the same street that I live, though we are both at opposite ends. I went there quite often at the weekends or after work, because even though the prices could be a little high, the quality of meat was amazing. They had all sorts there, chicken, pork, steak, lamb, even seafood sometimes, and they would sell the produce both raw and cooked, for variety.
There were only two people working there, and I would like to say that we were quite good friends. They were an old couple, a sweet pair that looked to be maybe in their early sixties, and always had time to chat when I was looking through the produce. The lady worked at the front, taking calls and selling most of the meat, while her husband usually stayed in the back, either preparing cuts or doing whatever paperwork is required to run a business. I had been coming by for a few years, ever since I moved to London I think, and we had become quite familiar with one another.
I knew they lived just above the shop, and I always made sure to look out for them whenever I noticed the ‘Closed’ sign at unusual hours, which it had been for a few days. But the lights upstairs had stayed on for most of the time, so I knew they were okay and probably just ill, so I resolved myself to just wait for the sign to change.
It did after almost seven days, stopping my worry just in time as well. I had been walking back from work at the time, and noticed the warm yellow glow coming from the shop window. I had my wallet on me at the time, and did want something, so I walked in without so much as a care in the world, counting what money I had. So as you can imagine, it was quite a shock to look up and find someone completely new behind the counter.
He was tall, certainly about six feet, pale with black hair, a sweet face and a thick beard. He was built exactly how you’d expect someone who worked as a butcher would be built, and dressed just the same as well. The thick white apron was splashed in bright red blood, and I might have almost said it was stereotypical had I not seen one of the previous owners, the husband, wear almost the exact same thing.
He introduced himself as Vincent, said that he had taken over the business just that week. I was a little bit confused at first, but he said he had been meeting with the previous owners for quite some time and they had been discussing him taking over once they felt the need to retire. Apparently, the time had come on quicker than they had expected, and he had begun his work.
I… wasn’t sure of his relation with the older couple. He didn’t look like the type they’d just known by coincidence, and while he was about the age that maybe he could pass as their son, they hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. I admit, I was a little bewildered, but just accepted it. Perhaps I hadn’t been as close to the couple as I thought, and quite quickly, any doubts slipped from my mind.
I bought a lovely roast chicken and went home that night, pondering over what to make of it. And while at the time, I did not note it down so to speak, I did realise that the lights above the butcher shop had been turned off.
And for the next while, that was simply how life continued. It wasn’t unusual, a shop changing hands, but something still bugged me at the back of my mind, like a bad itch. I just wasn’t sure what it was, couldn’t pin it down, so I let it be, at least for the time.
I realise now that it was because I’d never seen any moving vans or cars go past. There had never been any sort of indication that the older couple had moved away.
Over the next few months, I got to know Vincent more and more, just as I had with the couple before. He was a little odd at first with the way he phrased things or how he acted, but he had explained he had spent a large portion of the past few years completely by himself, so I wasn’t about to be rude and point things out. He was very sweet overall, and always willing to talk to me, even if the conversation was just about silly little things. I learned that his surname was Beef, which I had a very big laugh at, and he also seemed to find it amusing. Told me that butchery must’ve always been in his blood, even though he used to be in school for art.
When I asked why he had changed, his eyes looked strange, like he was looking very far away. Apparently, he just felt more of a connection with butchery, and left art to be a hobby, but the way he phrased it always struck me as… odd. He said that when becoming a butcher, the job chose him and he didn’t choose it. When I tried to prod further, he just steered the conversation away.
I just accepted that it was something he was sensitive about and didn’t push him. But over the months, the longer we talked, the more I noticed he got a very odd look on his face when he talked about his previous aspirations. At first, I mistook it for longing, or maybe wistfulness. But the more I looked, the more it began to look like… well, almost like pride. For what I could not tell you, at least at the time. But then, one night, we were talking while he was closing up shop and he invited me upstairs for a drink.
It was perhaps a little bit forwards, but not entirely out of nowhere. I had been in the shop for quite some time, longer than I would usually be, and in the early March, the night had fallen fast. While I wouldn’t have to walk far to be home, I still accepted, if not for curiosity's sake. After all, I had only known Vincent during his work hours, and despite our frequent conversations, I didn’t know lots about him. In the end, a home could tell me much more than words ever could.
