“What was that?” my sister, Lauren, whispered in the dark next to me. I could barely think straight over the sound of the three 18-year-old girls in the room next to us screaming that ghosts must have set off the fire alarm. I looked at my phone. It was just after 3 a.m. Only a couple hours left before the sun came up. Up until that point, my sister and I had been trying our best (and failing) to get some rest in the same bedroom where Lizzie Borden’s stepmother Abby was brutally murdered with an axe.