When my friend suggested I come along on a real, live ghost hunt, my immediate and obvious reaction was “Fuck yeah!” The idea was, we would go to a haunted house, the homeowner would give us ghost hunting equipment, we would participate in a seance, and supernatural shenanigans would ensue.

”But you don’t even believe in ghosts,” said my husband, who often misses the point.

”So?”

”So, why do you want to go on a ghost hunt when you don’t believe in ghosts?”

”Um, if I have to explain to you why I want to pretend to be a ghostbuster, I don’t even know why we’re friends.”

Anyway, the haunted house in question was supposedly the site of some gruesome murders that took place in the 1970s. The night of our ghost hunt was supposedly on the anniversary of those murders. (wooo-oooo!) Of course, after arriving at the house, I was skeptical. First of all, the house was built in the 1990s, which, for fall of...