Let me be clear: this house wasn’t in any way meant to be spooky. Nor was it Halloween. Even worse, my host didn’t forewarn me that there might be anything even vaguely strange about his place. The only thing he did mention, while unzipping my skirt, was that he was planning to put in an outdoor jacuzzi, just to enhance the whole ’70s swinger vibe he was going for.
I was in the middle of a “fuck tour” of Manhattan: a long weekend that literally started with an orgy at my friend’s place and continued as I met up with other people. My friend, being a fixture in the NYC sex scene for years, had a very extensive contact list of people who were willing to help the new girl get as many notches on her bedpost as possible. After a sex-starved stint working as a temp in a stuffy office, I was ready to let loose. The boy who I later discovered had a haunted house, went by the self-appointed name “Byron,” and that was the only name I knew him by. He was tall and skinny with a British accent. That was enough for me to want to spend some more private time with him.
Byron had a nice apartment, full of warm golden light and a well-stocked bar, which I drank only one glass of wine from, refusing a second. Half of the frisson of these casual encounters was the tiny lick of fear at the base of my spine that came from a lifetime of stranger-danger stories, and as a precaution, I always tried to remain as alert as possible. Little did I know, I was scared of the wrong thing. Keep reading »