A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven (16 page)

A crazy side note: after I sold the house to a nice doctor and his wife, a storm knocked down one of the big trees in the yard and it smashed into Foster Manor! I could not believe it—a friend of mine told me about it. I did not want to imagine anything happening to that one-hundred-seven-year-old house; I mean, the thing had survived two great floods in Des Moines and a barrage of looting that happened in 1992. Now a massive tree was threatening to destroy this beautiful house. Soon after, thankfully, the owners began putting things back together. I happened to drive by the other day, and nothing looked too broken down or demolished. So at least that little corner in the National Historical Index is still there and will continue to be for another hundred years or more.

I would be remiss if I did not tell you the final tale of Foster Manor, which happened just before I sold the house. It spooked me so bad that I never went back—I got all my stuff out as quickly as possible and fled, leaving a few things in my wake that I can only hope the new owners put to good use. Anyway, it caught me off guard and thrust me back to everything that had happened there. The wounds, the smashed glass, the assault, the Shadow Man—all of these things came flooding back into my memory, and beautiful house or not, there was no fucking way I was going to climb the steps to that place ever again. Better grab a piss now, because I do not plan on telling this one twice. I can see the goose flesh crawling up on my arms at just the hint of a thought. So do your business now. Done? Good—we will proceed.

As I said before, no one was living in Foster Manor at the time. I was the only one who had any belongings left, and between work and being with Griffin, I was quite alright just letting the shit sit there for a while. But having found a new house (with its own set of issues, but we will get to that later) and with the need to put the old one up for sale sooner rather than later, I began the arduous process of clearing out my things—probably a bit too lackluster for anyone’s taste, but when you have the benefit of a lot of friends at your disposal, you tend to be a bit lackadaisical when it comes to manual labor. So it was a bit piecemeal: a trip here, a trip there, and honestly avoiding almost all the big stuff that still had to be moved. I made a solid plan over the next two days to get the remainder out and be done with it. The first night was not so bad. I had rented a truck, and we were putting a solid dent in the removal process. There were some things left for the next night: DVDs (an amount you will remember is substantial), books, odds, ends, a TV, and so forth. I packed up as much as I could so all we would have to do is drop by the next night, pop it all in the truck, and bid adieu. Everything was in boxes and ready to go.

My friends and I assembled the next day at my new house and headed for Foster Manor for the last time. I was not melancholy; I was just ready for the business to be over. As fortune would have it, I arrived before anyone else, so I ran up, unlocked the door, and went inside. I could not believe what I saw when I ran through the entryway. Everything—and I do mean everything—had been unpacked and strewn on the floor. Not only had it been pulled out of the boxes we had spent some time packing them in, things like the books and DVDs were stacked in the middle of the fucking living room. Lamps were tipped over. It was fucking bedlam. Now you might think this had been an attempted robbery. But nothing was taken—nothing. The TV was still there. Not one movie was gone. More to the point, not one door was jimmied nor one window broken. I checked every possible entrance to the house. It was like someone had thrown a fit, then gotten bored and decided to stack everything just to fuck with my head.

I stared at this insane scene for an eternity. One of my friends turned up and asked what happened. I dejectedly just asked him to help me tidy everything away so we could get out of there. I was done caring about the “what” and the “why” in that place. I just wanted out of the fucker before my head caught fire or pudding shot out my friends’ noses. You may laugh, but at that point nothing would have surprised me. We packed the rest of my belongings—or at least the stuff I wanted to keep—into the truck and the other vehicles we had brought, and my friends made their way toward my new digs on the circle. I took a minute, looked around, said goodbye under my breath, and closed that door forever. I have not been back. I even made the realtor come get the keys—I was never going in that place again. Kick the tires on your past so you can make sure you get to the next stop, but do not worry about the mileage. When the time comes to move on, your body knows before your brain does. That is why you always find yourself pointing in a different direction when you did not even realize you had moved.

The end of one life does not mean life ends, period. Life, I have found, is merely a series of changes and adjustments as you work out the kinks and find your true place in the puzzle. Like a sculptor chipping away the bits of the stone to reveal the sculpture beneath the surface, we as men and women slide through the grooves of this crazy record to find the songs that define us, shape us, and make us dance. If that place and time does not feel right, we know it in our bones. The journeys we find ourselves on never necessarily lead to a simple destination; the stops along the way are what get us where we are going. With eyes burnt by the lights we strive to follow, sometimes we are too blind to what is right in front of us, good or bad. It takes a steady breath and a solemn vow to figure out whether or not you have finally come home or you are simply a few blocks away. But I am convinced there is a home out there for all of us. I found mine; time will tell if you truly find yours. But never let yourself be too distracted to notice the sights and the route along the way. If you keep your memories close, your future will never throw you a curve ball. It will just become a series of problems you already know and already possess the means to figure out for yourself.

Now that I have transcribed these events, I will let these memories of Foster Manor subside and rest elsewhere with a sense of lightness that never needs to say its apologies. It was an interesting time in my life, and as I moved on to my next stop in life, there was a part of me that had a vague notion that things like the goings on at Foster Manor would be in my rearview, that the coastline was clear for stronger yet calmer tides. But as I have found out—and to use one of my favorite ironic quotes—“the best way to make God laugh is to announce your plans out loud.” Even though I had not said anything, maybe my expectations spoke volumes. I was expecting something more akin to siesta than synergy. However, as I was about to find out, things in my life and indeed in my new house were just about to get even more interesting.

