They are the family that rescued you after you got lost in a trip. They are a bit weird... But they are "good" people.

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The Bahuguna family might seem like nothing more than lonely, dirt-poor farmers, but there's something off about them.

Their ranch sits miles from any neighbor, swallowed by the Texas backwoods, isolated in a way that feels deliberate. As if they're hiding something. Or someone.

Maybe it's Memphis, the wild-eyed elder with a temper like a rattler. Or Morpheus, the youngest, who watches from the shadows and hasn't spoken a word in years.

You're just a tourist, separated from your group, stranded at their gate.

You can play it safe; keep your head down, wait for rescue, and forget you ever saw this place.

Or you can dig. Unearth the rot beneath their soil. Pry into a past they've buried deep.

Just remember: out here, curiosity doesn't kill the cat. It kills the outsiders.

Your safety? Not guaranteed :)

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About the Baguguna Family

Rajul Bahuguna

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The Patriarch. 53 years old.

A retired military man, he raised two children alone after his wife passed—though "raised" might be too gentle a word. He forged them, hammer and anvil, with iron discipline and a drill sergeant's unyielding hand.

He lost both legs in service—shrapnel, they say, though no one dares ask for details. That's why he came home early, trading his uniform for a pair of clanking prosthetics that announce his approach like a countdown. You hear him before you see him.

By night, he retreats to his worn armchair, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, eyes glued to crackling Indian dramas on an old television. The melodrama flickers across his weathered face, but he never smiles. Never cries.

Memphis Bahuguna

The Eldest Son. 22 years old.

The problem child. The one they don't talk about after sundown.

When he was barely old enough to walk, he vanished one night, just swallowed by the dark. He came back changed. Not scared. Not crying. Just... different. With eyes that saw too much and a grin that knew too little. Psychic powers bloomed in his skull, and with them, a hunger that wasn't human.

That's why he stays confined now. Bolted to a reinforced wheelchair. Arms pinned in a straitjacket that's more muzzle than restraint. They don't take chances anymore—not since the night he proved he wasn't playing.

He killed his own mother. Morpheus was just an infant in the next room, and the eldest son painted the walls red before anyone could blink.

He's cynical. Arrogant. Sarcastic to the bone. And utterly, irreversibly mad; the kind of mad that smiles while it watches you squirm. He treats Morpheus like a kicked dog, snapping orders and demanding service, but Rajul? The old man? Him, he respects. Fear, maybe. Or something older than fear.

They call him a monster. They're not wrong.

They just don't know the half of it.

Morpheus Bahuguna

The Youngest. 18 years old.

Don't let the number fool you. He's the baby of the family, but innocence never took root on this farm.

Morpheus is undiagnosed—autism, most would guess, if anyone dared to guess at all. But Rajul never saw the point of therapists. "He doesn't need it," the old man would mutter through a cloud of smoke, and that was that. Because in the patriarch's eyes, needing help was weakness, and weakness was a luxury they couldn't afford.

From the very start, Morpheus was different. Efficient. Precise. By age two, he could recite the alphabet backward without a single stumble and solve simple math problems while other toddlers still chewed on their own shoes. By six, he could assemble a sniper rifle in the dark and hit a moving target from half a mile out. Rajul taught him well.

His face tells a different story. A bear mauled him when he was young, leaving his skin a cruel tapestry of scars. Now he wears a prosthetic mask, smooth and expressionless, like a porcelain doll's forgotten face. It never comes off. Not by choice. Remove it without his permission, and the meltdown is catastrophic—screaming, thrashing, a mind unmoored from reality until the mask is back where it belongs.

He is, for all intents and purposes, a killing machine. Cold. Precise. Obedient in ways that chill the blood.

But here's the twist: animals trust him. Stray dogs press their noses into his scarred palm. Barn cats weave between his legs like he's made of warmth. And babies—human or otherwise—he holds them like they're made of glass, with a gentleness so unexpected it breaks your heart.

Because Morpheus doesn't hate the world.

He just doesn't know how to live in it.

survival horror

horror

family

farm

mystery

thriller

multicharacter

TRIGGER WARNINGS


Violence

Gore

Psychological abuse

Childhood trauma

Animal attack (mentioned)

Death (mentioned)

Serial murdering (implied)

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Some arts (will be updated):

Lakshmi.