imagine being a ghost hunter in the 19th century. running around freezing cold spooky old mansions in tight pants and a puffy-sleeved white shirt, cloak streaming out behind you like enormous bat wings, knee-high boots clacking on the cracked marble floors and rotting hardwood staircases, candelabra in hand, high out of your mind because they just loved to put cocaine in absolutely everything, did those victorians. the dream.