This book is the most vile thing I have ever read. I feel like my self of two weeks ago was pure as a newborn lamb, and now I am filthy, because I have read half of this book.

I am still reading it because my Books and Booze club is reading it, and I hate to go to a meeting unprepared.

The plot is pretty simple. It resembles Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None in its set-up: several people are gathered together in a building, sealed off from the rest of the world, and one by one, they die. That's pretty much where the similarities end. Everyone in the story has a strange or disgusting habit. In my Books and Booze group, someone said that the third chapter made her vomit. I chuckled, thinking I was a tough cookie and I would never vomit from reading a book. Well, I didn't actually vomit, but I would like to take a break from the filth of Haunted and watch Pink Flamingoes while languidly perusing the collected works of the Marquis de Saude.

Chuck Palahniuk can't be all bad, because he did write Fight Club. Maybe this book is supposed to be a satire, but I'm just not getting it.

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