I’ll be 50 years old this year and I’ve never lived in a house.
OK, that’s not true:
When I first moved away from the apartment I grew up in, I shared a house with a bunch of people for three months.
We were broken into. Twice.
I wasn’t surprised.
Apartments — I just knew from personal experience — were safer than houses.
Too high to get flooded.
Too big to get swept up in Dorothy’s tornado.
Too tall for any kidnapper’s ladder.
No spooky basements or attics.
If you lived in a house, Dick and Perry would get you, or maybe the Manson Family.
The creepy covers of The Amityville Horror and Where Are the Children? — damn you, Wendell Minor — confronted me at every checkout counter.
No matter that my formative years coincided with The Towering Inferno, and the efforts of Roman Polanski, J. G. Ballard and David Cronenberg to shift the locus of horror from the small town Victorian haunted house to the 20th century urban apartment.