Creeped In Connecticut

Wants you to take her rollerskating.

Wants you to take her rollerskating.

Well, I hope everybody enjoyed the annual thinning of the veils.  Frankly, I’m Halloweened-out.  At least from the mainstream version of it.  Pumpkins.  Candy corn.  Miley Cyrus.  Even the hooky-spooky stuff gets old.  I guess it’s because we’re like the Addams family over here.  Ghosts, growlers, gremlins, and Greys don’t phase us.  Every day is Halloween.

The other night Lori and I were watching a paranormal show.   Some homeowners were dealing with a demon in their basement.  In Connecticut.  Of course.

Connecticut has got some bad mojo.  I’m no Nervous Nellie when it comes to the paranormal.  I’ve witnessed my fair share of the unexplained.  No joke.  I don’t know if it’s because I was always open to it, or this unique birthmark, but I’ve been followed around by some freaky shit my whole life.  And I’ve actually enjoyed it.  Seeing a candle light itself has a way of bringing a little mystery back into life.

But something about the Connecticut brand.  Really creeps.

We watched the priest performing the exorcism.  He gets his toupee tugged on.  Stuff starts to fly around.  He feels hot scratches along his back, then gets doubled-over with what appears to be gas pains.  Clutching at his guts, he keeps trying to send the demon back into the bowels of hell.

“Classic back-fire,” I explained, “Didn’t close up his circle and now the little bugger ricocheted into his bowels.”

“Listen to the arm-chair exorcist.”

“Hey, I might not be able to put up shelves, but I think I could perform a pretty damn good exorcism.  The key to successful mediation is to establish rapport.”

“No problem for you.”

“Exactly.  I think my way would work better than this old-school antagonistic approach.  Why piss the thing off?  Just thank it for whatever lesson it came to deliver then politely send it back to Hell to await reassignment.  Look at this poor priest.  He looks like he’s about to crap his pants.”

He kept at it though.  Making the sign of the cross with holy water with one hand while grabbing his cramping pelvis with the other.

“That’s a weird place, Connecticut.”

“Uh-huh.” She rearranged her pillow.  “You told me.”

“Did I tell you about the rollerskating rink?”

“Yes.”

I wished I hadn’t.  It’s a good story.  That’s the trouble with being in a long relationship.  You use up all your good stories.

Finally, in a tornado of dishes and drapes, Latin and lighting, the demon was gone.  Everyone’s relieved.  The terrorized family, the ghost hunters sent in to investigate, and the priest they called in–when they realized this was more that the ghost of Aunt Fanny on their hands– everybody hugging each other, rejoicing and so forth.

But I could have sworn I saw two glowing eyes looking in from the corner of the kitchen window.  Nice.

“I love a happy ending,”

I looked over at Lori.  She was out cold.  Exorcisms make her sleepy.

Hey.  I didn’t tell you guys about how creepy Connecticut is.  Especially the roller rinks.  Hold on let me turn the lights down…

Okay.  My family was close friends with another Lithuanian family back in New York.  They had four kids.  One boy was my age and the girl was my sister’s.  We basically grew up together, so we were sad when they moved to Connecticut, where they eventually built a house in the woods of Danbury, by Candlewood Lake.  You know Danbury, where the first US trial in which demonic possession was used as a defense for murder was held.

Cozy old Danbury.

Anyway, we used to love to go visit them.  They were my funnest friends and I have many happy memories.  But I remember other stuff, too.  Like the woods around their house.  Something really bad dwelled there.  I could feel it.  Something evil.

Keep in mind, I grew up traipsing in the woods and parks of New York and loved nature.  There was nothing creepy about quiet trees.  But walking around those Connecticut trees, I’d see things from the corner of my eye.  Get the feeling that somebody or some thing was watching.  My arm hair was always brush stiff while playing and exploring in those woods.

It didn’t help that they lived next door to a guy that had blown his brains out with a shot gun.  I also remember that we’d run across these abandoned homes.  Old-timey clapboard shacks with the windows busted out, but all the furniture still inside.  Pans still on the stove.  Clothes in the closet.  Even old boxes of cereal in the cupboards.  Where did the people go?

My buddy and I would try to vandalize these old shacks, more than they already were, but one of us would always wind up getting hurt.  On a nail or broken glass.  Something would always abruptly end our fun.  One time while bashing out an un-bashed window, he got stung by a bee as big as a fist.  Right on his thumb.  It swelled up really big.  Our parents debated taking him to the hospital.

