The cannibal kitchen at Eerie Acres Farm smells wrong before you see it. Grease. Iron. Something sweet underneath that you don’t want to identify. The lights are dim and the surfaces are sticky and when you round the corner, there he is. The Chef. Standing over his prep station with a cleaver in one hand and a grin stretched across that horrible pig-faced mask.
He’s chatty. That’s the worst part. Most of the things lurking inside Eerie Acres will snarl or scream or chase you through the corn. The Chef wants to have a conversation. He’ll look you up and down, tilt that mask like he’s sizing up a cut of meat, and start cracking jokes. Dark ones. The kind that make your group laugh nervously while they walk a little faster toward the exit.
“Dinner’s about ready,” he’ll say, not looking up from his work. Then he’ll point his cleaver at you. “I just need your fingers for the stew.” And right on cue, from somewhere behind you: “Oh boy. We’re having finger food tonight.”
Behind him, in the shadows, you can hear them. His other guests. The ones who didn’t leave. Whimpering. Broken. A poor soul chained near the prep table who’s long past screaming and has settled into a hollow, desperate stare that’ll follow you out of the kitchen and into your dreams.
Nobody knows what the Chef was before he showed up at Eerie Acres. A line cook? A butcher? Something worse? All anyone knows is that the kitchen is always warm, the stew is always bubbling, and he’s always looking for new ingredients.
He’ll save you a seat at the table. Whether you want one or not.
Step into the kitchen this fall at Eerie Acres Farm, if you’ve got the stomach for it.