Things That Make My Heart Stop, Vol. 1
One of my new favorite shows on TV is Paranormal State, a documentary series about a bunch of college-age kids from Penn State’s Paranormal Research Society who basically go around ghost-hunting and helping people deal with their various hauntings. I actually spent weeks avoiding the show because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it, which sounds exceedingly lame, I know, but I don’t deal so well with the scary stuff. So even though the commercials for the show totally scared the shit out of me, I found the subject matter so interesting that I finally caved and watched an episode 1) with HoST in attendance, and 2) in broad daylight.
The show? Awesome. My pants? Mildly soiled.
While I still can’t watch an episode alone, I’ve graduated to being able to watch them at night. Honestly, the shows don’t scare me as much as I thought they would. I find them more interesting than anything else, although I do tend to be a little jumpy afterwards – something I don’t generally notice unless the cat startles me and…
Here we go again.
So, last night HoST and I were watching the latest episode about a house (in our very own city!) that was being haunted by what seemed to be the ghost of a woman who lived there in the 1800s. The investigation crew was in the midst of Dead Time (when they attempt to communicate with spirits), when – and I SHIT YOU NOT – the following happened:
PARANORMAL STATE VOICEOVER ON TV: We’re getting ready for Dead Time in hopes of communicating with the spirit in this house.
HoST: [watching intently]
CAT: [asleep on back of couch]
LAMP ON THE END TABLE: [flickers from normal light to dim light exactly 3 times, at uniform intervals]
ME: [trying to remain calm; reminding my heart that it needs to resume beating] HoST, can you please make sure that lightbulb is screwed in tight enough? It must be loose.
HoST: [pauses TV, checks lightbulb] It’s not loose.
Something was loose, I’ll say that much.
Seriously. What the fuckity-fuck-fuck was THAT? Look – our house is old. Nearly 100 years old, as best we can tell. I know for a fact that someone has died in the house, but there is not any sort of negative energy whatsoever. So methinks something was seriously fucking with us – fucking with ME. And really, I can’t blame it. I’m such an easy target. So HAR HAR HAR, Shecky McSpirit. I GET IT. Now cut it out, please, before I have to invest in vinyl slipcovers.
On the upside, my slutty couch won’t get pregnant again.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.