Looking back, I can honestly say that th e first season of American Horror Story absolutely, undeniably messed me up. Had I lived in a sleek, modern home decorated with colorful accent pieces and tulips, the show probably wouldn’t have ruined me the way it did. Unfortunately, I live in a century-old, creaky house populated by trinkets, antiques, and history, much like the Harmon’s house in Los Angeles, the setting of Murder House. The more I watched of AHS, the bigger my own fear became. By the season’s end, I carried around a pair of kitchen shears whenever I was alone in the house, just in case the Rubber Man popped out from the attic.