Objects were scattered about the path and front yard of the farm house. Some small; rusted cans, flat tyres, and some not so small like the orange couch spewing foam from its cushions.

I pictured what kind of person would live here. An old man perhaps, crippled with age and loneliness. Or maybe a crazed woman wearing a knitted poncho would answer the door, complete with seven cats.

As I neared the porch I could smell something baking. Something delicious. It looked like I’d chosen the right house. With images of cherry pie and farm fresh milk floating through my head I knocked on the door.

Not a sound.

‘Hello. Anyone home?’

I slowly opened the door. A perfectly baked golden pie sat on the kitchen bench. Next to the pie a coffee mug sat, still steaming – whoever lived here couldn’t be far off.

I started to call out again when I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head. My vision blacked out as I fell to the floor. A deep, muffled voice cut through the pain.

‘Looks like we got dinner tomorrow night too’.