I can't imagine who decided to rent those fuckups their property because they turned it into a communal crash pad more gruesome than anything else I've ever seen in a first-world country. It was the second-to-last structure on the block; it was surrounded by apartment buildings, and the front lawn sloped up so that it looked like it was on a hill. It was just south of Sunset on Poinsettia, and as you came down the block, it stuck out like the house in Psycho. There were a few things that only spending a night there could teach you, the most important being that if you lay down anywhere there was a two-to-one chance that you'd leave with crabs. I'm still not sure why the lot of us weren't just hauled in by the cops every single night. There were always cars and bikes on the lawn and trash all over the place; there were always people coming and going and loud music at all hours of the night. Hell House was so raucous that from a distance it appeared to be vibrating.