Project 17
is creepy to the fiftieth power. There are a couple of spotlights strategically placed about the grounds--for the patrol guys, no doubt--enabling us to get a decent view. The main building has wings that jut out on both sides, making it seem even longer. There are gables and steeples all over the main building that reach up into the sky, giving it a Gothic flair.
    Standing at the edge of the campus, I look out onto the grounds, noticing the smaller, more modern-looking buildings scattered about--and how one of them is only a short distance away.
    62
    Liza is practically shaking--from the cold or from nervousness, I have no idea. "How are you doing?" I ask her. "Do you want to borrow my scarf?"
    I'm just about to take it off when I notice a spotlight blink over what appears to be a garden of overgrown deadness--dry and twisted trees, and walkways spilling over with bushes from hell. "Did anyone see that?" I ask, completely focused on the spotlight, on how it seems to be fully illuminated now.
    "See what?" Tony asks.
    I shake my head, deciding to just keep it to myself.
    Even though the main building is still a good three hundred yards away, it seems so close. And I suppose it is. I mean, it's one thing to see this place from the back of a mini-golf course, when it's far enough away to crack jokes about shock treatments and straitjackets and not feel self-conscious doing it. But it's a completely different thing when it's sprawled out in front of you like a castle. When you probably shouldn't even be here, let alone say anything disrespectful.
    Still, there's just something about this place that calls out to me, like it wants to invite me in. And I'm nuts enough to actually go.
    I glance around some more, trying to see if I can spot any security guards anywhere, but the buildings and campus look pretty deserted, so I'm thinking they must be hanging out around the entrance off Route 62, on the opposite side of the building, Dunkin' coffee and crullers
    63
    in hand, fighting to stay awake. I mean, how can a place so immensely huge be completely guarded by cops? Still, the idea of sprinting our sorry selves across an open lawn doesn't give me a warm and fuzzy feeling, either. I mean, we're bound to get bagged.
    "We shouldn't be here," Liza whispers, before I can thwack a little sense into our tour guides.
    "There's no turning back now," Mimi says, lifting her ski mask to just above eye level. She takes out her pocketknife, and for a second I think we're all done for, but then she orders us to stay put--all of us except Derik, who follows her with the camera to the building closest to us.
    "This better be worth it," Greta says, straightening out her skirt. She's got the thing hiked up around her waist for trekking purposes, a pair of dark tights underneath.
    "Just remember," Tony says, "a lot of self-respecting A-listers started out in horror films. Just look at Paris Hilton."
    "You are not seriously comparing me to her, are you?"
    Before Tony can answer, Mimi gives us the thumbs-up. "We're in," her voice plays through the walkie-talkie.
    "Come on in," Derik's tells us. "But be quick and be quiet."
    We go--some a bit more reluctantly than others. While Tony tries to soothe Greta, continuing his list of respectable actors in horror films, Liza is still shivering. I unravel the scarf from around my neck and go to hand it
    64
    to her, but the wind blows it from my grip. It ends up tangling into a mass of brush.
    "What's going on?" Derik calls from the door.
    "We shouldn't be here," Liza repeats.
    "Don't worry about it," I tell her. "You can stick with me. You can be the ice cream and I'll be the nuts on top. We can be like Nutty Buddies."
    "No," she says. "You don't understand. I already feel it. This place isn't right."
    I suck in my lips and nod, doing my best not to flip out. Because there's a big part of me that knows she's right. But an even bigger part that wants to go in and see what this asylum is really all

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