Tuesday, March 22, 2011
It was also my first hands-on encounter with a class A phantasm, or poltegeist. These creatures are truly terrifying, but if you are interested in learning how to combat these ancient evils then read on.
I had in my pack a copy of the Ghost Hunter's Guidebook and the other tools I would need for a full fledged invasion. One quart of dark rum and a liter of clear vodka, who the shopkeep at Rimmy's Worm Shack had assured me was "The best watka you can piss out of a horse dick".
Selection of the proper alcohol can go a long way in facilitating a proper ghost hunt - remember, these are your only defenses against the machinations of the undead.
I arrove at the mill a little after 1 am, which is when Burly Bartel, the town's resident tattoo artist and bookstore owner told me that the ghouls would usually show up around the Old Towne Mill restroom area. I began preparing myself for the inevitable onslaught of the damned marches and scouring the area for signs of unholy prescence.
I didn't have to look long. About 7 or 8 pulls into the dark rum I sat down to rest my weakened constitution on one of the urinary units and saw it. A ghostly dark serpent snaking its way through the very walls of the stall, as if floating in midair.
There was NO ONE AROUND but I saw the massive beast swirling, twirling, at mid stall length, flying in the middle of the air. This was my first time seeing a full-floating apparition, and I quickly boldened my ghost-fighting prowess with an immense drag off the vodka.
"Show yourselves!" I screamed " I can see your witch-wand in the air, devils. Show yourselves to me!"
"Alright but you gonna have to blow on it first" said a loud disembodied voice from out of nowhere, as if responding to my demands.
I whirled around. Class 8 voices were now audible along with the sight of the grotesque dangling appendange before me. This was truly a dangerous ghost hunt. What would the great ghost hunters of lore do in this situation? Would they be brave enough to do what had to be done?
Murmuring a prayer and basting my tongue with the holy drink, I began taking the ghostly wand into my oral cavity in the hopes of stimulating a fully fledged ghost invasion that I could record and show to the world.
Hoping to prompt an audible response or more poltergeist activity, I began performing ancient ritual rites upon the sizable floating protrustion. It was growing, growing out of control and I began to hear noises all around me. I rapidly quaffed a few more gulps of the vodka, emptying the contents of the bottle. This had best be enough for what is to come, I thought.
Soon I heard a rumbling like thunder and the appendage vanished into thin air. The stall door flew open as if beaten down by the devil himself and in came winds, gusts, vapors, and the next thing I knew i was laying prostrate on the floor of the Old Towne Windmill, with a freestanding form apparition shadows all around me.
I knew what was coming but I was prepared to fight, I had prepared for this. I would not take the devil's cold seed inside me, I would not become a vessel for the ectoplasmic possession.
Phantom limbs engulfed me and before the darkness came I heard "Damn this guy all kinds of messed up he gonna handle double duty tonight."
When I came to I had been desecrated by the sins of the ghosts, and the sun had come up, highlighting the work that the craven ghosts had spilt upon my form while i lay helpless under their spell. A slick sheen of ectoplasm immured me in a toilet tomb, and it was only with the grace of my faith that I am here to discuss it today.
The experience at the Old Towne Mill taught me valuable lessons in the field of ghost hunting, and that I would need more powerful tools and companions were I to continue the fight against evil.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
This is the tale of a time when I was alone in an old brick house and I was conducting an investigation. The news had said that ghosts now roamed the halls of the old brick house on Nehelem St. because two brothers had commited ritual, satanic suicide in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
Armed with my modern day ghost fighting tools and several bottles of Pine-Needle Gin (an excellent ghost fighting brand) I broke my way into the now ruined house.
The floors were littered with trash, needles, faeces, and other grime. I began to drink copiously as there were sure to be evil spirits around in the midst of these dark objects. After I quickly consumed the first bottle in the darkness, the ghost hunt could begin.
I staggered upstairs up the rotting old wooden steps and came to the room in question. An ancient Victorian sprawl, and lo and behold, not one but TWO ghosts were sleeping in the corner, with hideous objects of decay strewn about, likely by their poltergeist machinations.
As I took a few long pulls of the steeling gin to temper my soul for the battle that was sure to come, I lost my footing on the old oak boards and stumbled onto the damp, moldy mattress. A rumbling emanated from the corner, and I could pick up voices on my EVP recorder!
