I’d like to confess something. I have a thing about old houses. An obsession to see what’s inside them, know who lived there, maybe even learn who died there. When I was a kid, my grandparents lived on a farm way out in the sticks. Their pre-Civil War farmhouse was fascinating, with its many interior doors, woodwork, and wainscoting covered in original faux wood-grain paint, and lots of little rooms and two front doors. Not two front doors next to each other, but two separate front doors opening into two different rooms. Fascinating, and still unexplained. But even more interesting to me was the abandoned Victorian down the dirt road. Strangely ornate, it seemed out of place in the deep country setting. Because of its dilapidated condition and the fear it would collapse, I was never allowed to go inside—physically. Mentally, I explored all I wanted and made up some darn fine stories, now lost to time, about what the interior looked like and the ghosts who inhabited it. Finally, that house did fall down, and last time I went by it was a pile of wood, covered over with brush and vines, quickly being overtaken by the land. It…