For the proper adherence to ritual we had shaved our hair ultra-close, and smeared on a square of silver zinc that morning. We shone in the pale light, our glittering scalps catching the last rays of sun.

The dark spools forward and I grip the branch. I lunge into the deep mud and my holy communion dress is ratted at the hem. In the tunnel velvet leaks down in ugly heaps. I crawl until I come to a clearing in the forest.

Anna and Melissa ate with some ceremony, taking tiny bites and washing them down with tea. They had a stomach ache all the time from eating nothing but trees.

Like the experience of being on a psychedelic trip, whether you perceive bliss or horror is down to your state of mind.

Emma Cline’s novel The Guest is a thriller where nothing much happens. The tension and dread are evoked from the seemingly impossible drama of trying to live from moment to moment.