One day, while we were standing outside the shot-gun suicide house, talking about what a mess it must have been, a bottle broke between us.  We were only a few feet apart, but neither of us could tell where it came from.  We looked around for any neighborhood kids, but never saw anyone.  We had a wide view through the woods, and never heard any leaves crunching either towards or away.  Besides, it didn’t skip like it had been thrown.  It just exploded.  On the leaves.

Another night, we were sent out to get firewood,  On our way back, I looked up and saw a hooded white face standing about fifty feet away.  Mother of God.  I dropped the wood and blurred through time and space getting to the front door.  My friend hadn’t even seen it and he was climbing on my back trying to get through the door.  So convincing was my panic.

I’ve scared myself with my imagination before.  This was different.  Too much time getting a good look at it.  My eyes actually focused and there it was–a hooded, white mask-like face.

Even remembering it today, gives me the jeebies.

Actual photo

Actual photo

Anyway, all that stuff, as bizarre as it was, didn’t hold a candlewood to the Danbury rollerskating rink.  That remains one of my creepiest memories.  Ever.  Not just mine.  It’s in my sister’s Hall of Fame too.  And there was nothing paranormal about it.  Normal can freak plenty good.

One Saturday afternoon, the parents decided to drop us kids off at the local roller-skating rink.  My sister and I had never been to a roller rink.  We always went ice-skating instead.  Okay, but this should still be fun.  Hooray!  We’re going rollerskating!

Yeah.  But in Connecticut.

As soon as we drove up to the joint I knew it was going to be memorable.

The place was decrepit and dusty.   Looked like it hadn’t been renovated since the forties or fifties.  The people too.  Everybody in the place was dressed like extras from an episode of Green Acres.  Old-fashioned rural clothes.  Coveralls.  Red-checked flannel.  Hats with flaps.  Girls with dresses made out of patterns.  Everybody slowly skating around with blank New England expressions.  Real time-warp vibe.

I remember there was even a gumball machine that dispensed stick pretzels.  How fucked-up is that?

Well, we get our skates and roll into the rink.  I’m looking around.  It’s really dark.  The light has a root-beer amber quality.  There’s just enough of it to avoid bumping into some Ed Gein skating the other way.   Instead of canned pop music, there was a live organ playing some kind of Hokey Pokey funeral dirge.

I skate over to the other end of the rink.  I see a sad pile of old toys arranged around a window.  They’re all the scariest kind.  Monkeys with cymbals.  Homemade dolls.  Ventriloquist dummies.  Crude wooden trains.  Mangy stuffed animals.

Clowns.

All set among sagging tinsel and dim Christmas lights.  And not moved or dusted in thirty years.

Then I looked up at the window.

And saw where the organ music was coming from.

Behind thick, nicotine-stained glass, a hunched man sat playing the organ.  I’ll never forget what the fucker looked like.  Instead of trying to describe him I’ll draw him-

Police sketch

Police sketch

Yeah.  I’ll take a hooded white face.  Any day.  My parents had spent a lot of time trying to convince me that Lurch was not real.  Now it looked like that was just more of their lying bullshit.

Something about him being behind thick glass.  It made it look like he was being kept in a room built especially to safely house him.  So he wouldn’t break out and start eating hillbillies.  Was he some sort of serial-killing musical savant?

The whole scene was disturbing enough, but seeing that ghoul behind glass was the crown jewel.

I skated over to my sister.

“I think you need to roll over to the organ grinder and get a good look.”

She did.  It’s something that stays with her to this day.

And I’m sure she’s grateful to me for it, too.

Anyway, it shows that something doesn’t have to be paranormal to scare.  There are plenty of terrifying things right here in the “real” world.

Like getting drunk and ruining your life.  Nice and normal-like.  And to be honest that scares me more.  More than some Enochian demon growling from under my bed.  Although, that still gives me a good jolt.  You know, when it wakes you out of a dead sleep.

It’s good though.  Reminds me to pray.  When in doubt, shout it out.

Over the years, I’ve experienced so much strangeness, both supernatural and organic, that when it came time to ask an invisible higher power to relieve me of my alcoholism, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.  I already believed there was all kinds of stuff out there.  Some of it good.  Some of it not so.  So unlike some alcoholics coming into recovery, I didn’t balk at praying to stay sober.

Cracks me up.  One guy told me that praying made him feel uncomfortable.  Said he felt stupid doing it.  The guy who pissed his pants at his sister’s wedding.  Drank eleven beers before his probation hearing.  You’d think he’d be comfortable with feeling stupid by now.  He’s not yet.  And still drinking.

