On one hand, living in a haunted house can be interesting. On the other hand, at times it scares the he** out of you.
(I grew up in a haunted house - HONEST)
When my wife and I were first married we lived in a little rental house that was one of about ten little two-bedroom rental places in a modest street in Dover, Delaware. Several years earlier, a young man had been murdered--shot dead--in the closet of one of those houses, although we didn't know exactly which one it was. Ironically (or perhaps not, depending on your perspective) I had known the young man growing up, although I'd never associated with him after high school.
In the living room of this little house I had a bookcase with about sixty or seventy books, covering various subjects. One night my wife had gone to bed early, and I thought I'd do a little reading. I went to the bookcase and selected a book, walked back to the sofa, which stood opposite the bookcase, then sat down to get comfortable.
About twenty seconds later, a little white Bible that stood in the bookcase came shooting straight out and landed on the floor about eighteen inches away. It didn't drop out. It literally leaped out, as if someone had tied a string to it, and given the string a yank.
It's been nearly 30 years, and I still get the willies whenever I think of it.
I like my houses boring, personally. Quiet. Boring. No gruesome history. No weird noises or smells. No one driving by and pointing.