Admittedly, my first thought was about how cold it was. When Vincent opened the door, it was as if a blast of icy outside air hit me square in the face. I was reminded very much of a freezer, it was that cold. The strong smell of meat that I assumed had trailed us from downstairs didn’t help either. The lights were off, as expected, but as Vincent fumbled for the light, I peered around him to take an early peek. It was a small place, an empty corridor with two closed doors on the left and right walls, and one door that was wide open at the end of the corridor. And in that room, silhouetted by the lamppost light coming in from the window, was a figure, facing towards us.
I am not ashamed to say I was startled at first, leaning back slightly so I was behind Vincent once more. But then he finally flicked the switch, letting light flood into the house, and I could see that what I had mistaken as a person was in fact some tall object with a sheet over the top of it.
I guess Vincent saw the look on my face, because he gave a slight laugh at it before walking down towards what I could now see was a living room. I followed, a little bit embarrassed, catching a closer look once Vincent went through the door and turned behind it. The object was about human sized, and even slightly human shaped, but far too thin to ever be such a thing. It was as though he had a skeleton propped up in his house, just hidden behind a thin sheet as a disguise.
He told me what it was when he fetched me a drink. A project, he said, taking a long sip. He wanted to try out some statue making, and was figuring stuff out. Apparently, he’d always been quite the painter, and wanted to try out something different for once. Something solid.
I didn’t see any clay or similar materials in the room, but I just brushed it off as him keeping it elsewhere, even though the two other rooms were likely a bedroom and a bathroom. I didn’t question it, even though his eyes were flat and cold and I felt a spark of fear in my chest at the look on his face.
I believed him because what else could it have been, hiding under sheets?
I excused myself soon after, still shivering from the cold that hadn’t left since we’d arrived, and walked back home in the darkness, thinking. Vincent had seen me out of the door, assuring me that I could see the statue when it was fully completed, but honestly, I didn’t really care that much about seeing it. I wasn’t quite sure why, but something about it unsettled me quite awfully, even though it was covered up. It was as though it had been looking at me when I walked down the corridor, even though there was no way it could have been.
And by chance, I looked up at the home I’d just been in, trying to catch a glimpse of anything, still unsettled and cold.
The lights had been turned off, even though I know Vincent hadn’t left the house and had mentioned he was planning on working on the statue. I could even see him, shuffling around what I assumed was the statue, though it looked to be uncovered. In one hand, he clutched the end of the sheet. In the other, he held a large knife.
While I had never taken an art class in my life, I knew what a scalpel was, and that certainly wasn’t it. In fact, it was almost certainly a standard kitchen knife clutched in his hands. The living room did have an adjoined kitchen, so it was certainly easy to get one, but what he could need that for was a mystery to me at the time. Of course, I know what it was for now.
I will mostly skim over the next few months, as things stay mostly the same as they were. I’d occasionally buy something from the butchers and talk to Vincent, then rarely, he’d invite me up for a drink. Though admittedly, I did start going less and less, both to the shop up the stairs to the home above. It wasn’t because I grew less fond of Vincent, or anything of the sort.
No, it’s because he stopped selling cooked food, which was the only sort I usually bought.
Anytime I would go in, there would only be raw meat on display and for sale, which I found quite odd, as I’d seen the cooked meat sell much better. It was a strange choice for sure, but Vincent said he had been running himself ragged trying to cook the meat on top of everything else. The dark shadows under his eyes did point towards him telling the truth, but I did feel as though there was more of a story than he was letting on. However, I didn’t push.
Not visiting his place for drinks however, that was because I was becoming less and less fond of his home. Perhaps it was the constant chill, even when summer began to creep in. Perhaps it was the way he would always be different when not behind the counter, colder and more focused on his statue. Or perhaps, it was the statue itself that had morphed dramatically since my first visit.
No longer was it simply a skeletal figure dressed in a white sheet. Now, there was a clear human shape underneath, short but undeniably a person. The only noticeable difference I could see was the strange growths on the top of its head. There were two of them, jutting from the front of the skull and curving back on the top of its head. They almost looked like horns, though why they would be added, I wasn’t sure. And instead of a white sheet, it was a thick black canvas that covered the statue now.
The more the statue evolved, the more I felt that it was looking at me. It was as though it was aware I was there, as silly as it sounds. I could tell that Vincent was aware I was uncomfortable as well, though he never called me out on it, or moved the statue. If anything, he almost looked amused at my discomfort. The house never grew any warmer, Vincent never looked any less tired and I never quite managed to settle there for long before making an excuse to leave.
Then, around the middle of June, the ‘Closed’ sign appeared on the butcher shop.
