I was never one for haunted houses. Real life held enough terror. My first grade teacher wore a frightening black habit with wispy veils that floated behind her like shadowy spirits. Around her waist hung a giant rosary, a brass key ring, and full-size scissors on a long metal chain as though she might, on a whim, snip off a child’s nose. She clanked when she walked like the ghost of Marley.

The old school had wooden floorboards that creaked beneath the weight of our feet. We sat at ornate cast iron desks bolted in place in rigid rows. The place smelled always of dust and wax and Murphy Oil Soap.

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