No big deal.  That’s where demons come in.  Their main job is to scare everyone back to The Creator.  One way or another.  Everybody finds themselves praying.  They’ll make sure of it.  Turn up the heat until you do.  And the way things are popping off these days, it looks like they’ve brought their A game.

So I don’t think there’s any need to push prayer on anyone.  Suggest it sure, but to get a really sincere one out of somebody, there are experts out there.

And they are consummate professionals.

Boo.

Post-script:  While Googling “Demons in Connecticut” I came across this little tid-bit from the Fortean Times, “Across the state-line, in Fairfield County, Connecticut, an employee at a local radio station told me of druid-like gatherings, at night, in the woods surrounding Candlewood Lake, near Danbury.”

.

Product of my imagination

Product of my imagination

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9 responses to “Creeped In Connecticut

  1. While you’re sleeping I’m gonna invade your mind on my psycho-bicycle and ride all over your ridges. But hey, it’s not all fun. I was once lying in bed with my wife, when our new-born baby started to cry. We were both knackered, but me being a man, was doubly so… I pretended to be asleep to see if Julie would wake up and feed the baby. When out of the corner of my eye I saw her sitting up in bed, I thought ‘job, done.’ Rolled over and snuggled down. After about five minutes, the baby was still crying and there was no movement from her side of the bed. But I could sense someone was awake. I turned, wide away, to ask why she wasn’t getting out of bed – to my surprise, she was still asleep and sitting up in bed between us was a wizened old lady, with a slightly perplexed look on her face. She looked at me. I looked at her. Her face turned to one of a scream and she vanished.
    I was left, slack-jawed staring into blank space.
    I think I may have let out a little manly scream of my own, as Julie woke up and asked me to see to our baby. Which I did. The ‘ghost granny’ was gone and our house, ‘an old cottage’, felt filled just with the three of us.
    On reflection,I don’t think she was a ghost. I don’t believe in the spectral world anyway. What I think I experienced,is a slip in time. I reckon a hundred years earlier, an old woman living in the same house was woken in the night by the sound of a crying baby, mine. That’s why she looked so puzzled. Then she looked round and saw my freaked out face – screamed ghost and snapped the cordwangle between worlds…. or between TIMES.
    Thanks for a lovely halloween post… and btw,that picture of the organ grinder is my father. He’s not so scary once you get to know him, unless of course he’s had about ten pints of lager. Then he’s a scary fucking nightmare.

    • You’re welcome, Johnny. Nice tale. I’ve woken up screaming next to wizened old women before. It’s not fun.
      Hey, from what I’ve seen of your Pa on Facebook, he seemed like quite the colorful creature. A fellow bean enthusiast, too. Makes us soul brothers that. Last I checked Man U. was up 3-0 so he should be in good spirits.
      My old man didn’t believe in ghosts, either. Until his house became haunted. No shit. So much so that he had to finally break down and come to me and ask what the hell was going on inside the house. Oh, now all this stuff I was reading and talking about wasn’t just so much bullshit, eh? Very satisfying. I made sure to thank the poltergeists I had conjured up. He told me that even his father, after visiting him, said the house was haunted. That in itself freaked my dad, because Gramps was no believer either. By the way, that was the house where Monk, my sister, my girlfriend at the time, and I saw the candle light by itself. You just can’t rationalize shit like that away.
      He wound up selling the house and moving away. His new address turned out to be 666 Ocean Blvd. in Long Beach. Bwhahahahaha!
      The only scarey thing there was the asbestos that had to be removed. Total pain in the ass. An exorcism would have been easier.
      Anyway, looking to forward to meeting up with Dave soon. In Hollywood. Where everyone’s dreams come true.
      Except mine.
      I think God is mad at me for something.
      Who knows what is is this time?
      Keep you posted.
      Love,
      Bean Boy

  2. Do you remember going to that restaurant/bar in downtown Ventura on Santa Clara St. that’s in a big old house? The house has been purported to be haunted forever – a woman hanged herself in the upstairs bathroom. And no one told Inski that, and she went up to the bathroom and got so freaked out by glimpsing feet swinging in midair as she exited the toilet stall….oooheeeeeooooooh

    • Indeed I remember. Andy’s Barbecue Heaven it was called back then. I guess that’s the version of heaven that spirit settled for. Sad story really. She’s something like three months pregnant as her seaman husband was coming back from his eight month journey. Adds up to some awkward math. So she hung herself in her bedroom which is now the can for women. And for the sake of historic accuracy, Pinsky didn’t SEE dangling legs. She told me she flashed on a scene from Blow Out. The one where they show the hanged woman’s legs dangling. That scene keep flashing before her. So clearly, it kind of freaked her. She came down and told me about out it and I was all whatever. It was only later when I had to do my little story on Richard Senate’s ghost-hunting class, did I hear that joint was one of the haunted places of Ventura, and that the woman hung herself upstairs. In the room where Pinsk was watching old Travolta movies in her head. Sue, you should have seen her face when I told her. Mastercard.
      Ah, I love it. Well you know.
      More than most.
      Love,
      Marius

