Sometimes I feel like fear is worse when you don't see it coming.

When shadowy horrors masquerade is beautiful faces, faces that beam at you so hard,

you don't notice the knife in their hand before it

slit your throat. Today's story is kind of like that. It's about a

treasure trove of horrors and a place you wouldn't expect. The Hamptons. For those of you who don't know,

the Hamptons is a slice of Long Island where the elite of New York go to summer. Homes there cost

millions and they don't even need an ocean view. Terrifying, right?

No, the real horror is that this luck's lifestyle distracts us from the rot beneath it.

My first running with this place was in the 80s. Back then the enclave was Manhattan's best-kept

secret. Only those who could afford the Hamptons knew about the Hamptons. So if you didn't

know about the Hamptons then, you probably weren't worth knowing yourself.

I knew about it, but only because my literary agent made me go to some fancy industry party there.

To a part of the Hamptons call Montauk. It ended up being one of

those parties grandma would have warned me about. It looked gorgeous, tasteful decor

ocean view.

But there was a vibe.

It was the people.

Social climbers with well-toned legs from all the hills they've crested.

No one was giving me a second look, probably because I wore a t-shirt and

swim trunks. Why I thought it'd be some adult pool party is beyond me.

Anyway, I drifted to the outskirts to sip on some champagne.

That's how I met Trish.

...