The casting call is coming from inside the house, and these real-life horror movie houses achieved infamy as on-location sets for some memorable film shoots.

Amityville Horror House

The so-called Amityville Horror House can be found at 108 (formerly 112) Ocean Avenue in Amityville, NY. Producers of the 1979 film sought permission to shoot on location at the actual house where Ronald DeFeo Jr shot and killed 6 members of his family in 1974, but were denied. Instead, a house in Toms River, NJ was altered to resemble the three-story Dutch Colonial home, right down to the distinctive “pumpkin eyes” attic windows. Ironically, the house on Ocean Avenue itself has been altered and no longer sports the quarter-round windows. (images via austinpomer and Encouraging Quotes)

Poltergeist House

This house at 4267 Roxbury St. in Simi Valley, CA is where the 1982 horror film Poltergeist was filmed. Unlike the movie home, this house did NOT implode into some sort of supernatural black hole. The photo above was taken 35 years after filming completed and not a whole lot has changed other than the extensive brickwork in the front yard. One would hope the masonry wasn’t sourced from any abandoned cemeteries. (image via Jack Stephens)

Silence of the Lambs House

Also known as Buffalo Bill’s house, this rambling three-story Victorian home in the Village of Layton, Fayette County, PA featured prominently in the 1991 shock horror thriller The Silence of the Lambs. The home was put on the market by its owners in 2016 but, to quote Trib Live, the sale was going “torturously slowly”. Not for the obvious reason, mind you, but likely due to the 4-bedroom house only having one bathroom. Now THAT’s what we call horrible! (image via Paul McCarthy)

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Surreal Estate 7 Real Life Horror Movie Houses

This ongoing series of sculptural floating cities and suspended towns could be mistaken for pencil drawings when glanced on a wall or seen in a two-dimensional medium like photography.

Spanish artist David Moreno sees it that was as well: at attempt to draw sculptures, but using steel rods lashed together with piano wire rather than a pen on a pad. Background depth, shadows and other slight dimensional clues cue viewers into what they are really seeing.

These stick-figure structures correspondingly look deceptively simple: what would normally be a single stroke is instead a meticulous assembly process, the rods tied together by hand and piano wire wrapped and clipped to support them.

The Barcelona-based artist has also toyed with 3D-printing extrusion devices to shape similar works in more colorful formats, combining, for instance, a series of stylized chairs into a mass of interconnected hanging sculptures.

In other cases, strings and wires are looped and stretched to form complex shapes or interact with other objects – stories and figures emerging from a combination of materials and forms.

While the specifics of his work shifts from one installation to the next, a common theme is clear: taking traditions of line art into the third dimension and seeing what can come of the process (via Colossal).

A series of sleek but whimsical models blend photorealism with fantastic concepts for treehouses, hilltop homes and even dwellings mounted on the sides of cliffs.

Santi Zoraidez is an art director and designer from Buenos Aires who does visual, graphic and architectural work, sometimes real and sometimes conceptual.

In this set of summer homes, he bends, twists, warps and cantilevers wood in amazing (if sometimes implausible) ways, putting houses on spindly stilts or hanging them from steep rocky surfaces.

The results are at once daring and provocative while retaining a sense of minimalism, that core feature common to Modernist Scandinavian designs.

By maintaining a simple palette of colors and textures, the artist manages to accomplish a natural aesthetic that makes sense for countryside dwellings while letting the details of designs – long horizontals and asymmetrical shapes – define each work.

A legacy of living in the most-bombed country per capita in world history, Laotian citizens have spent decades since the Vietnam War dealing with close to 100 million undetonated weapons of targeted destruction.

In the 1960s and 1970s, the US covertly dropped hundreds of millions of bombs on the country, at an average rate of one bomb-load per eight minutes. Today, converted bomb remnants are visible across the country, used virtually intact to loft houses above flood planes, hollowed out and turned into watercraft or containers, or stripped down for scrap.

An entire (now shrinking) nationwide industry has grown up around finding, stripping and transforming cluster bombs into metal pieces and parts deconstructed or refit for various new uses. In many villages, bombshells are visible throughout the built environment.

Photographer Mark Watson took a cross-country bike trip and documented these remarkable cases of reuse. “Scrap from such widespread bombing has been utilized in people’s homes and villages,” Watson said, “for everything from house foundations to planter boxes to buckets, cups and cowbells.”

While it may sound at first like an uplifting story of turning swords into ploughshares, there is a dark side to this tale. To this day, over 100 people die annually from accidental detonations, either from bombs still loose in the countryside or in attempts to deactivate or convert found ordnance.

Non-profit organizations working to clear the country of this danger estimate it may yet take another century to complete the cleanup process (via Inhabitat and Mark Watson of Highlux Photography).

One odd slightly off-kilter story after another was added to this once-modest house in Alaska as the trees decimated by a wildfire grew taller and taller, the owner insistent upon maintaining his view of Mount McKinley. Located in the woods of Willow overlooking the Denali National Park, the tower house began as a one-story that wouldn’t look out of place in any Alaskan neighborhood.

The forest recovered and the trees got taller and taller, obscuring the mountain. So, the story goes, the owner tacked on a second story. And then a third. After a while, it apparently just became a fun challenge to see how many tiny rooms could be stacked on top of each other until locals began calling the structure the Dr. Seuss House.

Alaska Aerial Footage swung by the house to capture a dizzying video that really gives you an idea of just how tall and whimsical the house really is. From the footage, it looks as though the upper levels are unfinished, their windows covered in ripped plastic sheeting. The snow-topped roofs and balconies on each level just add to the slightly surreal effect.