The following is a collection of local rumors and whispers collected from the townsfolk of Eugene, Oregon from the years of 1979–1981.

Tom Rondo was a manipulative sadist and criminal psychopath who worked as a grade school teacher for forty years until his death at the age of ninety-two. He was married twice, had five children, and kept his box of his favorite stolen teeth and bones on a shelf in the garage above the washing machine. Mr. Rondo was a devout catholic and registered Republican.

When bodies of homeless people and missing children began to spring up across the state of Illinois, Mr. Rondo was offered a position at a high school in West Oregon who’s graduating class rarely exceeded twenty five students. Mrs. Rondo, Louise was her name, struggled to maintain her domestic life as a stay-at-home mother and fled via the back of a rich dentist’s motorbike. Mr. Rondo was left to care for his three children, at the time, alone in a new land.

Around this time, Mr. Rondo discovered therapy and renewed his belief in a higher power. It was during this mid-life crisis that he experimented with drugging, wicken ritual, and advanced torture. He met his second wife, Mariam, at a BDSM club high on angel dust. Rondo quickly grew fond of her, paying her rent and fueling her drug addiction in exchange for her witness to his actions.

In his memoir Under My Nose, Mr. Rondo’s therapist Dr. Juergen recalls a moment in one of their conversations. “Mariam has given me something that no one in my life ever has. I feel creative again, alive.” Dr. Juergen was very proud at this moment. Together they killed over seventy people, focusing primarily on gay men and women as well as children of low-income neighborhoods. They bore two children that are assumed dead.

In the end, Mr. Rondo admitted his deeds to his youngest daughter, Madeline, as she lay beside him on his death bed at Lincoln Memorial Hospital. The endless stories rambled on and on, darker and darker. Madeline was convinced they were just geriatric mumblings, the result of a brain dying out. It was only when old Tom Rondo slowly rolled up the sleeve on his right arm. Amidst the varicose, blue veins and wrinkled piles of skin were holes in the flesh of his bicep gnashed out by human teeth.

“This is all I have left of your mother, my worst regret.”