Low, guttural, unearthly laughter as the ghouls in the corner awoke, undoubtebly hungry for man-flesh, blood, and souls. The utterances were heard quite clear with the aid of EVP, a strange daemonic dialect from realms beyond the cold clime of the grave:
“Ahheeeewww Sheeerrrriitt we got a fresh one walkin in here yo get his sheet get his sheeett”
Soon they were upon me. Rustling and ravaging me, possibly thinking I was trying to fake being a ghost by wearing a “sheet” they stripped me down quickly and began chortling in a fell-tongue. Soon I felt the room spinning but felt strong, as I had downed both bottles of the demon-slaying gin.
Their incorporeal hands fell upon me and they began to attempt a demonic possession of my body and soul, one attempting to force an ectoplasmic injection into my backside and the other trying to force a ghoulish, viscous white substance into my oral cavity. I fought them back but they held sway over the lower-forces and I felt the will go out of me.
Soon they had possessed me full of the daemonic seed, I would soon be turned if I was not slain or had the evil expectorated from my now tainted body. Unwilling to let me free to perform the ritual needed to resist the transformation, the two devils switched places and began attempting to inseminate the cold, fell-seed of the fallen into me again, possibly to better achieve conception of a minor hellion.
I grappled for a bottle of the Pine-Gin and shattered it, waking me up from my spell by cutting my arms and legs in deep gashes to bleed the taint out. The two ghouls shrieked as they saw their seed flow from the wounds and waste itself on the soft corruption of the Victorian-Era bedroom, and in a flash they were gone.
Beaten, but far from broken, I had beaten back the sin. Quickly utilizing the ancient technique to expectoration from the belly on their swimming demon seeds, I released the contents of my stomach and hind onto the ground.
There are ghosts in the old brick house. Old, evil forces at work. But this one ended up for another win for the ghost hunter.
Friday, October 22, 2010
It was one of my earlier experiences with ghost hunting that occurred one summer at Springdale Summer Camp. There was archery, boating, swimming, hiking, nature hunts, all kinds of great things to do. And it was also when I met one of my first professional ghost hunters, Wildman Willy.
They called him that because he lived in a shack a few miles from the camp in a shanty and was known to give out unearthly howls in the middle of the night we could hear all the way in our bunks. But after meeting him, I knew the reason why – The camp was haunted, and Willy knew this.
Willy was a bit intimidating to get to know at first, as he has a mangy beard down to his belly, a crazy gleam in his eye, and a stench that was downright appalling, and would randomly shout out curses to the air, but now with years of experience under my belt I knew these things can happen to a serious ghost hunter plagued by daemonic forces.
Willy informed me that there was a source of all the haunting that occurred at Springdale, and one day when the rest of the camp was off on a hike we decided we would go and stop the infection plaguing the idyllic summer retreat once and for all.
As is typical of preparing for any ghost hunt, steeling ourselves with the liquid was essential. Willy had a quantity of jugged juice he referred to as “The Devil’s Piss” that we quaffed heavily from before setting out down the hill toward camp. We took a jug with us and passed it back and forth, Willy already apparently being harried by undead forces began slurring his speech and staggering uncontrollable.
Soon we came to the area where Willy claimed the source of the plague had begun – the outhouses of Springdale. How obvious, I thought, that these ghosts would congregate around such filth. Willy motioned toward an underground tunnel, shouting that the bodies of fallen campers had been stored there by the restless dead.
As soon as I entered the small room where Willy had indicated, the door slammed shut behind me. The ghosts were apparently already at work, and I strengthened my resolve with a few pulls from my tub of holy water, and took a step forward.
Willy was right. There were dead brown and black bodies littering the room, mere husks of their human forms, rank with the stench of death and festering with insect atrocities. The only source of light was a single hole cut into the ceiling of the wretched sacrificial room.
All of a sudden things went black, the light source cut off and I heard a scream. Willy must have been claimed, as the screeches were unearthly and disturbing in nature.
Blood, liquid, and some sort of foul-smelling dirt began streaming from no discernible location accompanied by the sound of the sky tearing apart, forming a storm of supernatural forces around me and drenching my person – I was under a phantasmagorical assault!
The only way to stop such a paranormal form is to make the sacrifice that these poor other fallen souls must not have known – the way to defeat a spirit storm is to take the essence of it into you and purify it.
Knowing what must be done, I began rubbing the rank mist upon myself and taking it into my persona orally, gobbling and slurping up the ichor of death painfully as the disgusting odor filled me. After the spirit was defeated, I blacked out.
I never saw Wildman Willy again, but the camp was purified of its sins. Ghost hunting has many unique takes, and I hope that I was able to lay the rest the souls of the many poor individuals who met their fate in the outhouse sacrificial room at Springdale Summer Camp.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Since we are covering some backstory I’d like to talk about my first ghost hunt with an early crew I assembled during the high school years. It was me, Jerry Sakai, and Marsha Penquist, and it was a rainy Sunday afternoon when I decided to share the secrets of the ghost hunt with these two intrepid young harriers.
