Right now, I find reading horror cathartic. No matter how bad things get, at least my house isn’t haunted, an ancient entity hasn’t possessed my husband (as far as I know) and the penguins I’ve seen recently at the Minnesota Zoo didn’t peck out my eyes.

In his introduction to Ira Levin’s horror classic “Rosemary’s Baby,” Chuck Palahniuk wrote that until Levin’s novel, “the real horrors were not at home.” Home became dangerous because we refused to acknowledge what was growing inside us until it was too late.

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