A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven: by Corey Taylor

Author:Corey Taylor [Taylor, Corey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Collection, Biography
ISBN: 0306821648
Google: KEdjjDvrVgAC
Amazon: B00CGNPP7M
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Wine and Spirits with Friends

LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING before we go any further, because I really do not want to get off on the wrong foot here, and I would be remiss in my duties as a host if I thought to do otherwise. Do you know any good ghost stories? I am sure you do—I can see it on your face, slowly biting your lower lip in an attempt to make it less obvious. I wish I could be there in person to transcribe it for use in this naughty haughty tome, but, alas, it is not to be. Therefore, I will give you a little glimpse into one of the deep, dark places that really set this whole thing into motion for me. Grab your security pillow and put down your orange soda—it is time to snuggle up and cast about for that elusive beast known as “the catalyst.” This goes back even before I took those first faltering steps into Cold House. Buckle up, bitches.

My mother was born in Arkansas, but eventually she, my uncle, and my grandmother moved to a farm near Knoxville, Iowa, that my Gram owned years before I was even a slight jump of blood in my daddy’s pants. However, I am not really sure where this falls in the timeline of my family; I believe this was around the time my grandmother divorced my grandfather. So I am fairly vague when it comes to my knowledge of this time for my family. But I have a very vivid memory of a certain conversation that happened in my presence when I was young, and it had to do with that particular farmhouse. My Gram might smack me in the head for getting it wrong, but it is a great little story. So here you go.

One Sunday my mom, my Gram, and I were on the way to my great grandmother’s house, and we happened to pass by this farmhouse. It was an American Horror Story and its subsequent wet dream: painted yellow and kind of drowsy looking; it exuded that back-country vibe of “this space has been here longer than you have lived, and, depending on the weather, it will be here long after you are gone.” My Gram and my mom started to talk about life there. Having never heard about this place until that day, I asked what it was like—the place gave me the heebie-jeebies. Someone blurted out, “It was fine until the neighbor was found hanging in his barn. No one knows if it was a suicide or murder, but they say you can still see him in the barn some nights, swinging from the end of his noose.” Then, having realized whom they were talking to, they quickly changed the subject. But it was too late; my mind had already envisioned a shadowy figure gently bobbing around on the end of a rope, looking deep into the eyes of the beholder.

That was my first ghost story.

The funny thing is that most of my life people have been regaling me with their paranormal past.

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