I wanted to like this. The premise was interesting enough- I love mysteries and paranormal stuff, so I thought it would be a sure thing. I was wrong. So wrong.
The narration makes me want to gouge my eardrums with a railway spike. She speaks as if every word is a seperate sentence. There is no vocal modulation, no changes in inflection, her affect is flat and colourless- every wotd is delivered in exactly the same excruciatingly careful, measured way. It's painful to listen to.
So why did I keep listening? A sense of obligation, mostly, and a desire to see the plot come together. Spoilers- it doesn't. It's a rambling mess, more interested in flowery language and vaguely spooky imagery than an actual coherant plot. I kept at it, though. For 18 episodes. Because I must secretely hate myself. But I started the 19th and it was the last straw. I can't continue. There is no plot development. At this point, it's clear that there will never be any answers revealed or any resolutions, because the author is more interested in atmosphere and waxing philosophical than actually crafting a story.
Finally, the characters are completely unlikable and I found myself actively rooting AGAINST them and hoping whatever malevolence that the house embodies swallows them whole. I'll never find out of it does, but here's hoping.