True story. I’m 18 years old. It’s near midnight, and I’m reading Shirley Jackson’s “The Haunting of Hill House,” alone in our silent home, which is dark except for the pool of light from the lamp beside me. I’m at the part where Eleanor and Theodora huddle terrified in a bedroom as the house comes alive, making horrific sounds as the walls breathe. I’m totally there with them, scalp prickling, as they watch the doorknob begin to quietly turn, back and forth.