By Troy Brownfield

Hello everyone! As promised, I have returned with a story from the halcyon days of 1991. It's a little adventure that I like to call . . .

A Truly Religious Experience: One day during our Freshman year of college, my pal Terry McCammon got the idea that he wanted to investigate the paranormal. Regular readers of the site know Terry. He contributed some anime reviews in the past and he plays a large role in the Graduation story that I related a few months back. At any rate, Terry really got into the idea of interviewing people in Terre Haute to see what their experiences had been.

Frankly, Terre Haute itself is one large paranormal experience. I guarantee that there are a lot of people on the West side of town who've seen strange things, particularly after downing a bottle or twelve of Mad Dog 20/20. I wouldn't say that Terre Haute is suffused in rednecks, but then I wouldn't call the sun toasty either.

However, the Terre Haute area can lay claim to two fairly "legitimate" ghost stories. I mean legitimate by either a) everyone knows them, and they have a basis in some factual occurrence, or b) they've been investigated by journalists. One of the old crackling chestnuts is the story of Spook Light Hill. I imagine some variation of it exists in most rural communities; the story is conveniently summarized by Seymour, Indiana resident Kevin Greene on his website.

The other big one is the Preston House, which even received coverage in the early '80s on the television program PM Magazine. Chairman of the English Department at Indiana State Ron Baker wrote a book called "Hoosier Folk Legends"; therein he summarizes the main gist of the story, which goes that one owner of the house killed his wife and walled her up in the dining room. There were allegedly hauntings there; some involved stories of a little boy who was killed in an Indian attack during the westward expansion. Honestly, I believe that the actual killing happened according to published documents, but whether actual hauntings occurred is another matter. I remember seeing this house as a kid; it used to stand vacant at 13-1/2 and Poplar in Terre Haute. Unfortunately (depending on your point of view), it burned down years ago.

So, no doubt with visions of contact with the ethereal plane dancing in his head, Terry merrily tacked up some flyers around the Student Union in order to find people who wanted to share their encounters. I tagged along with him on the errand, as did our pal Chad Walker. Chad, a thin, bespectacled guy with dark curly hair, cheerfully elected himself the Egon Spangler of the group. Obviously, the enthusiastic Terry was fulfilling the Ray Stantz role, and I've already based my entire adult life on Bill Murray's turn as Peter Venkman; nominally, I suppose our buddy Terry Benson would have been Winston, but he was elsewhere.

We were in the far hall of the student union, where the large building sports two massive bulletin boards next to the Le Club fitness center. Terry was tacking away, Chad was talking to him, and I was probably watching some girl on the stairmaster. Still, I wasn't too absorbed to notice a really cute blonde watching us with some interest. In fact, she was carefully reading one of Terry's flyers.

Feeling the groove, I asked, "Excuse me, but have you ever had a paranormal experience?" She said, "Well . . ."
I said, "Do you want to?"
Chad burst out laughing. Terry sighed. The girl simply said, "Excuse me?" in a puzzled kind of tone. At least Chad had cracked up. To tell you the truth, there are times that I can tell a joke or make a remark, and if just one of my buddies laughs in the face of silent thousands, I still feel like I've succeeded. However, the girl clearly hadn't caught the line, so I let it go.
Terry said, "Never mind him. You were about to say something?"

Turns out the lovely lady did indeed have a personal supernatural tale to tell. I was skeptical. It's not that I'm a complete cynic, but I have a REAL hard time believing most stories of that nature. I supposed I'd be the Scully, only without the mole. The real capper though was that she knew of a guy speaking on demonology in Terre Haute THAT VERY WEEK. (Kind of reminds me of Vince McMahon setting up a match in THAT VERY RING!) He was to speak at a church.

That's pretty funny in of itself. Chad, Terry and I were never that hip on organized belief systems. My major organized belief in college ran something like, "Try to position yourself over a pillow or a bed first, then pass out." Still, going to a Church for a speaker on demons in the Midwest seemed fun enough.

The girl gave us the address, and I was kind of puzzled. The place would be located on Wabash Avenue, square in the middle of the business district. I noted to Terry that the address actually put it right in the middle of the storefronts. I didn't think that a church would really be right there, about three blocks from Sonka's Irish Pub. Guess what? I was wrong.

We pulled up on the corner, and there it was: "Living Word Ministry". They had a hanging shingle sign jutting out from over the door, just like an accountant or a local restaurant. It's a profoundly jarring site; my experiences with churches (and synagogues, even), had been large, ornate buildings. Nothing about the word "church" equated in my mind to "storefront".