It was explainable at first, even though illness isn’t exactly as common in the early summer months. I just brushed it off and waited for Vincent’s return. Then a few days turned into a week, then into two weeks, and then I began to get fully worried about him. I’d kept an eye out on his house, and the lights had been off the entire time. I could occasionally see that the statue had been moved to different places at the window, so I knew he was still inside, but he hadn’t made an appearance at all. While I was tempted to call the police, I knew there was nothing they could do really - it wasn’t as though Vincent was breaking the law in any way.
I should have called the police when I first thought of it. Or when I realised the only figure I’d seen in the window in weeks was a horned one. Or even when I went to check the shop and saw a smear of blood on the door handle. Or when I pushed the door and it opened without a sound, lock broken on the floor.
It was stupid, I know. I know.
I did call the police when I walked up the stairs to Vincent’s home and saw the splatters of blood across the floor and on the walls leading up to the front door. I don’t know why that was when it registered that something had happened, but when it did, I immediately ran home.
I did try the phone at the butcher's shop, but there was no dial tone. I don’t know why. What I do know is that seventeen minutes later, the police pulled up in front of the shop while I watched from my home, fear in my bones. I watched them enter the shop, and then six minutes later, the lights upstairs turned on. Another two police cars showed up nine minutes later and the officers rushed in. It was nearly an hour later when they emerged with the body bag. I knew what that meant. What was worse was when they emerged with two more.
They did question me a little bit, as I’m sure was standard procedure for anybody who calls police to such a scene. My relation with Vincent, how long we’d known each other, if I’d known the previous owners. How long ago they’d left, how long Vincent had been here, when he had stopped opening the shop. The picture they were painting for me was quite clear, and perhaps I had put it together long before as well. The lack of any moving vehicles. The strange appearance of Vincent. The ice cold house that had been set up just like a meat fridge. The rooms I never saw open.
When they asked me if I’d visited his house before, I said yes, and mentioned the statue. The officers exchanged an indecipherable look, before asking me what I meant. I told them about Vincent’s ‘art project’, about the horned thing in his living room that was always covered, and the more I talked, the more the choking dread began to creep its way up my throat.
…There was no statue in the house when the police arrived. All that was there was the bodies of Vincent Beef, and the old couple. That, and a bleeding, severed arm with no bones and no skin over it, clutching a kitchen knife between limp fingers. None of the three victims was missing an arm.
Though I was told the police would be in contact if they needed more information from me, they never did. I only found out through a newspaper article exactly how Vincent had been killed. He’d been stabbed in the stomach and bled out nearly three weeks before he was found, though the temperature of the house had stopped him from rotting. There had been no signs of a break in, and only the store lock had been damaged.
His skin had also been removed. It was never found.
While most of this could just be tied to a horrible, horrible crime, I’ve come here because of the statue. Because if Vincent had been dead ever since the ‘Closed’ sign had appeared, how did the statue move positions over the course of multiple days? How did the killer leave but never enter? And why, in the months of Vincent working at the butcher store, did I never ever see a delivery truck outside?
I don’t know. I hope you do though. Thank you for your time.
GRIAN
End statement.
Well that’s certainly a unique one. It almost feels like a work of fiction instead of an actual case that happened. A butcher shop owner that killed people, but was then killed instead? It sounds like the plot to one of those silly movies that Scar likes.
First of all, Mr Rallis. This is the second time he seems to have appeared in the statements I’ve recorded, but he seems to be more… normal in this one, unlike in case number 0431275. Then again, that statement was four years after this one, so who knows what happened in between the cases. Still, it’s something of worth to note.
[Mumbled] I wonder how many people appear in multiple cases…
[PAUSE]
Moving onto the investigation, Pearl did confirm a large portion of what Mr Rallis did tell us via old newspapers. The death of a butcher named Vincent Beef was reported back in the early 80’s, with the victim having killed the previous two owners himself. While the method of death was stated, it doesn’t seem any of the odder parts of the case were - the severed arm wasn’t mentioned at all. The only time Pearl managed to spot it was in the official police report, where it was noted the arm was found on scene. However, it never led anywhere, as curiously enough, it was not a human arm, despite its looks.
The arm was instead made up of various animal meats, such as beef and pork, that only resembled an arm. Strangely enough though, the blood that was coming out of it was Mr Beef’s, as Mumbo found out.
