That was the day, the old farmhouse, once a proud beacon of rustic charm, stood now as a monolithic tomb, a silent, dark sentinel against the breaking dawn. Its windows, like dead eyes, reflected the grey light, refusing to acknowledge the horrors they had witnessed. This was the house that had absorbed a woman's desperate pleas, the raw, tearing sound of a soul begging and screaming for salvation that never came. Within these walls, a spirit had been broken, dignity viciously snatched away, and an innocent life subjected to the chilling spectacle of cruelty and calculated conspiracy.

The memory of the that night—when the same rooms had pulsed with the careless rhythm of laughter, jokes, bet and a vibrant party—seemed a cruel, mocking specter. Now, the farmhouse was nothing more than a living corpse - full of bodies, ready for merciless death,its foundations holding not beams and stone, but the heavy, suffocating weight of guilt and unpunished sin.