  3. Canada doesn’t have many ghosts. I think it’s because we’re too nice and like rules and we just don’t want to *bother* anyone, eh? We just expire and get into some sort of gentle lineup with soft plush stanchions to guide us to some debriefing and then to that big ball playroom like they have at IKEA’s for kids. They discourage hauntings, so we careful Canucks just do as we’re told. So milquetoast. But the Yanks and Brits have a little bit more spirit (no pun intended) in that department, so y’all just get spooked left, right and center. And then they make reality shows about them. Groovy.

    I wish I had at least one creepy story like the great ones you just spun. Fascinating. They would peel the soiled knickers off Her Royal Highness Herself, ‘ol fruit. My drunkalogues are pretty dull too. But where I lack in storytelling finesse and dramatic flair I make up in revelling in others telling their that-side-of-the-curtain ghost tales. I’ll tell you about an apple I ate, and you tell me the time that a cricket jumped in the air, turned to Ed Asner’s jowl and then exploded into thousands of Skittles. I win in that exchange. I love stuff like that. And that’s why your post kept my eyes scraped against the screen.

    I am a sucker for all this because I totally believe in all this. I do. I am a believer. I do think some people see the dead. Ghosts. Those Who Continue To Wander. If you told me Lou Reed’s spirit was seen at a Walgreens in Opelika, Alabama rifling through the women’s underpants, I would believe you. I just think that weird stuff happens for reasons beyond us. We aren’t meant to know.

    And the weirdest thing for me was truly knowing that I didn’t have to drink hooch any more. I am not meant to know why, but the Great Imperial Poobah has some crazy plan for me. For His eyes only, Mr. Bond. Sorry. Now stay still so that you can watch my death ray destroy the left side of Wales. No one will miss it.

    I know that I promise to do my best in leaving this mortal coil without harassing anyone in the afterlife. Maybe when I get to where I need to get, the Creator will finally let me in on His nutty scheme. Or not. Maybe send me back down one more time to get shit right. Or righter. Or lefter. But in the meantime, while I am in His waiting room thumbing through an old Newsweek Magazine, I’ll float back here and move your protein shake mix to the other side of the garage. Give you a bit of a poltergiesty yank of the chain. See you light up a bit, have a laugh, call me a bad name and then be off.

    Great post, as usual, Mr. G.

    Hugs,
    Paul

    P.S love the drawings…they have a New Yorker feel to them.

    • I could see a ghost shortage in Canada. For exactly that reason. Too polite to haunt. Don’t want to be any bother. I’ll stay in this part of the laundry room and try not to move. Unlike the ghost of some American, like Jesco White. Your shit would be getting kicked over every night. But also, the Canadians fair disposition would limit the amount of earthbound specters with unfinished resentments bad-vibing up the dormer. More folks getting on the escalator for their debriefings.
      Fair enough. Canada continues to score over The United States. Pretty much at will. It’s going to be a long night for the home team, folks.
      I’m sorry you haven’t gotten to sample more of the Universe’s more bizarre delicacies. Witnessed it’s more magic-show powers of prestidigitation. Ah, it’s not really required reading. It’s that whole “blessed art thou, Thomas…” deal. But I’ll tell you this, seeing isn’t always believing. Some things I still really question. Hesitate accepting what I’ve witnessed. Maybe because if what I saw was real, it would revolutionize my entire understanding of what is going on. And that might not be as comfortable as my worn-out orthodoxy. You see science progress like that. Reeling and stumbling from one new finding to the next. Like Johnny Depp in the depths of an ether binge.
      Unlike me, Pauly. I’ve always walked a straight line. It’s just that everything around me went crooked.
      –I’m looking over your comment again.
      Feel free to float down anytime, if I’m not serving a deuce or trey aeon bit in some purgatorial penal colony. Re-education They call it. Mining ore on volcanic planets I call it. Either way, you do your time or it does you. I can’t see myself left free to roam around the earth as an invisible. They know I’d dig that too much. To go A.W.O.L. They see the way I play Grand Theft Auto. You think They’re going to let me run riot in the astral plane? Holy water burning my eyes like C.S. Ectoplasm running out of my nose. Poltergeisting. Incubussing. Quack-religion-founding.
      No sir. I’ve got too much paper hanging. Let’s just hope that when Osiris weighs my heart against a feather, it’s even this time. I have a planet with golden snow I’ve been literally dying to see. Then I remember, hey I’ve got eternity. Why am I always rushing home from the store to sit there and go “now what?”
      Well there’s no point in sweating what assignments await us afterwards. Right now, this is a pretty cush gig we got these days, eh Pauly? I guess that’s what I need to remember. I’m okay now. Maybe I won’t always be. But I always will be okay again.
      And during those times I’m not okay, I’ll go for style points.
      Pull off a Canadian- right in front of the judges. The crowd roaring. Justice pulling down her blindfold to give me a wink.
      Thank you again for coming by, my friend. Always love your style,

