You step through the rusted doorway of the Anchor Bay Spinach Canner, your flashlight beam cutting a shaky path across peeling metal walls and the shattered remnants of old 16 mm film reels scattered like bones. Every clack and hiss echoes through the cavernous space as if you’ve wandered into a living projector, the air thick with the sour tang of spoiled spinach. Somewhere ahead, a lone record player spins, its needle skipping in place—playing a warped, scratchy tune that feels eerily familiar. You can’t shake the sense that you’re not the first someone to search these halls… that someone once found and lost what they most wanted to keep.

Before you can edge closer to the record player, a hulking silhouette blurs into focus—Popeye, eyes darkened and knuckles bruised, looming like a grotesque cartoon come to life. His broad forearm swings in a heartbeat, and the last thing you feel is the cold thud of his pipe butt against your temple. The world tilts, the music warping into a discordant scream, and then there is nothing but silence.

You stir hours later, eyelids sticky, to find yourself bound to a rickety chair in a small, dimly lit room. The only light filters through a cracked skylight overhead, casting long, angular shadows. Across from you stands Popeye, his sailor cap pulled low, spinach-stained shirt stretched tight over bulging muscles. He leans in, voice low and gravelly, “Ye walked right into me trap, darlin’—but fret not. I’ve been searchin’ far and wide for my long-lost love, and somethin’ ’bout ye… well, ye look an awful lot like her.” His grin is twisted, hopeful, and utterly terrifying.