Begins with the Baker Family Dinner Scene.

(This work is un-betaed. If you see any spelling errors, please comment the paragraph # and sentence so I can fix it. Thank you!)

PLEASE CHECK WARNINGS BEFORE READING

Warnings/Triggers: Rated for references of child abuse, gore, dark themes, and language. This is going to be a muti-chapter fic (hopefully). Rape/non-con may be in later chapters. You have been warned.

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside of us, and sometimes, they win." - Stephen King

Ethan was dragged from unconsciousness by the clinking of cutlery, feeling far from fine– and certainly, in no mood to sit back and eat; though a small part of him hoped that maybe it was his subconscious telling him to eat (as he hadn't eaten since, well... before his little expedition). His stomach felt queasy though, most likely not helped by an offensive odor which was making it hard to think. After a moment he matched the stench to that of rotting meat, and that was when his appetite was fully quelled. He wouldn't be stomaching anything anytime soon, at least- not with the offending odor invading his nostrils and doing offensive things (quite offensively).

He opened his eyes blearily, blond lashes fluttering as he tried to register just what exactly was going on. His memory of the past few hours was blurry at best, though he could remember his arm getting cut off in the middle of his forearm. That was certainly something he wouldn't be forgetting anytime soon, not with the constant throbbing ache. It felt like a dream, or more accurately– a nightmare; to have his wife, of all people do something so abhorrently violent. (There was something seriously wrong with her, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. She seemed to have two sides warring within her, and he just wanted so badly to get out of this whole fucked up situation.) Though in retrospect, her current condition was eclipsed by the fact that she was alive, by god. He was no scientist, but there were some insidious phenomena happening, that of which he couldn't grasp fully.

Ethan's pale face twisted in dismay as he looked around in confusion; trying to rationalize everything. The clinking of cutlery he'd heard earlier hadn't been in his head after all, and the current image he was affronted with took him aback somewhat.

He was seated at a small circular table with strange people resembling that of an obviously disturbed family. The chipped wooden table was heaped with what was now confirmed raw meat and other indiscernible things resembling intestines and other such viscera. The whole thing was made even more surreal by lit candles scattered about, casting shadows and furthering his unease with the strange atmosphere.

"Where am I? What the hell?" He heard himself saying. A seedy, confrontational looking man sneered at him from a few seats away before throwing a piece of food in his direction. His head felt full of cotton, and everything ached. He was too bewildered to comment. He just wanted to know where the hell he was– and, more importantly, where Mia was.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. It's time for dinner." A honeyed voice crooned. The speaker was a pallid looking old woman with a grey mane of tangled, stringy hair. She looked greasy in the candlelight, like she hadn't showered in months, and after her statement she scratched the side of her cheek compulsively, like a dog. His questions were ignored, only furthering his confusion and feeling of unease. If it was dinner, how long had he been out..?

"...Who are all you people? Where's Mia?" He asked, voice a little more firm as he got his bearings. His inquiry was once again ignored, and he frowned in dismay, just as confused as he'd been before, and more so on edge.

The woman slammed the table next to him, startling him– and dragged her hand away to reveal she'd grabbed a piece of meat. She stuffed it in her mouth messily with a grin. "Eat it. It's goood." The woman replied, voice cheery as if he hadn't just asked a bunch of– in his mind, very relevant and important questions. He supposed she was talking about the so called 'food' they were scarfing down– using grabby hands and gnashing teeth to devour the filth as if they hadn't had a meal in ages. Stained cups held grimy water, though it seemed the younger compatriot preferred a beer. God, he would kill for a nice cold beer right about now.

He found himself wondering how on earth they could stomach it, but remedied his minor disbelief with the fact that no person in their right mind could live in this godforsaken house– (which was about as sturdy as a deck of cards) nonetheless eat whatever the hell they were. His attention was reverted to who looked to be the youngest at the table as he did a headcount. There was the younger man, tall and lanky with a balding head and impish smile who'd prior thrown the piece of figurative shit at him, the big, menacing old man who seemed vaguely familiar, with an old yellow button up, steel-rimmed glasses and a nasty beard— the old woman with the messy hair, and an ancient looking woman in a wheelchair who stared vacantly at the ceiling, seemingly comatose.

