 The slide led down into Woodman House's basement, a musty old stone and concrete space guaranteed to terrify any nine-year-old. We put an old mattress at the bottom of the stairs, covered with hundreds of pounds of dead leaves. My friend Matt Foot was standing in an odd stone niche at the bottom of the stairs, working the skull's jaw. Matt was dressed like a gory dead football player, which I didn't think matched the theme of the entrance. However, I had almost blown Matt's hand off in a stupid fireworks stunt a month before, so I didn't say anything about the football jersey. Matt helped people to their feet, then pointed the way deeper into the basement.
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