A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven (19 page)

By the time you read this, I will be miles away from here, looking for my next excursion and plotting more creative ways to fuck with your heads. I might be dressed nicely; I might also be in that nice tutu number I wore in London on Halloween back in 2010. You really never know when it comes to what the hell goes on in my frosted flaky crust of a brain. But I can definitely tell you one thing: I am always looking for a great conversation, because at the end of the day I am a collector who overdoes it at every turn. If I love it, I will go above and beyond to add it to the Vault. I keep the great conversations in a very special hellish place inside that I can access at will, kind of like a pleasure memory palace. In there, nothing is off limits, nothing is over the limit, and nothing is limited. The only way is all the way, as I have been known to say in the past. But if you are worth it, I will collect you. I will add you to my history. Maybe some day I will add you to pages like these. I believe that everyone needs to live forever, because no single life is better or worse than the other. Maybe that is my endgame in all this.

My friends gave me these personal ghost stories so that I might share them with you, hopefully to encourage and enable you to do that likewise with your friends. By doing this, not only do you prove that none of us are alone; you also carry on that wonderful conversation I adore—the one that stretches across the years, never wavers or falters, and yet brings us closer to happiness than anything else has yet in life. We are our own treasured historians. We are our own witnesses to what we have done. When you share that with someone else, the chances of being remembered improve exponentially. This is the true key to immortality. This is the belt loop that will hold together the fabric of what is real and what is imagined to blend this tapestry into the rest of this world.

So . . . know any good ghost stories?

A Haunting in New York?

T
HE
OLD
SAYING
has always been “necessity is the mother of invention.” I have found this to be true on several occasions, not only for the many inspired creations that I see on a nightly basis when it comes to the sensation that is “As Seen on TV,” but I myself have reveled in the concept a time or two. Sometimes I get more done when I know there is a hard deadline and I have no clue as to what is next. Suddenly the paranoia and panic hits you like a handful of frozen cow shit. And then the miraculous happens: a trigger clicks, the wheels spin themselves out of the muddy thought process, and you are off and running, typing away like a madman or fervently scribbling lyrics and music in mystic notebooks like a wizard on crack who was able to recall an incantation thought lost aeons ago. It is a beautiful thing when you remember you happen to be really clever—at least when your brain gets out of its own way.

Ironically this is the crux of where I happened to be while I was working on this book. I was all but finished writing, had gone and shot most of these weird photos you see within, and was busy clearing up any refuse clinging to this hunk of wood pulp and ink. I was jovial and elated—book two was nearly in the bag. Who would have thought I would be putting the final touches on another book? For fuck’s sake, I was still pinching myself over getting away with the first one. So this was more due diligence than victory lap—time to kick the tires, air them up, and make sure the lug nuts were on nice and tight. But in doing so, I realized this vicious bastard of a book was in fact . . . not long enough. What the fuck . . . not long enough? How could it be that I, the Great Big Mouth, the One and Only Motherfucker, was at a loss for words? Had I sustained some sort of wicked blow to the cerebellum? Never mind all that shit—had I been hit on the head? What the French, totes?

Of course, I knew the problem. I had scheduled another ghost hunt, and because I am “busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest” (you can thank Geoff Head for that wonderfully visual quote), I had been forced to cancel a trip at the last minute to the Squirrel Cage Jailhouse in Omaha, Nebraska, even after they had graciously made arrangements contrary to their operating hours. So with much chagrin, I thanked them for their kindness, begged out of the engagement, and decided I would have ample verbiage for the tome you are currently cradling between your groceries and your purse—at least that is what I imagine you have it stuck in. Anywhere else is either gross, illegal, or out of my experience circle. Anyway, I was a little light in the chapters and unable to reschedule the Squirrel Cage Jailhouse or anywhere else for that matter. What in the name of Odin’s soul patch was I going to do?

Thankfully, necessity was about to give birth to my salvation.

On January 22, 2013, I woke up in the literally freezing but spiritually warm city of Buffalo, New York, and prepared myself for the second night of the House of Gold and Bones US tour. The boys in Stone Sour and I were thrilled to be out on the road, especially Johnny Chow that day—this was his hometown, and his whole family would be making the chilly trek to see him perform that night at the Rapids Theatre in Niagara Falls, not too far away from Buffalo. We were ecstatic—the tour was already off to a grand start and expectations were very high. In my time on the road I could not recall if I had ever played the Rapids Theatre, so to me it was just one more venue I could add to my list of recollections. That was before I got a provocative text from The Boss, who was already at the gig setting things up. “The club is supposedly haunted, so you will have more material for your book,” she matter-of-factly stated.

Really? Interesting . . .

A haunting in New York? Color me stoked. This was perfect—I could kill two birds with one stone. Play an awesome gig in a pretty historical building and go on a ghost hunt, all while staying on schedule and fulfilling my quota at the same glorious time. I could not believe my luck, really. I kept waiting for the catch, but it never came. I could work and investigate. Plus, I did not have much press, so I could spend most of the night running around the club, taking it all in and waiting for something spooky to happen. That is the thing about kismet: just when you think the universe will never realign in your favor, a pebble out in space bounces off a forgotten Russian satellite and clears a path straight to your face with enlightenment, opportunity, and a little lucky “fuck yeah.” That is exactly what the universe was giving me in that one moment between pajamas and blue jeans: an opportunity to catch up when before there was only the Hoover Dam of calamities. Good thing karma and I are on immaculate speaking terms right now.

