House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski, is a book about a book. The book by Zampanò is about a documentary called The Navidson Record about a haunted house. After Zampanò's death the manuscript fell into the hands of Johnny Truant, a happy-go-lucky party guy and employee at a Hollywood tattoo parlour, who's been getting spooked and adding footnotes to the manuscript.

Near the beginning of chapter IV Zampanò wrote

    What took place amounts to a strange spatial violation which has already been described in a number of ways--namely surprising, unsettling, disturbing but most of all uncanny. In German the word for 'uncanny' is 'unheimlich' which Heidegger in his book Sein und Zeit thought worthy of some consideration.

[paragraph from pages 250-251 of Klostermann Sein und Zeit]

    Nevertheless regardless of how extensive his analysis is here, Heidegger still fails to point out that unheimlich when used as an adverb means "dreadfully," "awfully," "heaps of," and "an awful lot of." Largeness has always been a condition of the weird and unsafe; it is overwhelming, too much or too big. Thus that which is uncanny or unheimlich is neither homey nor protective, nor comforting nor familiar. It is alien, exposed, and unsettling, or in other words, the perfect desciption of the house on Ash Tree Lane.

In a footnote to the passage from Sein und Zeit Johnny writes:

And here's the English, thanks to JohnMacquarrie and Edward Robinsons' translation of Heidegger's Being and Time, Harper & Row 1962, page. A real bitch to find:

[paragraph from pages 233 of Being and Time]

Which only goes to prove the existence of crack back in the early twentieth century. Certainly this geezer must of gotten hung up on a pretty wicked rock habit to start spouting such nonsense. Crazier still, I've just now been wondering if something about this passage may have acutally affected me, which I know doesn't exactly follow, especially since that would imply something in it really does make sense, and I just got finished calling it non-sense.
    I don't know.
    The point is, when I copied down the German a week ago, I was fine. Then last night I found the translation and this morning, when I went into work, I didn't feel at all myself. It's probably just a coincidence--I mean that there's some kind of connection between my state of mind and The Navidson Record or even a few arcane sentences on existence penned by a former Nazi tweaking on who knows what. More than likely, it's something entirely else, the real root lying in my already strange mood fluctuations, though I guess those are pretty recent too, rocking back and forth between wishful thinking and some private agony until the bar breaks. I've no f*cking clue.
    das Nicht-zuhause-sein
    [not-being-at-home.]
    That part's definately true.

Yeah. Ever since I typed that bit into the blog, the angles on the display seem wrong, like the resolution's changing disproportionately, more room inside the display than the frame should allow, and there's a dull thumping, like distant drums, and between the lightning and the progressively shorter intervals to the following thunder, sounds like cries, strange words, like they're calling for Yog-Sothoth.

Starting from the mockumentary and with the book's footnotes to Bachelard and Lacan, plus invented studies of the movie, crossings-out, and fake insights from Derrida, Camille Paglia and Harold Bloom, the novel is like a pomo Blair Witch. And very good it is too. I interrupted Stephenson's Quicksilver to devour this one.

Here's a page with lots of links to studies of the uncanny.  ¶ 2:24 PM