I had brought some of the tools of the trade – Five factory sealed bottles of high-octane vodka, blue label or 100 proof (some of the strongest ghoul fighting magic around), my EVP detector because I believed the location (Jerry’s House) to be a great spot for detecting a class B phantasm, and a camera to detect any unusual activity and to record the findings professionally.
After setting the camera on a tripod to record the footage, we waited until the time when ghosts come out – midnight- and began steeling ourselves to witness the coming of the unholy dead. I explained that if you wanted to survive the maniacal machinations of the restless legions that severe quantities of ghost-repellant must be consumed. It was about 1:30 AM when the firsts ghosts appeared, manifesting themselves in hideous possessions and daemonic voices.
Jerry began rocking back and forth, drooling and mumbling in a language unintelligible to humans. Seeing the possession begin to occur was unnerving, so I began to partake of more of the clear-colored cleansing liquid and encouraged our female companion to do the same, to fight off the impending wave of daemonic prescences.
Sadly, this was one of the first experiences I had had dealing with ghosts and we were simply not ready. Soon, Marsha was under the sway of the damned, uttering in a ghoulish tongue with her head cocked at an unnatural angle.
Then the worst began to happen as both Jerry and Marsha fell under the spell of these damned ghosts, as the possession began to make them act out in terrifying ways, culminating with a feverish attempt at animal copulation.
Not willing to let the night terrors win at this ghost hunt, a few slugs of the savior brew and I was clear of mind and body and ready to fight back. Grabbing a poker from the fireplace I gave Jerry several solid blows to his naked, squirming, daemonically possessed form. The demon writhed inside the shell of the human it had consumed, twisting and shrieking until it stopped moving and lay still.
The defeated demon left Jerry’s body in the traditional fashion, through violent exhalation through the mouth by means of vomitus. Shaking and triumphant, I laid the poker down. The worst had yet to come. The terrifying demon that had taken Jerry was now inside me, and forced me into a hideous act of carnal pleasure with the equally possessed Marsha in an attempt to create a child of the night.
There was no way to stop it, demons would come to the earth if the act was completed. Desperately, in the throes of knowing Marsha, I struggled for way to combat this daemonic will being thrust upon me. There was but one answer.
Summoning up all of my might and ghost hunting experience, I expelled the demon from my body, forcing the cursed form into a manifestation of vomitus upon mine and Marsha’s form. The demon had been beaten.
The night was ours. While one of my first ghost hunting experiences with team members, it is one that I will remember forever.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Ghosts are real. Ghost hunting is real. and we, the ghost hunters, are definitely real
I went on my first hunt when i was sixteen. My friend Johnny's dad took me into a dark room and told me the ghosts were coming, and I'd need some magic mixture to be able to survive the attack. I had never known about these night terrors until now.
Working hard to save me, Johnny's dad took out a few "ghost shooters" and filled them up with anti-ghoul solution, known as Jack Kannelfaniels, which could keep the evil spirits out. He seemed crazy at the time but later i would find out it was just garden variety whiskey, with remarkable ghost battling powers.
Furtively he handed me shooter after shooter and screamed they would be here any minute. He downed quite a few himself and then they started to come into the room. Real ghosts. Johnny's dad screamed and told me to drink another golden shooter to save myself and the room began to swirl.
Ghosts were attacking! Johnnys dad was missing I assume they got him and the room went pitch black and i could hear insane laughter from all sides. Suddenly, i felt a pressure against my... backside. They were trying to possess me! I tried to drink more to fight them off, but i was a fledgling ghost hunter. Soon, i felt something deep burrow into me and deposit a sinister payload of ectoplasmic goo.
I felt certain that i would be possessed by daemonic spirits, but just as i felt i could handle the ghostly assault no more, Johnny's dad mysteriously reappeared and dragged me from the room. He said i must never speak of the ghost hunt to anyone or the ghosts would come back, so I told everyone, because i wanted them to come back - ghosts must be hunted down!
I didn't see Johnny's dad again after i told Mr. Swanke about the incident because i heard he got taken away by zombies in the middle of the night but i will never forget the thrilling experience of my first ghost hunt in his garage.
Friday, October 15, 2010
- Sturdy professional grade flashlights
- Oujia Board for communication. All SERIOUS ghost hunters use these, despite the dangers.
- EVP recorders
- High grade night vision cameras
- High quality phones for calling medical assistance as real ghost hunts often make contact and require medical attention
- Alcohol equivalent to around one half gallon for each participant in the hunt of a grade 80 proof or higher.