There is a Devil. Its Name is Netflix.

Callaghan looked over at me as the final episode of American Horror Story: Asylum dwindled away with the closing credits.

“Wow. What’re we going to do now?”  

Season Two, fini. The wind bludgeoned our closed wooden shutters as if to make the ending perfectly clear. If you’re going to watch a disconcertingly evocative horror production such as the fine piece of art that is American Horror Story, March is your month. The weather’s antics heighten the effect, and after all, one of the goals of watching such a show is to get scared. Crazy wind, rain, snow and even hail braced the atmosphere of Murder House and Asylum during the four days it took us to tear through those two seasons. We curled around each other in the gloom of the overcast days and inky nights and had to scrape our eyeballs, dry in the chill and artificial heat, off the screen when we were done.

“Season three comes out in the fall,” I said, just as forlorn.

“But what are we going to do until then?”

“What I was wondering, exactly.”

We sat and stared at the dark, blank screen.

The next day, Callaghan got on Facebook and posted a line from the Asylum theme song, “Dominique,” which ignited a conversation with his friend Matita, a fellow American Horror Story fan. We returned to mourning the end of season two.

“I should call Matita and ask her what she’s going to do,” Callaghan said.

“Maybe we should start a support group,” I said. “For people suffering the throes of American Horror Story withdrawals.”

Hey baby… wouldn’t it be great if we could do the support group in an asylum? We could play that song, too.”