He turned his head slightly, bewildered as a new voice piped up. It was the younger man who had spoke, presumeably the one closest to his age. He'd noticed him leering at him earlier, but was preoccupied with trying to rationalize things to react much.

"Dumb son of a bitch wouldn't know good if it hit him!" He said with a drawl, eyes narrowed beadily in malicious mirth before he lifted a plate for him to see. The white porcelain was stained red, with chunks of meat coagulated wetly on top. It was disgusting, to say the least. He didn't expect said plate to come flying at him though– until it made impact with his face, and he recoiled instinctively, shutting his eyes and mouth in a scowl so the filth wouldn't accidentally get anywhere he didn't want it too. He was shocked, though he wasn't sure why– seeing as he was currently strapped to a chair with a family of fucking psychopaths.

The old woman scowled with a stern look directed towards the apparent asshole.

"Lucas!" She said condescendingly, as if she'd caught him with his hand in a cookie jar. Lucas went to snatch another piece of raw meat, but was promptly intercepted. Ethan jumped slightly in his seat when the old man– (who he recognized now as the guy who punched him out [or, more precisely stomped him out] and dragged him here) stabbed the arm of who must have been Lucas with the knife he'd been using without batting an eye. Lucas grimaced when he started sawing, blood splattering the table and mixing with the food as he leaned awkwardly over the table– pulled to such a position by the larger man. His dad, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Goddamn, old man, not again!" Lucas yelled, though more so in anger then agony. After ripping the stump of flesh from its root, the man stood, pushing back his seat forcefully and leaving Lucas to cradle what was left of his arm. Ethan could feel the ice-cold grip of dread cage him, and his heart was racing in newfound terror as he started towards him. Lucas' arm was still dangling from his grasp, and he still held the bloodied knife he'd used not moments before. He was coming in his direction, right? What did he do?!

"Out of the way, Marguerite." He sighed at the haggard woman, who dragged her chair closer to the table.

"That boys gotta eat! He's got to have his supper." The man stated jovially, standing over him with fresh blood still dripping down his front- sending Ethan in a whole new flurry of panic. He was hyperventilating, lungs expanding and deflating at a dizzying rate. He tried to pull free of his binds, and though it proved futile– he did come upon the realization that his arm was back. This shocked him still as his eyes were glued to the ugly Frankenstein-ish wire stitching holding the aggravated flesh together. Upon a quick mental- check, he found all motor skills intact. How the hell..? A glance at his watch confirmed his suspicions that his heart was jack-rabbiting, hammering against his ribcage as if to break out. Fuck, fuck- he was so fucked.

"Come here, boy. Let's do this, come on." The man coaxed as he leaned down level with Ethan, as if he was cajoling a dumb animal. He grabbed a tube-like piece of meat with flecks of dangling fat from the pile with a calloused hand, and brought it to Ethan's unwilling lips.

Ethan whimpered rather pitifully at the feel of raw gelatinous flesh at his pursed lips, but he'd give himself a pass considering the situation.

He felt himself gag before the stuff was even in his mouth, seeing as the stench of its close proximity was making his eyes water.

Despite his efforts, the man used his free hand to put his chin in a death-grip, pressing painfully until he relented. The raw food was disgusting, covered in a slime that couldn't be good for you. It tasted terrible, like sour pennies and raw beef, and quickly after the thing slid grotesquely down his throat, he found himself dry-heaving– retching up the offending piece of meat. He coughed wetly, stomach protesting against such obscenities with a sickening lurch.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit— he's not eating it, Jack! He's not eating it!" Marguerite screeched, standing so quickly her chair almost toppled over. Her face was twisted with ugly vexation, and she was gesturing wildly, pointing accusingly at Ethan.

"Shut the hell up, Marguerite." Jack snapped, and if this wasn't one of the worst introductions to a family he'd had...

