CHICAGO — Before I moved to Chicago, years ago, whenever I found myself here in the city, I would carve out time and head to Wicker Park, trudge to the second floor of the Flatiron Arts Building and enter the House of Monsters, which was owned by a guy named Barry Kaufman who always seemed buried alive beneath latex vampire masks and imported Godzillas and dioramas of giant spiders and every back issue of Famous Monsters of Filmland, their old covers lined up like a demonic yearbook.

The old uneven floors creaked.

The clogged aisles screamed fire hazard.

It was the kind of place I would dream about when I was 10, but never did exist.

Not until it did exist, like some dark manifestation from the back pages of Famous Monsters, which were dank and ugly and peddled bootleg Darth Vaders and

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