I’m not one to jump on fads and current trends, (though I must admit an undying love of parachute pants and Tomigotchis) but I would be remiss if I didn’t add my own bit of seasonal flavor to this year’s Halloween.
Now I’m sure that everybody and their mother (Dorthy Mantooth is a saint!) are writing a stupid blog about Halloween (the history, past adventures, crap about costumes and other pointless junk like that) and I’m no different! Well, I’m different in one way, I’m actually a good writer (ooooh! Burn!)
Allow me to weave a myriad of truthful tales of horror and fright, in that special way that only Joshua: Something Something of the Eight-Four Glyde, can. Are you ready to enter a world of ghosts, odd sounds in the middle of the night and weird smells? (excuse me, I had Mexican for lunch) Of course you are. Americans love to be scared, that’s why we all drink and drive!
I shall begin by scaring you with the most frightening thing I can think of. A thought so terrifying and repulsive that the mere whisper has driven sane men crazy, crazy women even crazier and children to drink heavily. A thought so horrifying and evil that once I mention it, you will never have another peaceful night of sleep again!
George W. Bush is still president!
Alright, alright. That was a cheap shot, I’m sorry. It was just so easy, I couldn’t help myself. That sentence is also a great way to scare somebody into losing his or her hiccups. That’s a little tip from me to you!
So…Halloween. Candy, costumes, toilet paper, razor blades covered in apples, bag snatching, pumpkin destroying, grand theft auto. All wonderful things that make this such a special time of year, and all things that have been covered to death! Let’s talk about the truth. First hand stories of actual supernatural experiences. Got your attention? Good, cause that’s how I roll.
When I was younger, my dream growing up was to be a parapsychologist. Sure other kids wanted to be astronauts, doctors, fluffers in porn movies and what-have-you, but I was a little more grounded in my desires. For those who don’t know, a parapsychologist is pretty much a real life Ghostbuster. When I first watched the movie Ghostbusters, I saw that they started off as parapsychologists at Columbia University in NYC. So I immediately wanted to go there. I bought books on all that junk. And I’m not just talking about people who buy books about spiritual energy and auras and other new wave doodoo like that. I studied up on the scientific aspect of ghosts and ghost hunting. Low-frequency transitions, electronic voice capturing, measuring vibrations and stuff like that which either robs ghost hunting of its mystery or brings scientific legitimacy to some freaky shit.
Sadly, my mother told me that I’d never get into Columbia, so I didn’t even try and that dream dried like a raisin in the sun. Thanks mom.
Anyway, though my dreams of dealing with the supranatural (that’s like a whole ‘nother level above super!) were dashed so expertly, hundreds of miles away in Jersey, a cousin of mind discovered an ability that forced her into the world of ghosts. Let me just tell you that if you think that the Sixth Sense is fictional (or a good movie) you’re wrong (on both counts). There really are people out there who can see dead people and my cousin is one of them.
Ghosts don’t appear at convenient times you know. You can be in the middle of furiously rubbing one out in the privacy of your own bedroom (not that I do such abominable activities) when all of a sudden, out of the corner of your eye, you see your great grandfather sitting in your rocking chair with a horrified look on his face. Unsavory. On the other hand, ghosts can come at good times too to help you out. My cousin once went to Atlantic City and a vision of her father helped her kick ass at the roulette wheel. I shit you not.
Of course, having ghosts around isn’t always a good way to make extra cash; it can be draining on your psyche as well. My cousin did therapy and junk. Not fun. Her sixth sense is limited, she can only see dead family members, which is nice if you’re wondering what happened to your grandparents after they died, but not so nice if you consider a funeral and burial to be the last time you want to see that specific dead person
In college, I lived in a place called the SALT House. I’ve probably mentioned the place before, but if I haven’t, hold tight, there are dozens of Eighty-Four Glyde quality stories there for me to relate in future columns. Anyway, the SALT House was very old. So old in fact, that there were still gas fixtures on the walls from the gaslights that were used before electricity was invented. Tell me, have you ever lived in a place that old (besides your mom’s womb!)? That place was so old that the Blair Witch was too scared to go in the cellar. The SALT House was the kind of Amityville/Poltergeist house that couldn’t help but have a trillion years of mysterious and probably sinister past, full of murders, poisonings and people being bricked up in walls alive. Sadly, we never knew the history of the place, so we could only make up our own stories for the weird events that took place there.
That place had all the classic haunted characteristics: odd rapping sounds emanating from walls, creaks on the stairs when nobody was walking up or down them, doors that opened and closed themselves when you weren’t looking and, of course, blood cascading down the second floor hallway every night at ten, preceded by the appearance of a set of mute twin girls, (alright, that part was a lie, but then again that hotel from The Shining was one of the scariest joints ever!).
We never figured out what caused the haunting to occur. We just learned to live with it. Hell, our rowdy college behavior probably pissed the ghost off and made him leave. I know that if I were dead I wouldn’t want to be bothered in the middle of the night by a drunk dude pissing out his window because he’s too lazy to find the bathroom. Casper would have been gone in minutes, probably from alcohol poisoning. Though I wonder if a ghost could die that way. Hmmm sounds like it’s experiment time.