Stranger Than Fiction True Stories - Chuck Palahniuk by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub

{The Lady}

A friend of mine lives in a “haunted” house. It’s a nice white farmhouse in the country, surrounded with gardens, and every few weeks he’l cal in the middle of the night to say, “Someone is screaming in the basement. I’m going down with my gun, and if I don’t cal you back in five minutes, send the police!”

It’s al very dramatic, but it’s the kind of complaint that smel s like a boast. It’s the psychic equivalent of saying, “My diamond ring is so very heavy.” Or, “I wish I could wear this thong bikini without everyone lusting after me.”

My friend refers to his ghost as “the lady,” and he complains about not getting any sleep because

“the lady” was up al night, rattling pictures on the wal s and resetting the clocks and thumping around the living room. He cal s it “dancing.” If he’s tardy or upset, it’s usual y because of “the lady.”

She shouted his name outside the bedroom window al night, or turned the lights on and off.

This is a practical man who’s never believed in ghosts. I’l cal him “Patrick.” Until he moved out to this farm, Patrick was like me: stable, practical, reasonable.

Now I think he’s ful of shit.

To prove this, I asked him to let me house-sit his farm while he was away on vacation. I needed the isolation and quiet to write, I told him. I promised to water the plants, and he went off and left me there for two weeks. Then I threw a little party.

This man, he’s not my only deluded friend. Another friend-I’l cal her “Brenda”-says she can see the future. Over dinner, she’l ruin your best story by suddenly drawing a huge gasp, covering her mouth with her hand, and rearing back in her chair with a look of wide-eyed terror on her face. When you ask what’s wrong, she’l say, “Oh . . . nothing, real y.” Then close her eyes and try to shake the terrible vision from her mind.

When you persist, asking what’s scared her, Brenda wil lean over the table with tears in her eyes.

She’l take your hand in hers and beg you, “Please, please. Just stay away from automobiles for the next six years.”

For the next six years!

Brenda and Patrick, they’re odd but they’re my friends, always hungry for attention. “My ghost is too loud . . . I hate being able to see the future . . .”

For my little house party, I planned to invite Brenda and her psychic friends out to the haunted farmhouse. I planned to invite another group of stupid, ordinary friends who aren’t troubled with any special extrasensory gifts. We’d drink red wine and watch the mediums flit around, lapsing into trances, channeling spirits, doing their automatic writing, levitating tables, while we laughed politely behind our hands.

So Patrick was gone on vacation. A dozen people arrived at the farmhouse. And Brenda brought two women I’d never met, Bonnie and Mol y, both of them already swooning from the ghost energy they felt there.

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