I guess I should probably stop and note our manner of dress. It was 1991 in the Midwest. We were on the fringe, socially. So we were all wearing black. And trenchcoats. (Let this be a lesson to MSNBC: Black + Industrial Music in the car + trenchcoats does not necessarily equal Spree Killer). To us, what we were wearing seemed normal enough. I mean, I believe we were all wearing dress shirts and dress pants; they were just, well, black. And yep, this does come up later.

We were greeted at the door by some very, very smiley old men. I don't think those guys cared what we were wearing, as they struck me as about ten yards north of senile. The girl came up and greeted us immediately afterward. The three of us suddenly began to realize that we actually WERE standing where a business used to be. There was a reception desk and portioned walls that led to the main "hall".

I invoke the mighty quotes largely because the "pews" were folding chairs set up in two barely aisles of four chairs each. The "altar" was an 8-foot folding table with a podium on it. Behind that, there was a battered white pull-down screen and a overhead projector. Off to the side, an old lady sat at a full-sized Casio keyboard on a wobbly stand. Several people were already seated in the folding chairs; the age spread was pretty well-covered, but I think that there was only one other guy there in his teens.
You guessed it: the blonde's boyfriend. No joy in Mudville that day.

Now, we sat down waiting for the speaker to begin. I had naively assumed that we were just going to see a speaker. Nope. Full Service, kids.

The show started with some singing from some mimeographed hymnals. Loosely stapled together, they had about four total songs. While my knowledge of spiritual music doesn't quite equal my grasp of the Bob Mould back-catalog, I was pretty sure that none of the music was traditional church fare. They all sounded vaguely like regular songs with hastily-written lyrics sung over them. The old lady's Casio stylings put me in mind of the organ you hear at ballgames.

As a special treat, we got a new song! It was passed around on freshly Xeroxed paper (obviously, it was more important). The song, forever burned into my cerebellum, was called "Praise Jesus." The tune? "Tiptoe Through the Tulips." I shit thee not. It went something akin to "Jesus . . . Praise Jesus . . .". I was waiting for Tiny Tim to burst through the door and yell, "Smile! Candid Camera!" Before the song wound to close, the singing broke down into discordant mumbling as the congregation began swaying and, you guessed it, speaking in tongues. No snakes, though. Madly, the old lady tinked away at the keys while the swaying continued for several more minutes. I crazily wondered if they were about to turn and hack us all to pieces. Eventually, the swaying, chanting, and music subsided.

As the loose sampling of Miss Vicky's ex had ended, the speaker was introduced. He looked very professional, decked out in a three-piece suit. He'd written a book, and was ready to talk. Terry leaned forward, clearly intrigued. Chad pulled out a small notebook, ready to jot things down. I was very interested; after all, we'd come to hear about demons.

And we did. The "demonology expert" was an old-school Fire-And-By-God-Brimstone Southern Baptist-mode shouter. For forty-some minutes, he railed about the travails of the damned, the power of Satan, and how HE HIMSELF had seen a young woman possessed (yes! I said po-ZE-essed!), held in the thrall of a demon named JEZEBELLE!!!!

This was simply too much. All three of us cracked up. We quickly regained our composure, but the speaker was irked. He shifted a bit, going on to discuss the "demons in our midst". Suddenly, the whole hacking to pieces scenario didn't seem so funny. He made some pointed comments about young people going wrong, and even a shot or two at black clothes. (Note to the speaker: The Amish called, and they name thee Playa-Hater).

Eventually, it wound down, and the people broke up into little social groups. The blonde seemed truly inspired, and asked us what we thought. I don't think that any of us were really articulate by that point. She was really sunny about the whole thing, and said that NEXT WEEK would be even better! Chad and I gave each other that look, the one that says, "Damn it! Amway for the Lord!" Right on, brothers and sisters, I do believe that she was looking to convert us.

We politely extricated ourselves, and the same grinning old guys (who I believe later appeared at the Gentlemen on the "Hush" episode of "Buffy") said that they hoped to see us again real soon. That's a skin-crawler on the order of an old girlfriend showing up pregnant on your doorstep.

So, what did I learn, Charlie Brown? Well, religion is always a personal choice, and there are many ways to express it. I just don't think that Tiny Tim covers are really the way to go.

After that, we really didn't do a whole lot in the way of "paranormal investigating". Except for the night with the tree in the road, the phantom 4x4 and the spectral dog . . . but that, as they say, is another column.



Troy Brownfield is the Editor-in-Chief of Shotgun Reviews. Terry and Chad are now both teachers. And yes, there really was a night that involved a tree in the road, a phantom 4x4 and a spectral dog. Email Troy at psikotyk@aol.com.

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