People and their haunted houses
Gosh darn it, it ain’t even Halloween yet, but around the corner from my batcave, there’s this house, on the northwest corner of 22nd and H Streets in midtown Sacramento. I walk by there all the time, and there are always a gawker or two on the sidewalk, pointing at the creepy-looking building and shuddering like they’ll completely soil their uns if an ectoplasmic apparition of decaying Don Knotts or Amy Winehouse comes flying at them from an opening in the attic.
Betcha there’s no ghosts there. Go a block and a half up the street if you want ghosts. I mean, the real deal. There’s this Victorian I lived in back in 1991-1993 that’s funner than a goddamn carnival ride hurtling at triple speed and flying apart after being wrenched together by San Joaquin Valley crankster carnies. When I was there, shit would fly routinely, and these white luminescent things would jump over me in the middle of the night and run down past the kitchen area to a door that would fly open and then slam shut as I reclined there, going what the fuck, the hairs standing up all over my body.
One summer afternoon in 1992, it must have been several degrees above 100, and I was chilling on my broken futon with a bottle and a bong, and I heard this conversation and laughing coming out of the stairwell, behind the aforementioned door, which went from my kitchen to the second-floor porch below via a secret staircase. So I tiptoed over by the door to hear the conversation a little better, and I was right next to the door, and suddenly it flew open and I got hit with a blast of Arctic air, or Antarctic if these phantasms were acquaintances of Cthulhu, and then the door slammed shut and I heard more laughter. I think I really explored the deeply sedative quality of the whiskey I’d been drinking rather aggressively after that.
Anyway, I’ve told this story before. So I tell it again. Boo! —Jackson Griffith