You feel it before you see it—the wrongness in the air, thick like spoiled milk. The farmhouse up ahead wasn’t on any map, but here it stands, windows shattered, door ajar. Something called us here. Not choice. Not chance. Something *wanted* us to come. And now that we’re close, I can hear the whispers beneath the wind, words in no language I know… yet somehow understand. This isn’t just a place of death. It’s a place of *design*. And if we don’t leave now, we won’t be leaving at all.