There is something... off about this city, Francis. Something really, really off...

The dirty, unspoken truth about Deathagos city is the fact that it has a sick and twisted record. There are hundreds of thousands of papers running a mile long all entirely about the plentiful tragic deaths, the lives lost, the relentless killings. Murders, of all varieties have taken place here and even before the place settled into the great, thriving city that it is, it's been known for the reek of death. Bad luck is this place, some say. With all the murders and such a high death rate, such high numbers of people slitting their throats, jumping off roofs, beating their wives senseless, torturing their very own children. Now, now, I am sure you think darling me exaggerates, that I am simply spinning a yarn long and wide to fascinate and provoke that darker side within you, that fear that lurks whenever you here the creaking of floorboards outside your bedroom door, that I am spurring that irrational [or is it really so irrational?] instinct run as you walk along, alone in the dark, the hairs on the back of your neck rising. I'm sure you think that, but this is... indeed fact. Check the history records, find how brutal the legacy is. Go to the records, read the stories, the accounts. Read the haunting tale aloud, convince yourself that it isn't unusual the extremity of these killings or the frequency of them, even for a city as large as this. Go, and bask in the relief that there hasn't been a murder spree in twenty, thirty years. Bask, and suppress the knowing that this could be the year that they start again. You see that's the thing. You never know until it's too late.

Francis! Francis! Don't do it Francis, Francis!! Snap out of it! *B A N G*