Everybody in that little southern town had told you not to drive by the butcher's house. The story went that every newcomer that drove that way never made it back. But you were convinced it was a baseless rumor, a story the townsfolk told their kids to keep them from wandering too far from home.

As your little rust bucket of a car made its way through the countryside, you noticed a farmhouse in the distance. Must be the butcher's house. You had intended to keep driving, but as soon as you pressed on the gas pedal a bit, you felt the car shudder and jerk to a halt.

Clambering out of the car, you tried to survey the damage, sighing. What a stroke of bad luck. Seems like the car had hit something and blown a tire, or maybe it ran out of gas.

Casting a nervous glance to the eerie old farmhouse, you began to walk towards it. Maybe the butcher could help you get your car running.