Guided by flashlight beam Isaac crossed back through the trash-filled maze and stopped in front of the next door. The stench of death and the insane whispering both strengthened.

“Any idea what’s in there? Victims? Traps?”

“Maybe the remains of victims, but these people couldn’t even spell the word ‘trap’. Before we go in there you sure you don’t want a drink? Settle the old nerves? Sure, I only have domestic beer churning around my insides, but beggars can’t be choosers in cannibal cellars.”

Isaac wasn’t sure if the words “domestic beer” or “churning around my insides” were more or less or equally unappetizing. But oddly, he did feel a pang for a drink—a sudden thirst—like he hadn’t had one in a long time and was really in the mood. He shook his head, in part to decline the offer and in part to dispel the weird craving.

The door was locked, but a tap of the skeleton key clicked it open and a nudge pushed it wide. Some kind of low flame flickered the shadows within. Wary of sticking his head in, Isaac lifted Jughead around the doorframe and asked him what he saw.

“The coast is clear, you coward.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh, no big deal. I’m indestructible.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. My jug is unbreakable. Can’t even be chipped. No point in being locked in a prison that can be cracked open on the floor. Funny story, I once took a tumble off a Grand Canyon ledge. I was with a bunch of hikers and...”

“Hush. Let’s get this done.” Isaac stepped into the room, panned the light around. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“Yeah. Not a pretty sight. Although to be fair to that moronic totem, these people were already pigs before it made them into psychotic cannibals. This mess isn’t totally its fault.”

The family had dug out the basement floor to create a large pit. In the center, a stack of wooden pallets and boxes had been built into a crude pyramid. Lit candles of various melted sizes littered it and atop the peak sat the totem. Surrounding this makeshift altar lay the remains of many a human being. Isaac couldn’t identify a single intact corpse. Just bits and pieces of hacked limbs, bones, flesh and organs, strewn around the earthen pit—presented as sacrifices or just dropped from greasy cannibal fingers.

The whispering grew strongest here. Isaac couldn’t understand it at all. His innate magical ability combined with his amulets destroyed the message but not the voice. Even still, it made him wince.

Jughead let out a vehement hiss. “There it is. Look at this dipshit, perched on its throne like it’s lord of the flesh pit. Yeah! I hear you, you sonofabitch!” it shouted, then said, “Isaac, lift me up so I can see it better.” The magician complied and held the jug up. “There you are. Now shut the hell up! Damn, I wish I had arms for punching.”

Isaac set Jughead down on the edge of the pit, carefully positioning the flagon so it could see the altar and continue to rain a surprising storm of profanity down on the totem. He approached the altar, carefully stepping around the worst of the offal, but still getting gore on his boots. The totem continued its buzzing whispers—in fear or anger or maybe stupidity as Jughead suggested. He circled the altar, looking for redneck engineered traps, but found nothing.

“Seeing such horror probably makes you want to have a drink, right? Alcohol is the best cure for fear. It’s a soothing balm for the mind,” Jughead called to him.

Isaac started to say something to the effect of “that’s a terrible idea”, but the words caught in his throat because, for some reason, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a terrible idea. A part of his brain agreed with the jug and a sudden craving took him, just as it had earlier. The magician suppressed it with a shake of his head, but the fact that he felt the notion at all troubled him. He shushed the jug and focused back on his work.

He found no evidence to make him think that there was anything more to this altar than cannibals stacking garbage and lighting candles. So, like the quick rip of a bandage, he snatched the totem off the altar.

Nothing happened. No activation of a trap. No release of magical energy. No corpses springing back to life. Isaac couldn’t help being vaguely disappointed. The totem continued its subconscious chatter, but it remained unaltered, not reacting at all to Isaac’s taking hold of it. He realized it had all the intelligence of a television infomercial, mindlessly spouting its message, whether anyone listened or not. About the size of a beer bottle, a variety of screaming or laughing faces had been meticulously carved up and down its sides. He opened the Everbag.

