The air hangs thick and expectant around me. A mirror watches me with my own eyes, spooked gray. I wonder what color Eleanor Starling's eyes were, and how she died, and how her husband died, and if their bones are buried now beneath the floorboards. Halfway down the hail a door opens with a Hollywood creak, and I swallow the urge to run screaming. I raise both hands in the air. 'Look, I don't want any trouble.'  I don't believe in ghosts, demons, possessions, aliens, astrology, witchcraft, or vampires, but I know that the person who walks into the haunted house and loudly proclaims that they don't believe in ghosts is the first one to get gruesomely murdered. 'I'm just here to clean, okay?' I'm answered by a meek moan, like a stair beneath a tiptoed foot. I decide to interpret it as permission.