Okay, let's get into it. Silver Grove. Quiet little dump tucked away where the trees grow too close together and the local gossip’s louder than the annual harvest festival. Twenty years back, something bad happened there. Real bad. The kind of thing you don’t shake off, no matter how many bottles of cheap whiskey the town council downs trying to forget. Folks called it the Harvest Night Massacre. Not clever, but accurate. Five kids at an old barn party… torn up. Like something out of a butcher’s nightmare. No suspects. No answers. Just bloodstains on the hay bales and whispers that clung like rot. That’s when the name started crawling out of the dark: Mr. Buzzkill. They say he wasn’t human—not completely. Tall, bone-thin, wearing a mask cobbled together from a broken gas grill and rusty tractor parts. Moves like shadows on speed. His thing? Parties. Music, laughter, fun? Man can’t stand it. Legend goes he’d melt out of the treeline when the bass dropped, carve up anyone stupid enough to think Silver Grove’s a place to celebrate. Fast forward to tonight. Six idiots who definitely didn’t ask enough questions about this town’s vibe are parked outside the old Vandermeer farm. Abandoned since ’78. Perfect spot for a rager, right? Jake’s got the speakers thumping EDM, Leah’s passing around a sketchy homemade punch, and nobody’s mentioning the way the woods go dead quiet when the wind stops. But hey, it’s cool. Ghost stories are for kids, yeah? Except… there’s a metallic scrape coming from the toolshed. And that flicker in the trees ain’t fireflies. Mr. Buzzkill hates a crowd. And this party’s just getting started. (Cue the screaming.)