The days of wine and roses were beyond me, and the future was a lock out on the horizon. The time had come for a reevaluation of everything: my goals, my wants, my needs, my vices, my approach to family, parenting, relationships, and who I wanted to be for the next twenty years. I felt for the first time in my life that I was not running from anything but rather was running toward something, something real and worth living for in the end. It was the first step toward the rest of my existence—not something to be taken lightly or for granted. But for over thirty years I had been just another follower who was a little bit more ahead of the curve than others. I wanted the next thirty to be more under my control. The thing is that there is a reason some old clichés are more fact than fiction—they sum up the truth better than anything else. Case in point: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Wine and Spirits with Friends

L
ET
ME
ASK
YOU
SOMETHING
before we go any further, because I really do not want to get off on the wrong foot here, and I would be remiss in my duties as a host if I thought to do otherwise. Do you know any good ghost stories? I am sure you do—I can see it on your face, slowly biting your lower lip in an attempt to make it less obvious. I wish I could be there in person to transcribe it for use in this naughty haughty tome, but, alas, it is not to be. Therefore, I will give you a little glimpse into one of the deep, dark places that really set this whole thing into motion for me. Grab your security pillow and put down your orange soda—it is time to snuggle up and cast about for that elusive beast known as “the catalyst.” This goes back even before I took those first faltering steps into Cold House. Buckle up, bitches.

My mother was born in Arkansas, but eventually she, my uncle, and my grandmother moved to a farm near Knoxville, Iowa, that my Gram owned years before I was even a slight jump of blood in my daddy’s pants. However, I am not really sure where this falls in the timeline of my family; I believe this was around the time my grandmother divorced my grandfather. So I am fairly vague when it comes to my knowledge of this time for my family. But I have a very vivid memory of a certain conversation that happened in my presence when I was young, and it had to do with that particular farmhouse. My Gram might smack me in the head for getting it wrong, but it is a great little story. So here you go.

One Sunday my mom, my Gram, and I were on the way to my great grandmother’s house, and we happened to pass by this farmhouse. It was an American Horror Story and its subsequent wet dream: painted yellow and kind of drowsy looking; it exuded that back-country vibe of “this space has been here longer than you have lived, and, depending on the weather, it will be here long after you are gone.” My Gram and my mom started to talk about life there. Having never heard about this place until that day, I asked what it was like—the place gave me the heebie-jeebies. Someone blurted out, “It was fine until the neighbor was found hanging in his barn. No one knows if it was a suicide or murder, but they say you can still see him in the barn some nights, swinging from the end of his noose.” Then, having realized whom they were talking to, they quickly changed the subject. But it was too late; my mind had already envisioned a shadowy figure gently bobbing around on the end of a rope, looking deep into the eyes of the beholder.

That was my first ghost story.

The funny thing is that most of my life people have been regaling me with their paranormal past. When I told my friends what this book would be about, they became energized and wanted to impart to me all of the things they had seen in various locales during their tenures in life. I started to keep a mental catalog so I could include them in this book, because like I said, when you have a good ghost story, that is like a membership into a very exclusive club . . . and membership has its privileges.

One of the first ones I can remember was after I had moved back from Florida to Waterloo, Iowa. I was having a sleepover with some of my friends, and we were joshing and jawing about things and nonsense, just being kids. The weekend was ours, and the sugar was aplenty. So we were just talking good shit and doing whatever boys get up to when they are unfortunately left to their own devices. Then someone—I am not quite sure who, but it does not matter because I am going to change his name—asked the question that usually gets these kinds of balls rolling. For years I have thought about this question and have always conjured up images of kids dressed like gangsters trying to gain egress to a speakeasy: a man with a moustache and a dueling scar slides open a little window high on the door and casually asks, “Password?” We, as whippersnappers, would reply thus: “Do you guys believe in ghosts?”

Everyone in the group that night did—in fact, as I think about it, it slowly morphed into a conversation relatable to who had caught the bigger fish. With each turn, that person tried desperately to one-up the other, to the point at which it had disintegrated into seeing the chupacabra trying to crawl into a window in a trailer park. I let those go, though, because one story jumped out at me immediately. For the sake of respect and privacy, we will call the storyteller Jack.

Jack was a friend of mine who had been horribly burned in a fire that his biological parents had accidentally set when he was very young. Even after several surgeries, Jack was left with multiple scars, loss of hearing in his left ear, and having to sleep with a respirator at night. Vicious people at our school were complete bastards to him, but we had rallied around as best we could, doing our best to shield him from the evil that men (well, kids) do. He was one of us, and we would not suffer lightly the bullshit cast upon him. His foster parents tended to dote and be overprotective, so when they allowed him to come over and spend the night, we tried to make the best of it—as did he. Because of his injuries, Jack had an uncanny ability to plug his nose and whistle out his ears, which, being stupid kids, we absolutely loved. So we knew the more we could make him feel accepted, the better.

That night, while we were swapping ghost stories and squealing on varying levels of horror and disbelief, Jack had gone very quiet. When I asked him what was wrong, he said nothing. When it came to his turn, he tried to beg off, but we pressed him to give us something. He took a deep breath and simply said, “My parents visit me.” We were a little confused: “What do you mean your parents visit you? You live with your parents.” He shook his head, soberly—too sober for a boy of his age maybe, but if I had gone through his experiences, maybe I would have felt older too. He sighed and said, “My real parents visit me.”