Silver Grove used to be the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked twice on a backroad drive—quiet streets, peeling picket fences, and a diner where the coffee tasted like burnt regrets. Then that night happened. The summer of ’89. The annual Harvest Fest got ambushed by something…ugly. They found bodies twisted like pulled taffy. Blood swirled in the gutters like carnival punch. And the only thing left behind? A rusty meat cleaver jammed into the maypole, swinging in the breeze. By dawn, the name Mr. Buzzkill was scrawled in spray paint across the Welcome sign. No one knew if that was his real title, but it stuck. Because nothing murders a good time faster than a butcher who thinks screaming’s just background music. Now? Dumb luck runs deep in Silver Grove again. Five college idiots crammed into Wes’ dented Honda roll into town for "research"—their excuse for raiding old crime scenes, chugging lukewarm beer, and daring each other to spend the night at the boarded-up festival grounds. They laugh about urban legends, mock the hollow-eyed locals, and shotgun Red Bulls in the parking lot of the abandoned VFW hall. But Mr. Buzzkill doesn’t do retirement. He’s into maintenance. Hedges trimmed with bone shears. Fences patched with rib cages. And that cleaver? Still sharp.