While there isn’t much left to say on the specific case, there is some background stuff that came up that we found. Mr Rallis was correct in saying that there were no delivery trucks giving Mr Beef his produce. In the six months he ran the place, there were no traces of any sorts of meat being bought, any arrangements made for anything to be brought to the shop, absolutely nothing. It’s entirely unclear as to where Mr Beef was getting all of the meat from. While there is certainly the possibility of more… sinister means of getting the produce, the police did confirm at the time that all of the meat that was being stored was, in fact, animal and not human.
Which leaves only one more thing to really mention from the case.
Around a week after the police recovered Mr Beef’s body, a figure was spotted at Northumberland Park Station, about two miles away from the butcher shop. They matched Mr Beef’s description to a horrifying degree of accuracy, apart from three very distinct things.
For starters, they were far too short, looking to be around five foot five or something of the sorts. Secondly, they looked very very pale. ‘Deathly pale’ were the exact words used to describe them. They also appeared to be quite ill, or perhaps injured, as they were poorly dressed for the weather and kept scratching their face. And thirdly…
Thirdly, while hidden by a hat, they appeared to have something stuck on their head. The reporter said that they almost looked like devil horns.
…The statue not being a statue was obviously what Mr Rallis thought, and it certainly is both strange and terrifying. Not only did it likely kill Mr Beef, but also stole his skin to replace its lack of any. And it also had enough intelligence to leave the immediate area via the train.
Certainly a strange case indeed.
End recording
[CLICK]
[BEEP]
GRIAN
In supplement.
I refuse to talk about my actual thoughts on the cases, just in case it reminds Mumbo that he wanted to talk to me about my ‘lack of belief in the supernatural’. I really don’t want to tell him, so I’ll record things here. That, and I don’t want someone listening in, trying to figure out what I know.
While I covered most of the case itself, there’s still the statue, and Mr Rallis.
Vincent Beef clearly made the statue himself, as Kazmer Rallis stated it originally was skeletal in nature. It also seems pretty clear that he used animal meat to make it, as despite the fact he killed the previous owners, their bodies were never excessively damaged, according to the reports at least. Well, apart from one thing.
Both of them were missing one eye each. I can imagine where they ended up, or rather, what they ended up in.
It seems the statue somehow gained sentience, though I’m unsure of the trigger. Kazmer didn’t mention any strange books, but it’s entirely possible it was some sort of cursed object, or perhaps something else entirely. It’s entirely unclear whether or not the statue is still out there, but I think it very well could be. A meat creature being found would make national news no doubt, and I’ve never seen anything like that. I even pored over old reports to see as well.
As for Kazmer, it seems pretty clear to me that he’s almost an entirely different person between the two cases. It almost reminds me of Ethan Hoslab, and how he appeared to have an entirely different personality in different cases. In some cases, like both statements by Tango Teck, he appeared almost cold or uncaring, not to mention how Tango himself said Ethan was a monster. Somehow, I don’t think he was just using metaphors. However, in the ones where he was younger, like case number 0634810 with Martyn L Woods, and even case number 0806356 with Berwynne Oliver-Ortiz and Albrecht M. Seiben, he seemed more… human.
It’s almost as though he was… changed. Replaced. Again, like Martyn’s case with Ren Dog.
While it could just be explained as something as simple as ‘his personality changed’ or ‘different people with the same name’, I get the feeling that it’s something worse. I’m going to try and find anything else on Ethan, and see if there’s any indication on what’s happening with these guys.
Hopefully it won’t take too long, but who knows. The Archives are a proper mess.
Pearl’s coming over to dye my hair soon, because I don’t trust myself to not accidentally irritate the burn on my face, so I’ll end it here for now.
End supplemental.
[BEEP]
[BEEP]
[SOUND OF FAST BREATHING]
[SOUND OF TV IN THE BACKGROUND]
PEARL
[Panic] Grian? Mate, I need you to respond!
PRESENTER #1
-several years of good behaviour. I’d say it’s about time, wouldn’t you agree?
PRESENTER #2
Yes, I would. He was sentenced when he was barely 18, and he’s been in prison for nearly a decade. I’d say that’s punishment enough, especially when taking into consideration that he didn’t kill anybody.
[SOUNDS OF FUMBLING]
PRESENTER #1
Indeed. He made a mistake as a teenager, and it cost him nine years of his life, but now, Sam-
[SOUND OF TV BEING TURNED OFF]
PEARL
Oh, thank goodness. Grian?
[LONG PAUSE]
[BEEP]