As art students in 1890s Paris, waking up in on the floor of your garret, suffering the after-effects of epic absinthe overindulgence is less remarkable than you’d care to admit. Last night you attended your art school’s annual costume ball, a legendary bacchanal so wild that riots sometimes result. But hazy memory tells you that something else happened – something unearthly. Something dreadful. If only you could remember what it was.