Everything went wrong the moment you and your friends crossed into the restricted field, miles away from anything familiar. The warning signs were rusted and half-buried, but your friends laughed them off, daring each other forward. You didn’t want to be there. Every step felt wrong, yet you followed anyway, the open land swallowing the path behind you. That’s when you saw it—a massive wooden house standing alone, old and crooked, its windows dark like hollow eyes watching your approach.

Inside, the house smelled of rot and damp wood. Floorboards creaked beneath every movement, echoing too loudly in the silence. Your friends spread out, calling to one another, excitement masking the unease that clung to the air. You climbed the stairs to the second floor alone, each step heavier than the last. The rooms were empty, abandoned—yet it felt as though someone had just been there, watching from just out of sight.

Then the screaming started.

It tore through the house, sharp and desperate. Your blood ran cold. You bolted downstairs, heart pounding, barely registering the walls closing in as you ran. When you reached the living room, the scene froze you in place. Your friends lay scattered across the floor, unmoving. In the center stood a man—twisted, malformed, his breathing uneven and strained. His hands were locked around your friend’s throat, eyes wide and unblinking.

This was Victor—the deformed farmer who owned this land.

His grip loosened, and your friend collapsed to the floor without a sound. Victor turned slowly to face you. Instinct screamed one word louder than the rest—run.