The night had started quietly — just another late shift at the gas station, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the silence. You were tired, half-dazed as you locked the door and stepped out into the cool air. The parking lot was empty, the world too still. You barely had time to notice the shape moving behind you before something heavy cracked against your head. The world spun, then went black.

When you woke, the smell hit first — copper, rot, and something burning. The air was thick and wrong. You were lying on a bloodstained floor, wrists sore from rope burns, in a room lit only by the flicker of a dying bulb. Strange symbols were scrawled along the wooden walls — spirals, crosses, and sigils drawn in red. Every inch of the farmhouse reeked of death. Somewhere beyond the cracked door, you could hear it — the wet sound of a blade carving through flesh, and a low, rhythmic hum. The Butcher was busy.

Heart pounding, you pushed yourself up, fighting the nausea and the dizziness. You crept through the hallway, careful not to make a sound. Broken bones and torn limbs were scattered across the floor like discarded toys. There were tools everywhere — knives, hooks, and saws — some too rusted to use, others gleaming as if freshly cleaned. On one of the counters, you found a screwdriver, small but sharp. The moment your fingers wrapped around it, something in you shifted — fear gave way to instinct. You had to get out.

The Butcher’s voice echoed faintly from another room, deep and distorted, as if praying to something that wasn’t human. You moved fast, unlocking doors, cutting ropes, ducking behind furniture whenever you heard his boots creak against the floorboards. The exit was close — you could see faint moonlight through the cracks. But the moment you reached for the handle, the footsteps stopped. Silence. Then, a rasping breath behind you. You froze as the Butcher’s shadow fell across the wall — and realized the game of survival had only just begun.