Please don't take this seriously. I'm totally not. Just for the lulz, you could say. I don't own Thirteen Ghosts, this is only for a good ol' guffaw. I own myself, and Lindsay owns herself.
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A glass house.
Some say glass houses are tacky. Some say it's tasteless to be able to see right into everyone's rooms. Some like privacy when using the lavatory. Evidently, the creator of the massive, glass house didn't understand what the meaning of privacy was. Only one thing was known. The bathrooms, they kicked ass.
"...Where did we get this house?" echoed the suitably tiny girl with the unruly black curls. Her friend looked over, shrugged and just said, "Dead uncle."
"Why are we moving in here, Lindsay? I'm not...related to you." Her friend, evidently Lindsay, with the square-rimmed glasses and the dark brown, straight hair, looked as though it was obvious. Did people move into glass houses all the time?
"...I think this is a machine, designed by the devil and powered by the dead." Lindsay remarked, and Kat's expression fell nothing short of totally confused. She'd leaned forward, eyebrows entirely knitted, and blinked a good five times.
"A what designed by the what and powered by the who? How do you know that? What are you talking about?"
"Dunno. Author made me say it."
"...Who?"
It was apparent to both that they had to go in the house, and likely sooner rather than later. It was even more apparent that the place was inconspicuous for good reason and, despite the excellent craftsmanship and well-placed feng shui, was obviously the site of something very sinister. Kat, whose name had not yet been mentioned however I, as the omniscient narrator will mention it, seemed too oblivious to do anything but poke curiously around the transparent paradise.
"I'm really hungry, Lin. Wanna go down the road to that diner we saw a few miles back?"
"No, I-I suddenly need the bathroom really badly." And Kat could only watch in the most helpless, puppy-eyed stupidity as her best friend wandered, glassy-eyed into the...well, glass house. Neither could assess why they were there, neither could figure out how they'd ended up in this predicament. They didn't question it, though, they sort of went with it in unconscious comprehension.
"I...I don't like the bathroom, Lindsay." Instant hands-in-pockets from the eighteen year old girl, until she'd slouched over and her head was swinging to and fro continually like trying to 'survey the environment'. The survey had turned up a few simple facts. One, everything was, indeed, Plexiglas and two everything was, indeed, see-through. Kat, ironically, seemed to have anxious-puppy-syndrome.
"I don't like the bathroom, either, but when ya gotta pee--"
"How do you know where the bathroom is, dude?"
Shrug, once again, "Inherent knowledge, I guess?"
Click. It was almost distant, what had that sound been? Kat's entire body jumped, but they both peered down the stairs slowly with the apprehension of an animal waiting to be thrown from a cliff. And so they descended slowly into the big, bad basement.
The bathroom got closer and closer until--
"OHHOLYSHITTHERE'SBLOODEVERYWHEREFUCKYOURMOTHER."