“You mean the awesome little feminist with the ridiculous hat?” asked the tree. An unlikely but accurate description. “She kind of bolted that way . . .” The tree extended a branch down the stairs toward the front door, the opposite direction to Esther.

They’d made their way upstairs, and although Esther had registered some vaguely familiar faces (had that been McGraw behind that beard?), none of them had been the one she sought. It wasn’t a big house, or a long climb, but for some reason, Esther’s limbs felt loose and rubbery, and she kept stumbling into her companions.

“I think this is the room . . .” The groom, who’d introduced himself as Eric, knocked on the door as he pushed it open.

First glance was promising—there were novelty candles dotted about on the shelves and bookcase and windowsill, and a pentagram was scrawled on a bedsheet on the floor—but when Esther looked a little closer, the rest of the room didn’t match the details. The bed was rumpled and unmade, the duvet was half out of its candy-striped cover and on the floor, next to an assortment of lads’ mags, inside-out jeans, balled socks, and boxer shorts. The posters on the walls weren’t of brooding bands but of busty ladies glistening in swimwear, and there was a huge Take Me to Your Dealer poster tacked to the back of the door that the barista—Nick—had just pushed shut.

Eric the groom had said this was the room, but for what?

For all Esther could absorb information, she couldn’t quite decipher what any of it meant, thoughts incapable of pushing through the cotton wool that clouded her brain. Esther looked down at her cup and frowned. She’d been alternating punch with lemonade, and she was certain she’d not had much of either.

“Oh, my god! Look! A Ouija board!” The words that came out of Barista Nick’s mouth were as scripted as the stage was set, and his friend was lighting all the candles as if he owned the place.

No matter what state she was in, Esther was always up for a Ouija board, and she flung her arms up enthusiastically, spilling whatever was left in her cup as she cheered, “Dead things love me!”

“I’ve never done one of these before . . .” Barista Nick had set his grammatically incorrect cup on the shelves and was gently holding Esther by the shoulders, helping her down to rest with her back against the bookcase.

“Don’t worry. You shtick . . .” The slurred words caught Esther by surprise. “Stick with mmme.”

Her tongue was Velcro, the words so fuzzy, they kept getting stuck.

“Even the dead are frightened of . . . Living Dead!” She nearly knocked over a candle as she swung her arms forward and swayed like a zombie, before remembering she was dressed as a vampire.