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      We are walking along with our guide. He’s taking us around the block and up to the loft we want to rent. There are three of us; a fourth may join later…

      “I’m not afraid of black cats,” he says, just as one crosses our path, from right to left. As we pass next to a step ladder, he walks under, espousing his disbelief. We three are cringing.

      Stopped at the corner, he takes out a mirror as we stop to look down the street. We think he is looking at himself, but he is secretly admiring Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, from afar. After all, she is only across the street, at the entrance to her converted studio. He drops the mirror. We see that it was rather not made of polished metal and lies in pieces at his feet. “Seven years,” he says, “it’ll never happen.”

      We go up the rickety service elevator. the kind you have to close up yourself. It shakes and still we cringe, but even more. For with us is a crazy man. A man who denies all superstition.

        We arrive at the apartment. Curiously, the number on the door is 13. He laughs it off as he opens the door. We enter a rather spacious split level room. There are many features, but our eyes are drawn upward, to the baby grand piano suspended from a boom.

      Our guide is talking and laughing. “Personally,” he says, “I never take any of this superstition stuff seriously. I mean, who’d really believe–“

      We heard the crash and saw the hole in the floor where he’d just been standing. He was right, after all that stuff that should’ve happened but didn’t, what could possibly go wrong on Friday the thirteenth?

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