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I found Stephen King’s Rose Red on youtube. I watched it in sections over the course of a week, and always watched in the morning, sunshine and chirruping birds on the backyard deck, so that come bedtime, I possessed the resolve to turn out the light.

Without fail, this would be the moment a cat pounced off the dresser, or made some sound worthy of waking the boogey-man-in-the-closet terror.

Bloody felines.

I watched Rose Red years ago when the made for TV movie was fresh from the studio back lot, and I watched it because the movie was based on The Winchester House.

I’d been to the Winchester House, had been enamoured by the mystery, in awe of the woman behind the mansion’s construction. What individual quirk in her nature could have driven her to work through her grief in this bizarre manner?

Winchester House was cool, the woman behind the house enigmatic, but the visit wasn’t scary. So how frightening could the movie be?

The question, of course, is rhetorical.