I immediately packed my things, checked out of the hotel in haste, and raced to the venue. Being a whore for content, before I left I went online and did some slick-quick research, just to get my bearings on this new little wrinkle I would be adding to my sticky skin. Luckily, there was a Wikipedia page. Is it just me, or does it seem like everyone and their fucking mom has a Wikipedia page these days? Shit, even William Hung still has a page on that bastard website. Is it really necessary to know the complete history of the Twinkie? I thought that was what the show How It’s Made was for. Note to self: look into frivolous use of Wikipedia entries for redundancy and rampant pointlessness. Shit, where was I . . .

The Rapids Theatre was originally built and opened way back in 1921 under the moniker “The Bellevue Theater.” In its early heyday it was both a movie theater and a vaudeville house, hosting the acts of the day and showing various big cinematic hits when they would roll through town. But as my digging progressed, I unearthed that this particular venue had gone through a lot of different names over the ninety-plus years in its tenure. It would open, close, and reopen under many different owners, with a plethora of assorted names: the Late Show Discotheque, the Masquerade, Centre Stage, the Pleasure Dome, then just the Dome Theater. People seemed willing to pay any price to own the place as well: one person bought at $18,000, and yet another procured it for $85,000. In 2009 it was finally renovated at a nice nifty sum and renamed the Rapids Theatre. Maybe this shifty and piecemeal story is why the tales of the paranormal are fairly succinct.

The prevalent story that seems to be where all this ghostly talk comes from is the one about a scorned actress who purportedly hung herself in the rafters in the back of the theater. Her spirit is said to roam the halls of the theater, giving glimpses to bystanders and walking the stage when the lights are low and no one is around. There is a bit of contention about what the real stressor for the suicide seemed to be: one legend maintained it was merely a lover who had left her for another woman, another said it was her fiancé, and still another made it clear it was her estranged husband. The only tidbit these versions have in common is that she had been pregnant and unfortunately lost the child. However, in all my research, I found no news report that said anything of the sort regarding any version of the tale. Something like that most certainly would have appeared in the papers. But there is no mention of such a terrible occurrence anywhere. So this might just be an old wives’ tale that has been passed down from owner to owner, staff to staff. That tracks more than a horribly sad suicide that slipped through the cracks between buyouts. The stories persist, though, because apparently the presence of something above and beyond is very real. Shadows move where no one was. Whistling can be heard floating through the complex. Footsteps race around the hardwoods and behind people. One of the security guards talked about slipping and almost falling before invisible hands suddenly caught and righted him. Having a little in common with something like that, I was inclined to believe that one.

Another security guard showed me pictures from when the theater was new, with its sprawling seating area and lush balconies. It looked nothing like it does today. I believe the rows of theater chairs were taken out years ago. In the middle of the floor the new owners have built an elaborate wooden bar area, replete with a towering bar back that doubles as a lighting desk. That does not make much sense, seeing as that should be where the sound engineer goes (they stuck our man Big Shirt off to the left of stage, which made the Brit piss himself with rage and incredulity), but I do not own the place. All I really know is that of all the acts and movies that have blown through this joint, we are by far the most recent—although I cannot help but think we are not the first to complain about the placement of our light and sound.

The building had also housed a few other businesses in its time, like a dentist’s office and an attorney-at-law. Apparently the dentist decided not to leave, because he is purportedly one of the haunts who traipse through the darkened hallways. The other, according to the locals, is Howard the projectionist. Howard’s father owned a business nearby and was connected to the theater for decades, holding the job of projectionist for years until he passed away. The folks who work the Rapids have several pictures that show a multicolored orb they are convinced is Howard himself. The orb resembles an old kaleidoscope, with the main colors of a tube TV screen: red, blue, and green. It is always in the background—it does not appear to want any attention. It just feels like it wants to observe and be near people. Harmless, I guess. Howard the projectionist comes back as a rainbow orb that is attracted to human contact in the very place he used to work. Art imitating life I have heard of; souls imitating skills is another thing entirely.

It makes sense—some people are defined by what they do. Why would it not stand to reason that your spirit might be literally defined by who and what you were in life? I like that scenario the most because it backs up my idea of why spirits might become connected to certain houses or places—because it is the place that brought them the most joy in life, not necessarily that they had to have died violently or suddenly on those specific premises. So when they slip through the veil and their energy refuses to pass on, it is drawn to that special place, maybe as a way to keep that energy reacting to the emotion as a strange type of “recharge.” I feel another hypothesis developing in a train of thought that already has too many damn passengers. Trust me—this is not the first time I have considered the idea that I desperately need a hobby.

As the security guard kept scrolling through the photos, I saw several that had fiery orbs racing through the frames, like balls of hellfire being hurled by an invading army toward castle walls. I was struck by how vivid they appeared to be, especially when you considered they were taken in near pitch-black darkness. I casually asked about it and whether there was any info concerning where it had come from. He shrugged and said, “No one really knows. But we think it has something to do with one of the shadow people.” When I asked another person who worked at the theater about it, her eyes got wide. “That is a bad one,” she said, “It goes where it wants and does what it wants around here.”

The Bad One was a mystery almost as intriguing as the actress’s supposed suicide. Nobody had any information about it, not even an educated guess as to who or what it had been in life, let alone where the thing had come from. All they knew was that it seemed to stir itself when there was an event or a show going on. The security guard told me that during a Stone Temple Pilots concert there was even video of the thing pushing its way through the mosh pit and concertgoers looking at each other accusingly, like “why the fuck you pushing, bro?” Something that could go back and forth between orb and shadow form while also having the mass to push people when it was moving had to have a lot of energy and emotion behind it. The locals also thought it was responsible for various shoving and pushing that would happen around the complex, nearly spilling someone from a ladder a few years ago during the renovation periods. But the question remains: what the hell is this thing, and where in blue fuck did it come from?