Haunted houses and traditional horror films are typically easy for me to handle. However, there's something about guerilla-style documentaries with faceless serial killers and terrified backpackers which rub me the wrong way. I felt the same way whenever my friends broke open the Ouiji board at a sleepover or someone implied that there may be a ghost in my house. The moment it goes from pure fiction to a 1% possibility, my stomach drops.
Watching Rosie help an actual “ghostbuster” assess a house in New Jersey (where I spent over a decade growing up) brought me back to my Ouiji board nights and my Blair Witch experience. I'm sure I'll be fine tonight. I may just keep the bedroom door open a little wider and play Ray Parker's Anthem on repeat as I try to fall asleep.