Private Locker Confession: Voodoo Curse in the Steamy Shower with Two Redheads
I crack open my Private Locker, that mental vault where I stash the filthiest secrets. This one’s from the creepy Victorian museum house in Montreal’s west end. Surrounded by shrunken heads, sasquatch stuffies, and Cro-Magnon wax figures staring like pervs. Rain hammers down. Doorbell rings. It’s Aunt Pierrette, 68 but looks 48, soaked red hair…