The battered and bruised, gun-metal, Chevrolet Malibu came to a sudden halt. It was half past 2 in the morning and the only sound present was the hoarse grunting of the half-working engine, which seemed to be one of a different car. It pulled up just outside the only house in the area, which was a derelict valley, full of tall trees, that seemed to have been neglected for decades on end. The property was so poorly maintained that it was literally a wooden frame, with a set of metal bunks, and a couple o’ mattresses leaning against the wall in the only room. That was it, that was the ‘house’. In the middle of nowhere.