My wonderful friend, Annie, scored a house in Leesburg, VA to live in. To her, history is a way of life, not just something you read about.

Me? I scared myself shitless in her house being left alone for 15 minutes to put makeup and a costume on. Especially when she banged on the window trying to get me to let her back in the house.

An aside: I'm sorry... if you need a 'skeleton key' to get in your house, especially if you are told the house is 'circa 1800', you automatically get a 'your house is haunted' prize.'

So tell me, do I have something to worry about? I did not feel bad "Ju ju" from the house, though I did have some serious discussions with the squirrels until Annie scared the crap out of me.

Even better, being told the parking lot right next door is actually a graveyard. Me: "... uhm... gravestones?!?" Annie, in very jolly voice: "Oh they just took those and moved them across the street in the park. They're right next door, just moved them 20 feet. Left the graves where they were, put the parking lot over it, no idea why it hasn't all collapsed. Ha ha ha!" Was that a movie? I broke out in the "Thriller" dance trying to calm myself. What? Like you didn't know I was weird that way.

Ellen's rule of SpOoKiEness #7: living next to a theater that plays the Rocky Horror Picture Show monthly... gives you a 'maybe" for a sleep over.