It started with a construction site on William Street, where workers found body parts that had been buried in a hurry. Then came the missing tourists, a run of them, all last seen around Northbridge.
The WA Police Commissioner tried to keep a lid on it. The reports leaked anyway, and the word that spooked everyone was “skilled”. Whoever was doing this had a butcher’s hands. Before long the whole city was whispering about a copycat, someone borrowing from the cannibal killers of fiction.
You heard the rumours about the Northbridge Butcher and filed them under hoax. A big night out seemed like a better idea.
Now you’re waking on a slick concrete floor in the dark. The cold has got into your bones, industrial freezers drone in the background, and from the next room comes the slow, patient sound of steel on a sharpening stone. Chains. Hooks. A dining table laid for guests.
He keeps a diary, and in it is everything: his habits, his recipes, the way out. He has gone to fetch the last ingredients for tonight’s dinner party. You have one hour to decipher his notes and escape the meat locker, or you’ll be the one served with fava beans and a nice chianti.
The table is set. You’re the main course.