"I made that for him!" She yelled in a blind fury, still gesticulating wildly. She'd left her seat for good it seemed, clearly upset he couldn't stomach the heaps of filth they'd prepared.

Jack had had enough it seemed, for he kicked the chair Marguerite had abandoned into her shins, "Get the hell outta here!" He boomed, clearly done with the calamity.

Margureite bared her teeth like a wild animal, sneering. "You're a son of a bitch!" she screamed, making Ethan flinch. And he thought he'd seen it all... Even his insane Aunt couldn't top this, and she'd been charged with child abuse. He felt like an abused child just then, he decided. Small and unimportant, unable to fend for himself in the big bad world. Margureite stormed off, slamming the white stained double doors with disdain. What an exit... He wasn't able to dwindle on it for long though, as now Jack grew nearer, getting in his face as if he had a secret to tell.

"This was supposed to be a very special feast." Jack said, stressing the word 'supposed' and 'special' just to make sure Ethan got the hint that he'd ruined it. He spoke calmly, and this scared Ethan more than the yelling had, strangely enough. Ethan tried to think of something to say, but his brain was short-circuiting through the confusion, and he only managed to open and close his mouth like a drowning fish. He looked to Lucas, perhaps for some que or semblance of help, but he was busy cradling the stump of an arm he had, which was still spurting blood like a broken hose. He doubted he would have been much help anyways.

Jack held the piece of meat he'd coughed up accusingly, making him wince in a mix of disgust and fear. It was sticky with saliva and smelled of rot and bile. Jack shook it, and a viscous liquid seeped through, making him gag again. The gore was dropped to the floor, discarded in contempt. Now all Jack held was the knife he'd prior bloodied- and he suddenly wished he could've stomached that damn filth.

He leaned back in his chair as much as he could, though it hurt his back- and really, he couldn't get far. The knife was getting closer to his face, and it was all Ethan could look at- like a deer staring down the headlights of an oncoming car, too frozen in fear to register it should move. He could feel Jack's rancid breath on his face, could practically feel the eyes trained on him- and of course NOW Lucas looked interested in what was happening, the sick fuck.

He didn't want to open his mouth, was afraid the knife would just plunge in the depths of his esophagus- but it was a little late for regrets now. He held back a howl of pain as the knife peirced his flesh- right above his lip and dragged down- not hard enough to fully cleave the skin, but enough to certainly put him in a great deal of pain. The metal somehow found its was between his teeth next, though he wasn't keen on finding out if he could bite it hard enough to do anything of much help. Also afraid to bite in fear of worsening the pain, he could only hold still as the knife dug into his tongue, cutting it to hell and back. His blue eyes watered over, reducing his vision- but he was glad. Jack wasn't easy on the eyes, that was for sure.

His gums ached, and the knife made a grating sound when Jack twisted it- his teeth getting in the way. Hot blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin, and if he had any life advice for Jack, it would be to not go into dentistry. Pulling away for effect perhaps, Jack studied the wounds he'd inflicted with sickening interest, and Ethan spotted Lucas- leaning closer from his seat with a sadistic grin stretching his lips.

So stuck was he in his own world of pain, he almost missed the phone on the first ring. Breathing harshly through his nose, a wave of relief crashed over him when the knife stopped it's slow descent back into his bloodied maw, Jack looking displeased at the intrusion. He pulled away, looking to Lucas, and finally Ethan could breathe clean air.

"Goddamn it... I bet it's that cop again," said Lucas spitefully, standing- and Ethan had almost forgotten he was there. It seemed he'd been enjoying the show, and Ethan was glad it was cut short- but wow, wait, what? Rewind, a cop? Oh, he never thought he'd be relieved to see one of those.

"Goddamn pigs!" Lucas spat for good measure, just in case Ethan had missed him the first time. He turned and left, presumably to get the phone, leaving Ethan with Jack. Staring up at his assailant made the anxiety gnawing at his stomach worse, but he was more afraid of what might happen if he looked away. Jack's grey eyes seemed to evaluate his pleading azure ones, and thank GOD he was backing away.

"I'm coming back for you," Jack promised darkly.