The winding road into the Great Smoky Mountains unfurls like a ribbon of amber and gold on this crisp October afternoon.

We found an old Victorian out in the country that was a steal, The house wasn't haunted—it was alive, hungry for the ecstasy we'd brought. And we gave it everything, night after night, bodies entwined in a tangle of flesh and phantoms, chasing highs that blurred the line between orgasm and oblivion. Home, sweet, spectral home.