A noise came from above—the bang of a door, followed by footsteps.

“The cannibals are home,” Jughead whispered.

“Shit. I counted four earlier. Is that all?”

“Yeah. There’s Roy Senior, Roy Junior, Billy-Boy, and Momma.” Jughead said the last name with reverence as if it was written in some mystical text that her name not be spoken aloud.

“Why’d you say her name like that?”

“Because if I were an edible human being, I’d be more scared of her than any of them. But I’m an indestructible jug so I’m good. In fact, one time I got a bunch of gangsters drunk and they pulled their pistols, and I took a bullet right in the...” Isaac shushed him again and Jughead begrudgingly finished his story under his breath.

Heavy steps moved back and forth on the floor above them. Loud, deep voices carried. They sounded angry, very angry. And dull, very dull. The house was small, which meant a lack of hiding spots and four sets of angry, dull eyes to avoid.

“Going to be hard to sneak out of here,” Isaac said.

“Sneak? Why should you sneak? You should most definitely murder your way out of here. These people certainly deserve it. Cheap ass beer drinkers, oh, and they also eat people. I mean, really, could humans actually taste that good? I can’t imagine they’re worth the trouble when these yokels could just drive to the grocery store for steaks or burgers. Stupid totem...” Jughead paused as the wood above them creaked with cannibals walking. “Whatever you’re going to do, you better do it fast. They’ll be prepping for dinner soon if you know what I mean.”

Isaac took the jug’s words under advisement. A minor telekinetic wave snuffed the altar candles. No sense in the family noticing right away that the totem was gone. Jughead under his arm, he hurried into the trash room, making sure to shut the sacrificial chamber door behind him. As he crossed the room, he unscrewed both light bulbs just enough to ensure they wouldn’t turn on. He froze then as footsteps clomped heavily past the basement door. There was no way he wanted to risk climbing the stairs to disable the last bulb. He retreated back toward the storage room and crouched behind a stack of boxes. He set Jughead down and then opened his Everbag to drop the totem in.

Bad idea, he suddenly thought. The totem flooded the house with a constant drone. He had sensed it immediately upon entering the house. It stood to reason then that the killers above could hear it even now, even if they didn’t register it as an actual voice. The Everbag interior contained a gate to a miniature dimension of its very own. He couldn’t take the chance that the totem’s call would be silenced if he dropped it in. That would most certainly alert the family. Instead, he set the totem down next to Jughead.

“Seriously? Get that turd away from me!” the jug hissed.

“Better you sit next to it for a few minutes than spend the next few years back with the toe jar.”

“Fine. Fine. Fine.”

“You’re sure the totem can’t tell them I’m down here?”

“I’m sure. Remember it can’t speak directly, it just radiates its make-everyone-an-asshole power. Its effects are all psychological. Because it’s a morrrooooon and can’t really communicate,” Jughead taunted. “That’s right I’m talking to you, bitch.”

“Me?” Isaac said.

“No, not you. The totem.”

“Ah. Just confusing because you’re looking right at me.”

“Yeah, that’s because I can’t turn my head or move my eyes. You’re going to have to get used to this. Remember I’m a jug.” It paused. “You ready to get drunk yet? It’ll make you a better fighter for when the family comes downstairs. Plus, you’ll be more pain resistant if Momma starts gnawing on you.”

As before, Isaac felt an odd nudge towards saying yes, despite Jughead still only having domestic beer and the obvious bad advice of getting drunk for battle with cannibals. “No. Thanks. I don’t drink on the job.”

Jughead started to protest, just as the basement door opened. Isaac slapped his hand over its mouth and hunkered back into the shadows.

“Just for future reference, that doesn’t work,” the jug said around Isaac’s hand, not the least bit impeded. “I don’t really talk through my mouth. I’ve got the whole disembodied voice thing going on.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just quiet down.”

Jughead finally acquiesced just as someone started down the steps.