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all—of the lead-paned windows are broken, and thick ivy obscures the massive oak entry door. Beer bottles and cans are scattered across the overgrown field of a lawn, and the remains of a small bonfire are evident, with plastic buckets arranged into seating around charred logs.
    Lisa bravely leads the way, stepping gingerly over something that may or may not be a used condom, and I’m hoping Nate has a gun in his pack, because we just might need it. The front lock is broken, and the door easily opens with a push from Lisa’s shoulder, giving a horror-movie-quality creak of protest. Lisa waves her hand as if she’s a tour guide.
    “Welcome to Aspinwall,” she says.
    The foyer is truly enormous and designed in filthy rich Victorian style. It’s two stories high (in case you had the occasional need to house a circus tent), features a seven-foot marble fireplace (perfect for roasting medium-sized children), and the ceiling beams are ornately carved with lions, cherubs, and more than a few immodestly bare-breasted women. Every flat surface is plastered and painted to look like an Italianate fresco, continuing the theme of gamboling cherubs and Grecian women. Dangling precariously overhead is an overwrought crystal chandelier that would be amazingly painful if it fell, Tom and Jerry style, on one’s head.
    But then it looks like the mansion had a psychotic break, a schizophrenic episode of sorts, because the walls are papered in paisley and trippy tones of brown, orange, and yellow. The lighting fixtures are red, blobby plastic affairs, and there is one framed Led Zeppelin poster. Spray-painted next to the poster is the quiescent observation “Led Zeppelin sucks.” Next to that someone wittily responded “Suck my dick.” Then, in the true spirit of adolescent repartee, is scribbled, “I would if you had one, asshole.”
    “It’s completely hideous,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything as wonderfully demented.”
    “I knew you’d like it,” says Lisa.
    Is this us clicking?
    “Everyone stop!” shouts Maddy. Strangely, we all do. Apparently psychic hairdresser is in charge. “We need to get in a circle and hold hands.”
    Lisa expertly inserts herself between Maddy and me. I really don’t want to hold Nate’s hand—that’s way above my pay grade.
    “Now,” says Maddy, glaring at us.
    Nate grins evilly, reaches for my hand, and gives it a bone-crushing squeeze.
    Maddy closes her eyes, and I idly wonder if she’ll be able to open them again with all that mascara. “Oh sweet Jesus, we ask for your heavenly protection in this den of sin and immorality. Give us thyguidance, oh Jesus. Keep our immortal souls safe in thy heavenly bosom.” Nate sniggers at that. “This we ask in the name of the Father and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
    “Amen!” shouts Nate, like it’s a military call and response.
    I say nothing. Maddy looks at Lisa, who is equally quiet.
    “I’m an atheist,” says Lisa.
    “I admire that,” says Nate. “But I could never give up hamburgers.”
    Lisa opens her mouth and closes it just as quickly. She gives me a look, and I shrug to confirm that, yes, this idiot is my editor.
    Maddy just pulls out her cigarettes and sighs. “It’s going to be a long, long night.”

    We decide that since there is no plan of action per se and the floorboards are dicey, we’ll settle into the former dining room, which has a couple of rotted, questionable chairs and plenty of spider webs. The psychedelic wallpaper theme continues, this time with purple blobby colors that trigger a flashback to my hallucinogenic trip. Just looking at them makes me queasy. Maddy sits on a child-sized stool, rolls of butt fat hanging over the edge, and keeps her eyes closed while she mutters a rapid prayer that blurs the words into one barely intelligible sound.
    “OhsweetJesusletthespiritscomeandprotectusinthynameamen.”
    Meanwhile, Nate proceeds to pull a large battery-operated lamp and inflatable chair out of his