We buy a house we know is haunted. We redecorate it and host overnight guests who are scared by our made-up and second-hand stories. They enjoy it as one enjoys rollercoasters; staying there is a thrill. Then come the paranormal researchers and the reality shows. The house won't kill us, but we might die in it. Or we have a sprawling labyrinth with a freezing upper corridor. We can't make ourselves go in there or in the portrait gallery. We hate the wind and the floral wallpaper. We drink in our imprisonment. The house and all its horrors we've seen own us. It punishes us, ages us, holds us hostage. It has only been a short time, but we will never leave. Or we were once travelers and now we do nothing but search for a way out of the house. The one we love is always crying out from just around the corner but we never catch up. This is our one motive; we can think nothing else. Or we have a house that is like the first three. It is suburban, unassuming. It does not seem haunted, but with a medicating mother, an alcoholic father, and self-harming, sexually deviant children, this one is the most disturbing of all.