This case was not meant to be public. It was buried, sealed, and forgotten, because what we found was the sign of something much worse. The department kept it hidden for years. But now, I need the world to see the truth. This is where ‘The Island Murders’ begins.
Designed by Master DS
Disclaimer: May contain violent language for certain readers.
I. The Invitation
The year was 2005. Club Penguin Island was already bleeding—violent crime seeping through every pothole. Gangs, Cream Soda, corruption—nothing new. But this… this was different. What we found was ritualistic. Deliberate. Almost reverent in its brutality.
I was a Detective Lieutenant with the CPPD’s Occult Crimes Taskforce—a unit so secret, half the department thinks it’s a myth. In a place like Klondike, steeped in blood, faith, and folklore, someone had to handle the cases no one would touch. Most were just theatrics—gutted chickens, spray-painted symbols, kids trying to scare each other. But every so often, we’d find something real. And what we found… would hollow out even the strongest soul.
The call came in just before sunrise. Town. A vacant building scheduled for demolition. Back in the 80s, it housed one of the largest sugar cane processors on the island—steam sacks billowing like smokestacks from some industrial beast. As a kid, I’d ride my bike past it every morning on my way to school. The air would be thick with the smell of scorched sweetness, like burned caramel. I used to think it smelled like heaven. But heaven doesn’t live there anymore.
The building was condemned years ago—rotted beams, shattered glass, rats the size of terriers. It became a haunt for the homeless, graffiti artists, and young teens looking to smoke a blunt.
The foreman who found the body had only been there to take inventory before demolition crews rolled in next week. He’d gone alone. Walked out shaking. Said just one word when he called it in—“Hell.”
Not “murder.” Not “body.” Just “Hell.” And he wasn’t wrong.
I was the first on the scene. I hadn’t slept. My three-month-old daughter kept my wife and me up all night with her crying. I remember thinking how tired I was on the drive over. However, whatever fatigue I had vanished the second I saw the body. A young penguin. Or what was left of her, at least.
A faded, unfamiliar symbol was painted on the wall behind her in a deep crimson pigment—not blood, but not paint either. It pulsed with meaning no one could place, drawn with obsessive precision. Even the forensics team hesitated to touch it.
Her eyes had been carefully covered with a black silk cloth, folded into perfect squares. Her hands were clasped together across her chest. Tucked between them was a wilted white flower, its petals brittle and dry. There was no blood or wounds — just an unnerving stillness, like the body had been prepared for something… else.
The body was later identified as 27-year-old Kira Williams. A Dance Club dancer–known to the regulars, invisible to the city. Her life was hard, but nothing could have prepared her for the cruelty that ended it.
As the forensics team carefully catalogued her belongings, they found her ID tucked neatly beneath her shirt, almost like someone wanted her to be known. On the back, in thick black ink, a single number had been written:
2.
Not a date. Not a code. Just a number. That’s when I knew this wasn’t the beginning. Someone had done this before. We just hadn’t seen it. Or worse—we had, and we buried it.
Satchmo
Reporter