conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Welcome to the Dark House about Justin, Readers, superfans with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 69A fun, scary ride. Readers are introduced to seven teen "superfans" of the horror film director, Justin Blake. They have all won tickets to meet the director and preview his new film, and as if that isn't enough, all of their expenses are included. The teens are also promised "special fun" based on the nightmares that they submitted as their entries to the contest. Once they arrive, they find that all of Justin Blake's horror films are being reenacted; especially the Nightmare Elf (a Freddie Kruegeresque character who forces victims to live their worst nightmares). Pretty quickly, creepy things begin to happen, and the teens start to disappear one by one. the author writes a wonderfully eerie story, one that will appeal to readers looking to graduate from R. L. Stine. The characters are nicely drawn, and the plot is a great big campy mix of "don't go in there!" anxiety, alternating with groans of reluctant laughter as comic relief is interspersed. The unreliable narrative, which switches between six of the seven viewpoints, makes readers as confused as the protagonists, but it works. Savvy readers will pick up on the clues much faster than the characters, but won't be able to stop until the final page. Unfortunately, the ending is a bit rushed and without a completely satisfying resolution. Still, this title will have huge teen appeal and is terrifying enough without being overly bloodthirsty. Perfect for middle schoolers looking for a quick, thrilling read.Saleena L. Davidson, South Brunswick Public Library, Monmouth Junction, NJ
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Welcome to the Dark House
  There's a plateful of Nightmare Elf cookies on a table in the center of the room. I palm five of them and then look around for a check-in desk, stoked when I don't see one, psyched that this doesn't appear to be a B and B, after all. "Are we alone?" I ask.
  I feel the smile on my face widen. Midge is the psycho chambermaid who collects her victims' fingers in the pockets of her apron.
  He leads us through the living room, past a screwed-up ceramic rooster sitting by the fireplace. Its bright yellow eyes must be connected to a motion detector because it crows as I walk by, almost making me jump. We head upstairs to room number nine. I step inside, completely jazzed by what I see. There's a drafting table in the corner with an art caddy stocked with pencils, charcoals, and painting stuff. Lining the walls are illustrations from some of my favorite artists, like Haig Demarjian and Virgil Finlay, as well as a few pieces I don't recognize. A poster of Captain Death Row, my favorite band, hangs over the bed. It's an illustration of Captain Death—his smiling skull with a gap between his two front teeth—sporting a bandanna and sunglasses.
  There are two beds in the room. I'm tempted to push them together so I can be like Bloody Bathrow, the lead guitarist of the Masochistic Underbellies. I saw Bloody's place on a show called Crash Pads. He's got a custom twenty-foot wide bed that he calls his kitty ride.
  Beyond the beds, on the far wall, are a bunch of high-end guitars—a couple of them with metallic red and gold paint jobs. I've never tried to play, but maybe Blake thinks that I should. "There's no way you're getting rid of me after just two nights," I say, thinking how jealous my dad would be.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I'd made a promise to Dara, too. Just before she transferred to my school, over hot fudge sundaes with candy canes sticking out, we made a whipped-cream-with-maraschino-cherries vow to always be there for each other, no matter what.
  Parker peers through the bars. "Frankie, how's it going?" He squints hard, trying to see through the clouds of fog.
  But Frankie doesn't answer. There's a deep thwack sound, like something heavy hitting against a slab of wood.
  I look around at the headstones, wondering what this ride could possibly be—maybe a mind challenge of some sort or an underground haunted house. I pull up on the lid of the mailbox, half expecting a voice to say something, but it remains silent.
  Ten minutes later and I'm feeling completely restless. Natalie and Garth appear to be restless too. While she paces back and forth, Garth won't stop squawking about his growling stomach.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thomas reaches behind me to grab the knob, but I widen my stance so he can't. "You know you're only going to buy yourself more time in here, don't you?" he asks, lowering his voice. "What good will that do you or any of the missing victims?"
  Everything that happens next feels like it's been set to fast forward—like I'm watching it on a TV screen, like it isn't actually happening to me.
  The door whips open and I get pushed to the side. Two nurses grab me from behind. They pull up my hospital gown, exposing my legs. Detective Thomas's eyes go straight to my knees—all bruised and swollen and purple and yellow—as a needle's stabbed into my thigh.
  My slipper has fallen off. My heel catches against a floor tile. A layer of skin scrapes free. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm being dragged through the common room from behind.