      Marius

  4. In Ocean City, MD, there’s one of those coin-operated shooting galleries and my favorite/most-feared target is a piano player that looks exactly like Lurch. He’s hunched over the piano like a horrible, dead creature in an old-time vest until he someone dings his target and then springs up to play a few off-kilter keys with his massive, claw-like hands. Normally, Lurch-the-dead-dummy would be automatically creepier than any real-live-Lurch, but in your case the murky glass enclosure and outdated roller skating venue trumps all. They offer organ music skate sessions on Sunday mornings at a rink by my house, however I am too afraid to go, even to rubberneck.

    Thanks for the creepy post and love the drawings!

    • Congrats for creeping me out. Not easy, but you had me at old-time vest. But again with the key board. What is it with Lurchy beings and their need to tickle some sort of ivories? I know that the Vamprillas favor strings. Lilly Munster played a mean harp. I think Morticia Addams played a zither or some kind of autoharp.
      So there you go. Scientific proof.
      Not sure of what. Anyway, glad you liked the drawings. I liked yours. By the, I bet those school pictures came out just perfect. Just like the kid having them taken. That kid that’s got a sober mom. And gets to wear a cape to school. I personally think that’s badass parenting. So. Maybe there’s reason to be concerned. Shit. I initially meant it as a compliment. I forgot that whole consider-the-source thing.
      I guess what I’m trying to say is that it was a very cute story.
      Oh, while I have you- I wanted to tell you how much repeated delight this sentence of yours has given me. “I used to have another blog many years ago where I didn’t write about sobriety, mainly because I was not sober.” Okay. That just kills. Just a simple statement of fact, but against the sometimes complex narrative that comes with recovery, it really pops. And in it’s simplicity, both hilarious and 100% true. It’s one of those lines that keeps giggling me.
      So that’s all. I just remembered that I never told you that. Until now.
      Now that I’ve buttered you up properly. I need to send you on a dangerous mission. It will involve recon. I need you at that skating rink on Sunday morning. Personally, and I really mean this, I would rather be in jail, than go to that. So of course, I need to send someone in my proxy. To bring back a report. Maybe confirm what my imagination dreads.
      I don’t like that about me. I wish I was more adventurous sober. Go to something like that. Just to freak on it. Maybe even discover something new to like.
      When I was drinking, talking myself out of something was not a problem. I should have done a lot more of it. Now sober, I talk myself out of too much. I try not to.
      I do as much contrary action as my space craft can handle, and not blow the bolts. Hope it’s enough. So yeah, one of those big projects I’m working on.
      But all this self-revelation doesn’t spare you from your mission. I expect a report on my desk by Monday morning.
      Thanks for coming by, bye-bye.
      Love,
      Marius

  5. I just checked their online calendar and it looks like they only do them the first Sunday night of each month. So I just missed November’s and December 1st I have to wash my hair. Noticed the description says “18 years and older recommended” like the kids are gonna be banging on doors trying to get in. Roller skating rinks are weird enough and then you add organ music and things get hairy. My dad has a scary roller skating story from when he was a kid. The rink sold ice cream cones and his scoop fell on the floor, but he scooped it back up and ate some before my grandmother figured it out. Which, if you knew my grandmother, the hairs on the back of your neck would be standing up right now. He can’t believe he lived to tell about it.

    Tell you what, I have 8 guest passes that expire at the end of this year, so I will definitely get back to the rink and I’ll do some scooby doo investigative reporting and give you the scoop. I’m most intrigued by Thursday night’s “Artistic Club/Skate Lessons” but some things are best left to the imagination.

    bonus funfact: once when I tried to take my kids to this rink, my younger one abruptly vomited in the lobby. I had no idea she was sick, so maybe she is just sensitive to paranormal activity.

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