I have always loved a frightening story, although the reasons why have evolved over time. When I was young, they were a distraction. They provided a name for the things in my real life that terrified me. You see, I grew up in a house with spirits. Not the ones of contemporary cinema, rotting flesh, razor-sharp nails and constant torment; no, my spirits simply never stopped making you feel their presence. An oppressive pressing, a dark weight and indescribable sadness. Sure, there were the occasional outbursts, items thrown across the room, knocks and bangs, a shaking bed in the middle of the night and even disembodied voices, but for the most part, they simply made sure their existence was known. For young me, naming the monster under the bed gave me a means to prepare for the moment it might strike.