conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Justin, Readers, superfans with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Welcome to the Dark House'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four 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.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide 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: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: While she paces back and forth, Garth won't stop squawking about his growling stomach. 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.I'd made a promise to Dara, too.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I hate my name. I hate my life. I stand in front of the door so he has no choice but to hear me out. "Why won't you help me?" A sob gets caught in my throat. "I mean, there has to be some reason."
  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.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It takes me a moment to realize that I'm being dragged through the common room from behind. I hate my life. I stand in front of the door so he has no choice but to hear me out. "Why won't you help me?" A sob gets caught in my throat. "I mean, there has to be some reason."
  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.I hate my name.