Mila and I nod reluctantly, and the host hands us the key. “How should we work out payment?” she asks.

Uhh, what? Money already left our bank accounts, lady. We’ve already paid in full.

Oh. She seems surprised, but shrugs, and says she’ll see us at home later, maybe around three.

(The website lists the property as an “entire home,” which Mila and I had assumed to mean not a see-you-at-three, cohabiting situation. Her unexpected presence is shock #2.)

Already there are some red flags, but it’s approaching midnight, so Mila and I trudge down the street with our luggage again. Leggy blonde girls in rompers keep passing us, their badges bouncing around like gold medals. Meanwhile I’m sweating again and Mila and I keep exchanging hopeless glances, like, This is it? This is Cannes? Already, it feels like we were misled. I want to file a complaint with the universe: Excuse me, god? I was told there would be Chalamet.

We get to the apartment building (after a brief, strange encounter with some badgeholders who hand us their poorly-designed business cards too eagerly), squeeze into a rickety elevator from the ’70s, and arrive at the first floor expecting to see “the apartment that’s right there, on the right.”

To our right, there are three separate doors. Each door has at least three keyholes. Is this some kind of logic puzzle, some socio-litmus test? We try to wiggle the key into each keyhole, to no avail. We try the apartments on the left. After we try one, we hear the lock click from the inside. Someone thinks we’re intruding.

We call the host several times with the last dregs of our dwindling phone batteries. She does not pick up for five minutes. Finally, on the fourth call, she picks up. Hello? Did you misunderstand my basic instructions? It’s the apartment on the right. On the right!

Mila approaches the door and jams the key into the slot. The door swings open. We hang up, somewhat embarrassed.

The room we discover inside is musty and in disarray. There’s a bed made in the corner, which slightly resembles the pictures on the Airbnb listing, but seems lumpy and uninviting. There’s a weird smell, which I can only describe as hairspray and death. The lighting is ominously dim, and we fumble around for light switches. We turn on the kitchen lights. Dirty dishes crowd the sink. The rest of the room is still bathed in relative darkness.

I notice a lamp in the corner and fumble for a switch. Out of my peripheral vision, I notice there’s another room where the host must be sleeping tonight. Behind me, Mila turns on her phone flashlight to help me find the switch.

And that’s when I see it.

In the bed, I can make out the shape of disembodied pair of legs.

“Oh my god,” I say, barely breathing. “There’s a person in here.” I chance another glance at the darkened room and notice that there are, in fact, two sets of legs. Multiple bodies on beds, unmoving. Actual human corpses? Sex dolls? What the fuck is going on here?

I turn back toward Mila, and can see the visible flit of panic through her eyes. More rapidly than I have ever seen any human being move, Mila collects all of the miscellaneous belongings we have carelessly set down, amassing them into a pile.