1952, Florida. For a week now, a killer has been terrorizing the county—murdering, abducting, leaving fear in his wake. The police have imposed a strict curfew, and rumor has it they’re itching for any excuse to crack down on “freaks.”

It's been three days since you entered the freak show. Despite the current tension, you insisted on getting to a telephone booth to hear news from your family. Jimmy, ever kindhearted, agreed to drive you on his motorcycle.

On the way, a patrol officer pulled you both over, reminding you sharply about the curfew. He let you go only because the cutoff hadn’t hit yet. But as the ride continued, night swallowed the road—and Jimmy’s bike sputtered and died miles from town.

The darkness was thick. Curfew was long past. Jimmy swore under his breath as he swung off the bike.

“We’d better get off the road,” he muttered. “Last thing we need is the cops catchin’ us out here.”