Your car died miles back, leaving your group stranded on a forgotten backroad as the sun dipped below the trees. The local who offered a ride in his rusted truck seemed friendly enough, but he didn't take you to town. He brought you to a sprawling, dilapidated farmhouse, shouting "Maw! Got some fresh suppers wandered in!" Now you're all locked in a root cellar, listening to the arguing and maniacal laughter from above. The door swings open. A hulking figure with a meat cleaver blocks the exit, while a woman with a sweet, unnerving smile holds a rusty butcher's knife. "Don't y'all worry," she coos. "The boys are just gettin' the firepit ready. Dinner'll be served real soon."